by Emma Beaven
Rose turned back to face the house, her skin itchy from plucking at the foliage. Sun glinted sharply off the door handle on the side porch, and although her vision wasn’t quite clear at this distance, she realized the door was opening. She froze, one hand idly fingering a blossom, and watched. Her sister stepped out on the porch and stood perfectly still. Rose almost raised a hand, thinking she’d been seen, when she realized Maggie was watching for movement. She craned her neck, peering toward the magnolia tree before flicking her head in the other direction. Her brown-and-gold bonnet curved low over her face, and as Rose watched, she mashed it down hard on her head, pulling the funnel-shaped brim farther over her eyes.
Rose could hear her breath now over the insects. There was something insidious about Maggie’s jerking movements and flitting glances. Rose tried to calm herself, to breathe more softly, for even at this distance, she imagined that Maggie was listening hard, and she didn’t want to expose herself.
Slowly, Maggie inched off the porch. She brushed close to the railing, standing on tiptoe once to peek at the magnolia tree again. Finally, apparently presuming no one was about, she shuffled over to the tree. Again, she looked around, and Rose knew for sure now that she was afraid of being seen.
The insects were calling more frantically now, the song of the cicadas coming faster and louder. Rose watched one of the huge bugs landed on her frock. Normally she would have screamed at the sight of its fat body and huge wings attached to her pale dress, but this time a calm settled over her. If she screamed now, she’d never know where Maggie was going. Silently she flicked the thing off her dress, then reverted back to her silent vigil.
The wind rose, stirring the flowers and whipping the heavy magnolia boughs. Rose lost sight of her sister for a moment as the branches shook, the older blossoms shedding their fat petals like heavy snow. The wind dissipated as swiftly as it arose, and when the branches finally stilled, Maggie emerged, clutching two petals tight in her hands. The wind had whipped strands of her blonde hair out of place, and as she once more glanced furtively around her, Rose thought she had the look of a rabbit being stalked by a fox.
Rose slowly edged out of the clump of purple blossoms and sidled toward the woods. Oblivious, Maggie took another look toward the house and darted off through the trees, leaving Rose to stare in confusion. She pondered following her sister, but already she could hear Maggie’s footsteps fading in the distance. She crept over to the magnolia tree, searching for clues to her sister’s strange behavior. Maggie hadn’t even left footprints in the dry ground, just a bit of flattened grass. And now, it appeared, the trees had swallowed her.
It was tempting to plunge into the woods after her—Rose desperately wanted to know why her sister was sneaking about as she was—but Maggie was long gone, and Rose couldn’t risk leaving now lest her romantic fantasies be realized. And besides, the pounding in her head was starting again.
Rose wobbled back to the house, rubbing at the left side of her head. She was vaguely tempted to nap but frightened of what she might dream. Still, she was exhausted. When she had those nightmares, it was as if she hadn’t slept at all.
The side door loomed ahead of her, its edge slightly cracked. Apparently, Maggie had been in such a hurry she’d forgotten to shut the door all the way. With some trepidation, Rose pushed it all the way open. She relaxed as she saw the servants flitting past. At least she wasn’t alone.
She headed to the small oak side table flanked by a deep blue-embroidered couch in the front hallway, staring at the small empty silver tray that shimmered in the light entering the thick, small windows set beside the door. Lightly fingering its cool surface for a moment, she turned and traveled back down the hallway.
“Christopher,” she called softly.
The footman darted out and stood still in front of her, his dark eyes boring into her questioningly, most likely wondering why she would be summoning him rather than her father doing so.
Rose took a deep breath, quickly glancing behind her to ensure that her father had not emerged from some dark recess of the hallway before speaking. “Christopher, I came to tell you that my father is very busy today and Mrs. Shedd is feeling ill, so I’d like you to tell me if anyone should call.”
Rose realized she was speaking far too fast, and that would certainly make her look suspicious; however, the footman simply mumbled acquiescence and disappeared into the gloom. She breathed a long sigh of relief and made her way back to the sitting room. Mariotta sat stiffly on the dark sofa there, her fingers moving on their own as she glanced up at Rose.
