“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
His last words seemed to break down a barrier. As his singsong invitation ricocheted around the room, whispered voices rustled through the air in response. I could pinpoint the exact spot they were coming from. I started. “Don’t tell me you can’t hear that!”
Joe scratched his head and looked at me blankly. Heart pounding, I turned to face our invisible company, sitting on the chaise, engaged in hushed conversation. “There are people sitting on the sofa talking right now.”
Looking genuinely worried about me now, Joe started steering me back through the clutter toward the door. It was when I got there that I made the most serious mistake of the day. I couldn’t resist. I took one last look over my shoulder at the abandoned guesthouse and a second later wished I hadn’t. The now-familiar wave of nausea hit me just before I saw her… .
A woman in a black silk mourning dress stood in the corner. A veil covered her face, blurring her features. As I stood, transfixed, she slowly raised a gloved hand to peel back her veil. The face beneath was in such an advanced stage of decomposition that it was barely recognizable, barely even human. I felt my whole body sag forward, and I clutched Joe’s arm. I heard him say something, but the words were lost, as if he was trying to reach me from the end of a long tunnel.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the woman. Her skin was cracked like old pottery. One eyelid sagged, pulling her face into a scowl. But the corners of her mouth were twisted up in an unnatural smile, as if she were a puppet on a string. As she leered at me, a single engorged maggot wriggled from between her dead lips and fell onto the dusty floor.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Hey!” Joe snapped his fingers in front of my face, obscuring my line of vision. “Chloe, what’s happening?” I looked past him to find the room now empty. Already my mouth had gone dry and my hands were trembling.
“It’s okay. She’s gone.”
Joe’s puzzled gaze swept the room. “Let’s get you outside.” Did I detect a flicker of nervousness? He was holding the door open for me. Tempted as I was, I knew I couldn’t leave. Not now. There was that compulsion to know again. Something lay hidden in this ruin of a place, and it was my job to uncover it.
“Not yet,” I said determinedly.
“I thought you wanted to get out of here?”
“Just five more minutes.”
Joe nodded reluctantly. “Okay, but you’re starting to scare me.”
The air felt charged. A pulsing energy like a heartbeat filled the space. I shut my eyes and tuned in to the sensation building in my chest. It was tugging me forward, like being pulled along by an invisible string. I followed it until I reached something concealed beneath a sheet, propped against the far wall. Without thinking I reached out and pulled the sheet down. It made a sound like birds taking flight and released swirling dust motes into the air. I heard my own sharp intake of breath when I saw what lay beneath.
The life-size portrait of Isobel I’d seen in my first vision stood before me. In real life, it was even more overwhelming. Her chin was lifted slightly and her dark, formidable eyes stared back at me. Her scarlet lips were lifted in a haughty sneer. Had the portrait been smiling when I’d last seen it? I couldn’t remember now. All I knew was that Isobel was here in the room, and I almost believed that, had she wanted to, she could have stepped right out of that frame.
Suddenly the pages from Alex’s sketchbook flooded back to me. They had been preliminary sketches, but it was the same image. So it was he who had painted Isobel. Of course, the finished product was very different: every shade considered and every brushstroke painstakingly executed. The work, an homage to beauty, should have been hanging in a gallery somewhere, not hidden from the world under a yellowing sheet.
The woman immortalized in the painting filled the room, mocking the passage of time. Her beauty was so unnerving you had to look away to avoid being confronted by your own mediocrity. But there was something else, too. The artist had managed to capture her strange mix of power and vulnerability.
“Wow!” Joe’s voice breathed behind me. I had completely forgotten he was there. He studied the portrait from over my shoulder. “Looks like she was someone’s muse. Any idea who she was?”
“Her name was Isobel Reade.” I whispered her name, laden with danger. “She lived here a long time ago.”
“How do you know that?” I didn’t enlighten him. There was no simple answer to that question.
“I wonder if your grandmother knows this is here,” he continued. “I’m sure she’d want it on display in the house.”
“No!” I answered quickly. “This is where it belongs. Help me cover it back up.”
We both lifted the sheet to drape back over the portrait. I couldn’t stand to look at her a moment longer. But as my fingers made contact with the ornate frame of the canvas, a shiver rolled down my spine and it happened again…the same inexplicable occurrence that had taken place in the library.
This was how I used to imagine Alice feeling as she plummeted headlong down the rabbit hole. Once the journey had begun, there was no going back. The only difference was that this time I recognized the signals: the light-headedness, the shifting of physical planes and the sensation of lapsing into a dream. I couldn’t move, because my feet had turned to lead. I knew Joe couldn’t help me. He probably had no idea what was going on. I could hear him talking, but his voice came out distorted, like a song played at a warp speed. As I was sucked further and further into the void, I couldn’t remember his face or the color of his hair. I couldn’t remember what day it was. I couldn’t even remember my own name.
There was nothing to do but grip the edge of the nearby table and wait for the world to change. If time really was a dimension, then mine had been left behind. The contents of the room blurred, and when they reassembled, I wasn’t in an abandoned guesthouse anymore… .