Rose hesitated, taking in Mariotta’s dark mourning dress. “Good morning, Mariotta.”
Her stepmother remained silent, giving her only a brief nod.
Rose fumbled with her book, trying desperately to bring the words into focus. Eventually, she felt Mariotta’s sharp gaze fall, and she relaxed ever so slightly. She searched for something to say, anything to break the creeping silence, but no words would come. Silently, she slipped into a chair, the book open in front of her, but it was impossible to concentrate. She kept wondering if her stepmother still watched her, probing her for some knowledge she could not provide. That silent gaze unnerved Rose more than she liked to admit. Behind the small pinprick pupils lay something dark and morose and angry. Rose could feel it like fingers across her skin.
Without looking at Mariotta, Rose stood and quickly slid out of the room as quietly as possible. Her gaze darted to the stairs and then down the hall. With a gasp, she focused on the table beside the couch. There was something in the silver tray. Rose’s heart pounded in her chest. She was sure she would have heard the door had anyone stopped by; in fact, she’d been gone no more than a few minutes before she’d become too uncomfortable.
Her feet flew across the floor, heels clicking unbearably loudly. Rose stared for a moment at the card lying in the tray. Slowly, she reached out with trembling fingers and caressed the card before picking it up. A name was printed in simple script across the front: Mr. Henry McCann, Bay Road. Rose gulped several times, her eyes darting softly as she whirled around.
“Christopher!” she shrieked. “Christopher, where are you?”
The footman moved silently into the hallway and stared at Rose. “Yes, miss?”
“I thought I told you to inform me if anyone came to the door,” Rose said.
“No one’s come to the door, miss.”
Rose thrust the card before her. “Then where did this come from?”
“If anyone came to the door, miss, I wasn’t the one who opened it.”
Feeling confused, Rose rubbed her head. He certainly didn’t look as if he was lying, and he had absolutely no reason to do so. “Well, who else might have opened the door?”
“No one should have, miss.”
“Fine.” Rose sighed.
They locked eyes for a moment, the valet staring at her thoughtfully before abruptly turning and moving back down the hallway.
Rose continued to gaze at the card and then at the door. Carefully she pressed herself against the oak and reached for the latch. The door opened heavily, and the sun, shadowed slightly by an oak tree, immediately greeted her. Tentatively, she peered into the front yard and down the tree-lined drive. It was empty, of course.
She slid out onto the front porch and inspected the line of camellia bushes dividing the yards. The greenery looked undisturbed, but someone could have slipped between the overgrown bushes without leaving a trail. But certainly he wouldn’t have done that. There would have been no reason for it. Still, Rose felt compelled to weave her way to the bushes and pointlessly push her fingers against the flowerless branches, the blossoms having disappeared at the end of the spring, unable to survive the wicked, overpowering summer sun. She peeked between them, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible as her head and shoulders emerged on the other side.
Like her own, the yard was empty and silent.
Nineteen
The sky, at the beginning of the onslaug
ht of the storm, looked as if it had been brutally poked and prodded, its bruises swelling against the churning, fleshy clouds. The house was bathed in shadows yet again, despite the early hour, and as Rose watched a lamp flicker, her sister’s quick fingers throwing shaking, twisted shadows against the sitting room wall, a great melancholy settled over her. She was bored and sad, and her happiness seemed, yet again, to have blown just out of reach.
Maggie lifted her head, apparently feeling her sister’s eyes playing over her dim form. “Do you want something to sew?”
Rose shook her head and shuddered as thunder crashed loudly just beyond the windows behind the sofa. The thunder was quickly followed by a brilliant flash of lightning, and for some reason, Rose felt a compulsion to rush outside in the torrent of rain. There was something rejuvenating in a storm’s torment for her; it made her feel free, like one of the animals that sometimes skittered loudly across the yard in the dark.
Finally, her father was having Christopher move the wardrobe, just as she had asked. When she went to bed that night, she wouldn’t see it there, the faint crack like an open mouth, hungry for nightmares.
Rose began to rise as she heard the faintest sound of scraping upstairs. It took her a moment to realize she had been getting up to go upstairs, to watch. Falling back into her seat, she turned to her sister, whose head was bent stiffly over her sewing. “Where did you go this afternoon?”
Maggie kept her head down, but Rose saw her fingers shudder to a stop for a moment before picking up their wild pace once more. “I went for a walk.”
“In the woods? Alone?”
Maggie raised a hand and flicked it at Rose. “I was just walking. I wanted to see… well, it doesn’t matter.”
Rose shook her head. “But why were you being so sly about it? I saw you creeping about like you were afraid someone was watching.”
“Well, were you watching?” Maggie snapped. “What were you doing anyway? Lurking out there in the shadows so you could spy?”
“No.” Rose hesitated. “I was by the edge of the woods. You didn’t see me.”
“You had no right to follow me.”
“I wasn’t following you. I was only watching.” Rose squirmed and wished she had never brought it up. The thunder rolled again, and she took that opportunity to jump up.
“I went to their graves,” Maggie said solemnly. “I needed to see Mama’s grave again.
Rose rubbed at her eyebrow. “Does it make you feel better? Seeing her headstone?”
Maggie shook her head. “I don’t know. I think about her sometimes, about when she was sick. And then sometimes… well, sometimes I can’t remember what she looked like. I have to go look at her portrait.”
Rose opened her mouth, trying to find words as her stomach dropped. “I’m sorry, Maggie. Sometimes I forget as well.”
“But you don’t go to see her.”
“I just—”
“You don’t go back there because that’s where Sarah’s buried. Rose, it’s been a year. Go and put flowers on her grave and Mama’s. Forget all this animosity. It’s long over. You’ll sleep better that way. We both will.”
“It’s too thorny back there.”
“I’ll ask Christopher to clear the briars. Then we’ll both go.”
“Do that if you must, but there is no reason for me to go.” Rose pretended to yawn. “I should go to bed. It’s so hot tonight.”
Maggie looked at her sadly for a moment before nodding. “It’s so hot that I think I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight.” She forced a smile. “I love you, Rose.”
“I love you too, Maggie.”
She got up and went up the stairs, passing two gaping doorways before coming to her own shadowed room. The air was hot and sticky, the heavy scent of magnolias overpowering everything else. The cicadas sang sadly, their eerie voices muted in the thick, swollen air. Rose slipped in, trying not to look around, and quickly lit a lamp. The corner of the room seemed less oppressive, but still she felt uneasy. Her head throbbed rhythmically, its beat intertwining with the cicadas’ song.
The rain continued to fall, its loud tapping beginning to drain into a soft drip. Rose pushed the curtains back and opened the cracked window wider, her hands automatically feeling the sill for excess water. The bed, its blankets pulled back slightly, loomed in the middle of the room. Her eyes were drawn instinctively to the corner, as if the wardrobe would somehow reappear while her back was turned. She listened carefully, hoping to hear the sharp clack of Maggie’s shoes. Instead, the only sound echoing in the hallway was the rain and the curtains of an open window gently connecting with the frame.
Rose wrestled with her dress and was finally able to change into a fresh shift. She climbed into the bed, keenly aware of her sister’s absence. The bed felt unusually cool, especially on Maggie’s side, and Rose stretched out, trying to luxuriate in all the space that was suddenly hers. The lamp continued to flicker beside her, the glass blackening a bit from smoke. Rose knew she should turn it off—certainly it wouldn’t do to let it burn through the night—but every time she reached pale fingers up to turn the small wheel at the side, her body flinched and seemed to become immobile.
Screwing up her courage, Rose finally forced her hand to the lamp. Darkness quickly flooded the room, and her head throbbed even harder, her heart racing. Slowly, she forced herself to lie down and pull up the covers. She couldn’t sleep without the blanket, no matter how hot it was. Sweat formed almost instantly on her back and thighs, but she knew she would just have to put up with it, at least tonight.