* * *
The room is painted a canary-yellow and bathed in light. The shutters on the windows are open. I know it’s summer by the heady scent of blooms that wafts in from outside. There’s still a Japanese screen separating the bedroom from the workspace. Behind it the sheets on the bed are rumpled. On the dressing table the washbasin and jug are vibrant and new. The chaise longue isn’t worn but upholstered in lustrous pale blue velvet.
The lower level is dominated by a long table covered with an assortment of brushes in jars and tubes of paint squeezed and twisted into various shapes. There are canvases everywhere, occupying every available space. I know that in time, each one will make something come to life. On a side table is an arrangement for a still life: a decanter of red wine with pewter goblets and a dish of tawny summer fruit.
The fluty tone of a young woman’s voice punctures the lazy silence.
“Alexander, how much longer?”
Isobel Reade half sits, half reclines on the chaise, a red camellia positioned artfully behind her ear and a black lace mantilla draped over her shoulders. She looks like a Spanish noblewoman. Her long hair is scooped into a pile at the top of her head but some coils have escaped to fall over her butter-smooth shoulders.
“Isobel, please!” Alex scolds, but he doesn’t sound angry. “You’ve been sitting less than an hour.”
She pouts. “But I’m getting a stiff neck.”
“Just stay still and try to stop fidgeting.”
“If I’d known how tiresome this was going to be I would never have agreed!”
“Think of it as a sacrifice in the name of art.”
Isobel exhales in frustration. “I loathe art.”
“Be that as it may, you made me a promise and I intend to hold you to it. If you can manage one more hour, we shall go riding together. Let that be your incentive.”
“Do you promise?”
“Solemnly. Now, no more talking.”
“You mean I must be silent as well as still? That’s too cruel.”
Alex puts a finger to his lips and his attention is absorbed once again by the canvas.
They haven’t really been arguing so much as playing a game only the two of them are in on. He bargains with her as if she’s a child, and her protests are thinly disguised flirtation.
“Alexander?”
“Yes?”
“Am I beautiful?”
“Obviously.”
Her eyes widen coyly. “How so?”
“Like an angel,” he replies.
“I’m not an angel, though, am I?”
“No, you’re more of a sorceress.”
“It’s sad how youth and beauty never last, isn’t it?” She sighs. “I don’t want to change.”
“I can’t arrest the passage of time, but in this painting you shall always be perfect.”
They both laugh, and when their eyes lock, neither one can tear their gaze away. The seconds seem impossibly long. Eventually, Isobel sighs again.
“I’ve ruined the pose, haven’t I?”
“No matter. I can fix it.” Alexander puts down his brush and kneels before her. He adjusts the folds of her shawl, his hands brushing along her collarbone. The attraction between them is so strong, the ripples echo in my own body.
The sound of boots crunching on the gravel outside breaks the mood. A resounding voice carries into the studio.
“Isobel! Where the devil are you?”
For a moment, panic crosses her face, but Alex composes himself in an instant and moves to the open window.
“We’re in here, brother!” His voice doesn’t betray the slightest hint of wrongdoing. “I’m working.”
“Ha! Is that what you call it?”
He ignores the gibe as Carter Reade strides into the room with the air of a patrician, although he can’t be more than thirty. The brothers share similarities, and yet they are entirely different. Carter is heavier for a start and has a ruddier face, possibly from drinking. Where Alex’s hands are slender, his are fleshy. They share the same moonlight-pale eyes, although Carter’s gaze is sharper, more focused. Alex is lost in his own world.
“I’m here to reclaim my wife,” Carter says. “I think you’ve monopolized her long enough.”
Isobel looks at him archly, her composure restored. “Need I remind you that this was your idea, darling?”
“Was it? I don’t remember that!” Carter demurs as Isobel shakes her head as a form of reprimand.
“Well we’re almost finished here, aren’t we, Alexander?”
“We would have been finished a lot sooner if you were more cooperative.”
Isobel throws him a petulant look, but Carter only laughs indulgently.
“Isobel cooperative? That’ll be the day. Now, tell me, how is this pièce de résistance progressing?” He takes a step toward the easel, but Alex raises a protective hand.
“It’s not ready.”
“Far be it from me to upset the artist.” Carter backs away, but his tone shows how little regard he has for the profession.
The vibe has changed distinctly upon his arrival, and an overbearing masculinity fills the room. He swaggers over to Isobel and his lips stretch into a broad grin of appreciation. Finally he extends an arm to help her down from the platform where she’s been standing. Alex averts his gaze with a pained look.
“Come now, don’t sulk!” Carter bellows. “I’ll let you borrow her again tomorrow. Although, perhaps, Isobel, we should not encourage my little brother in these frivolous pursuits.”
Irritation flickers in Alex’s eyes. “Is that what you think art is?”
“I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea what art is,” Carter replies nonchalantly. “But I know it doesn’t put food on the table. Let’s hope this isn’t just another passing fancy.”
“What are you suggesting?” Alex is suddenly indignant.
“Please, brother,” Carter scoffs. “First it was the ministry, then poetry, now painting. What next, I wonder?”
For a moment they stand locked in a silent power struggle.
When Alex speaks, his voice is formal and stiff. “If you wish for me to leave, you need only say so.”
Like a mediator Isobel pushes her way between them. “Now look what you’ve done, Carter!” she cries. “Why must you two always quarrel?”
“Oh, calm yourself, Isobel,” Carter says. “My brother isn’t going anywhere. Who would be left to entertain you if he did?”
Isobel turns to Alex, imploring. “Don’t take anything he says to heart. You wouldn’t leave, would you? I would be inconsolable if you did.”
Alex gives an imperceptible shake of his head and Isobel quickly falls silent.
“There! See?” Carter’s voice is gratingly loud. “Now that you have your bosom friend back, would you be so kind as to return with me to the house?”
As he turns away, he steps on a canvas and kicks it carelessly aside.
“Why are you angry?” Isobel looks confused.
“I’m not angry. I just ask that you perform your duties as mistress of this house from time to time.”
“Have I neglected them?” she asks drily.
“The servants cannot be expected to make decisions alone. They need direction from you.”
“What do I care whether they buy fish or beef for supper?”
Carter’s whole face jumps with a twitch. “You are my wife, and you will make that your priority. After that, you may fill your days as you please.”
“You mustn’t blame her,” Alex interjects carefully. “This is my fault. I’ve demanded too much of her time.”
Carter grunts gruffly in reply but seems placated. He turns to his wife. “I’m expecting company tonight,” he says. “See to it that everything is in order.”
“Whom are you expecting?”
He glares at her, daring further questions. “Some business associates of mine.”
“A night of drinking and cards, I assume?” Isobel’s voice is sharp.
“Don’t be so inhospitable!” Carter booms. “And remember, I answer to no one.” He takes a deep breath and lowers his voice. “Every man must be allowed a vice or two. Isn’t that right, Alex?”
Sullen, Alex makes no reply. Carter pushes past him toward the door.
“Isobel, I want you back at the house.” He looks over his shoulder, and his bloodshot eyes are almost wild. “Do not cross me on this.”
He pushes open the door and the frame shudders from the force. Isobel watches his retreating back from the window.
“He’s insufferable. I can’t tell you how much I hate him!” she proclaims, once he’s out of earshot.
“He was not always so…rough around the edges,” Alex replies as he begins to put away his tools.
Isobel tosses her head. “I don’t care what Carter says. I only worry that he’ll do or say something to drive you away.”
Alex stops, his blue eyes startling in the sunlight, strands pushed away from his noble forehead like a mane of gold.
“Does Carter ever frighten you?”
Isobel considers his question a moment. “Sometimes when he’s been drinking. But I’ve learned how to manage him.”
“I wish you didn’t have to manage him.”
“We all have our crosses to bear.”
“He doesn’t deserve you!” Alex squeezes his eyes shut. “If I were so fortunate as to marry a woman like you I would…” He falters, as if realizing he’s said too much.
“What would you do?” Isobel asks, breathless.
He takes a moment to steady himself before continuing, “I would worship her and ensure she never wanted for anything.”
“I think you must be the
sweetest man in all the world!” Isobel cries.
Alex crosses the room and takes her by the shoulders. “Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“If Carter were ever to direct his rage at you, I want to know about it.”
“Very well.” She tilts her swanlike neck and presses her lips lightly against his cheek. “Now I had better go back. His temper will only worsen.”
Alex gives a tight nod and waits for her to leave. He watches her retreating figure with an expression of longing I’ve never seen on a person before. The moment she’s no longer in view, he picks up a jar of dirty brushes and flings it against a wall.
* * *
The sound of breaking glass propelled me back to the present. My head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton wool, but through the haze an image flashed repeatedly like a neon sign.
“I know where I’ve seen Carter before,” I said aloud.
“Who’s Carter?” Joe was still beside me, looking baffled.
“Let’s just get out of here,” I said. “I’ll explain later.”
Joe nodded his assent. “I think we could both use a nice cup of tea, don’t you?”
“Good idea.” I was already familiar with this English antidote to all of life’s challenges.
Without protest, I allowed Joe to walk back with me. I was glad he didn’t ask any more questions. He had good instincts and knew when he shouldn’t push too hard. As the house with its ancient oak came into view, I remembered my first day when I’d seen a man swinging from a thick branch, his face swollen in death.
Now I knew his name. Carter Reade.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I spent the rest of the day on tenterhooks waiting for Alex to appear so I could tell him about the episode in the guesthouse. But he didn’t show up. The whole of the following day, too, passed without any sign of him. I told myself it didn’t matter, but the knot in my stomach told a different story. The worst part was having no means of contacting him. I was so accustomed to people being a call or a text or a Facebook message away. But I just had to accept his absence without any means of questioning it.
Ghost House Page 13