Every time her eyes closed, Rose was sure she heard some minute, barely audible sound, which brought her eyes wide open and searching the dark. The rain continued to drip comfortingly, and soon her eyes stayed closed for longer periods of time. Her ears still strained for her sister’s footsteps, but her mind drifted, images of her neighbor floating through her head and making her body feel warm and relaxed. The night flowed over her.
Twenty
Rose awoke to see that heavy darkness still shrouded the room. Everything felt odd to her, like this exact situation had already happened, as if she had gone back in time. She turned, almost against her will, and saw the form of her sister breaking the smoothness of the blanket. As if sensing her watching, Maggie turned toward her and her eyes snapped open. They looked strange, her gaze penetrating deep into Rose’s head.
“Did you hear it?” Maggie asked softly, her expression unchanged.
Cold tremors shot through Rose’s veins. “Hear what?”
Maggie lifted a hand out of the blanket and pointed a thin finger at the door. Her skin gleamed palely in the moonlight, and her eyes seemed bigger and darker than usual. Her hair had come undone and fell in unruly tresses against her shoulders.
Rose glanced briefly at the doorway and then back at Maggie. “I… I didn’t hear anything.”
Maggie nodded mechanically. “Yes you did. You heard it.” She arched her back and hooked her head close to Rose, who jumped away, feeling oddly uncomfortable. Her sister sat up farther, one arm bent at the elbow, propping her up on the bed. She raised a finger again and nodded, smiling knowingly, and Rose suddenly realized she’d rather go into the hallway than get back into the bed.
The floor was cold, unusually so for the season, and Rose thought she sensed a faint vibration running beneath her feet. She took one last glance at Maggie, who smiled oddly, her body bent halfway across the bed like a spider spreading its legs. Rose rushed to the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her.
A faint stream of moonlight flowed in through the window and illuminated a path down the hallway to the back bedroom. The door was firmly shut, but Rose could see a faint light from beneath the door. She knew instantly that she didn’t want to go there. It was her father’s room. Mariotta slept in her own quarters across the hallway, but Rose was sure she heard a faint, plaintive female voice behind the door. Again, she had the sneaking suspicion that she’d been here before, walked down this dark
hallway to the door, but the memory just wouldn’t come. Her skin prickled like invisible ice running back and forth across her skin.
Rose paused there, unsure of where she could safely go, when the door opened just a crack. The light spread dimly into the hallway, and she could tell instantly that the lamp was turned down very low. A pale hand grasped the doorframe, and even from that distance, Rose could see the fingers straining, gripping it so tight that flakes of old wood fell like rain. A bare foot slid out of the door, feeling the ground. Rose knew she should run, wanted to run, but the doorway was directly adjacent to the stairwell leading to the first floor. There was no way to get down without passing very close to whoever was slowly sliding out of that room.
Rose looked around wildly, debating running up the pitch-black stairwell to the servants’ quarters, when a head poked out of the room. Red hair hung down in wet-looking clumps, hiding large portions of skin so white it shone in the faint traces of light. The figure was looking at the floor and clutching the dirty shift she wore. This woman, as Rose watched, shuffled out, a strangled moan escaping her throat. Rose was paralyzed, knowing she should run but unable to get her legs to move. The figure took three shuddering steps down the hallway toward her, whimpering like an injured animal. The strange woman rubbed her stomach, and Rose suddenly realized there was a dark substance covering the area of her shift that she clutched. She then fell onto her hands and knees, keening low in the still night.
Rose backed up, but the soft steps she made clearly alerted the figure, as her head popped up. Rose knew her instantly. And this time, the whimper came from her. Slowly the girl dragged herself toward Rose, her fingers digging deep into the rug that covered a portion of the hardwood floor. Her arms and legs formed sharp, inhuman peaks as they bent. And Rose had a feeling the girl wasn’t coming for her. She was coming for the wardrobe.