by Emma Beaven
Henry sat down at the head of the table and rang the bell. The two sat for a time in uncomfortable silence, waiting for someone to speak. Rose hated to be the one to interrupt the thick, heavy air that seemed to swirl in eddies about the room. The flames licking delicately at the hearth had begun to smoke profusely, the scent becoming cloying.
Finally, as the sound of the clock on the mantle began to grate on Rose’s ears, she spoke. “When do you expect I will meet your guests?”
Henry stared at her strangely. “They’re in the other wing. They aren’t feeling well.”
“Isn’t this a bit odd that there should be people in the house—”
Rose’s jaws clacked shut, as just at that moment, Marge emerged through the open door. Her hands were clenched tightly in front of her, the fingernails digging into the pale skin stretched taut along the backs of her hands. She was clothed only in a shift, and her body was visibly trembling hard, almost spasming.
“Marge?” Rose called softly. “Are you all right?”
Marge said nothing, her eyes searching the room wildly. Rose lifted her fingers to the back of her head and rubbed the cracked skin.
“Are you ill?” Rose asked.
“Dead,” said Marge.
Rose’s hand flew to her mouth. “What?”
“The cook. She’s dead!”
Henry had risen at that point and had already made it halfway around the table, but he took an involuntary step back as she spoke.
“Henry?” Rose called weakly, unsure of what to do. “I don’t understand.”
“She’s upstairs,” Marge whispered, shambling closer to Rose, who nearly fell out of her chair in her hurry to escape.
“Stop this at once!” Henry demanded.
“She’s trying to get out. Her head don’t stay up no more.”
Rose shuddered. She looked toward Henry, unsure of what to do.
He approached Marge slowly, his hand out. “Get Mr. Moffatt!” he said tightly.
Rose quickly scrambled through the kitchen door, already calling out. From behind her, she heard a horrible scream.
Sixty-Nine
Rose spent the rest of the day in the parlor, the doors tightly closed against the empty hallway. Now that the commotion had died down, the only sound that reached her ears was the ticking of the clock accompanied by the clink of her teacup every time she lifted it to sip at the tepid liquid inside. Somewhere in the winding, shadowy structure, Marge lay raving, just like Rose’s stepmother.
According to the clock, it was now after two, and Mr. and Mrs. Hill had not yet been seen. It was probably for the best because of this morning, but Rose grew wishful that they would come down soon in order to relieve some of the overwhelming loneliness that had wrapped its arms tightly about her person. She already missed the sound of Marge’s cheerful voice interrupting the stillness.
As Rose stared out the front window mournfully, the door opened slowly, and Henry entered. She tried to force a smile onto her face, but it was too much for her. He tried as well, bowing slightly as if they were still courting.
“Are you feeling all right, Rose?” he asked, feigned concern bringing down the corners of his lips.
She nodded. “And Marge?”
“We’ll see,” he said softly. “Mr. and Mrs. Hill should be out shortly. It should lighten the mood a bit, I expect.”
Rose smiled genuinely that time. “I am a bit excited to meet them. But what will we do for servants?”
“We’ll make do for now, and I’ll see about procuring a few more tomorrow.”
“Will you be able to find some so quickly?”
“I’ll certainly try.” Henry moved closer to the couch. “I don’t want you to be afraid after this morning’s… incident.”
“Why should I be afraid?” she asked. “Because the cook is missing and Marge believes her dead?”
Henry fixed her with a cold gaze for a moment before turning to peer out the window. “She’s simply run off. It’s not so unusual.”
“Why would Marge think she was still in the house?”
He threw up his hands. “How should I know? She’s probably gone mad.” He returned his gaze to Rose and offered her a thin smile. “Don’t worry so much about it. Everything will be fine.”
She bowed her head slightly in acquiescence. “I can make up the rooms if you need me to.”
Henry’s smile returned. “I would appreciate it.” He placed a hand on hers and patted it slightly. “Everything will be fine, I promise.”
Rose turned her head back to the window, expecting him to leave on that note. To her great surprise, he squeezed her hand before kissing her. A tingly warmth spread through her as she tried to think of what to say. Her smile had returned tenfold as she watched Henry get up and remove himself from the parlor.
Rose pressed a hand against the ice-cold pane. They were here. Though, apparently, they always had been.
She closed the drapes slightly as she watched the gentleman and lady stroll down the path, the woman clutching her dress tightly so as not to trip. Her face appeared thin and sallow, but her body looked bulky and stretched. The man had a heavy, dark beard obscuring much of his face, and the brim of his hat was pulled down very low, keeping Rose from seeing his eyes.
The woman peered meekly at the house, shivering in her muddy brown coat and clutching herself tightly as she stared at the looming trees that had so perturbed Rose when she arrived. The woman turned briefly to her husband, seemingly about to speak, before he turned his shadowy face toward her and put his index finger straight up into the air. The woman turned away quickly.
Rose drew away from the window, her excitement dying inside her. Suddenly she loathed the thought of being introduced to the odd couple who were likely now almost to the door. She had imagined a bright, cheery woman with a young, dashing man, the two full of smiles and laughter and warmth. What waited outside made the house seem darker and more lifeless than ever. And why in the world had they not come out when she arrived?
She heard the knocker on the front door clank three times. Quickly the door was opened, and Rose heard a brief muttering before footsteps tapped along the hallway. One set hurried past the parlor and down to Henry’s study.
Rose wanted very much to run, to jump into the carriage and force the driver to take her back to her father’s house, where she could rush to her sister’s arms and slip back into their own cozy bed. The nightmares from the old house seemed so distant that she could almost convince herself they were meaningless, that the odd occurrences there had only been her frazzled nerves wreaking havoc on her brain.
Here, somehow, things had become worse in only a few days. The pervasive shadows and emptiness were playing with her, teasing her. She could feel herself recoiling, almost as if she expected to receive a blow that had yet to come.
Someone tapped softly at the parlor door, startling Rose out of her thoughts. The door opened slightly, and an unfamiliar servant slid partway through the crack. “Mr. McCann wants you to come to the dining room.”
Rose got up shakily, forcing herself to face the inevitable. “The dining room? Not here?” She gestured around the room weakly.
The servant stood silently, his gaze focused on the floor. Rose’s eyes drifted to the clock as she tried to think of a way to excuse herself. Her mind, however, had emptied itself of thoughts, and she suddenly found herself rising as if she was being pulled by strings. She moved woodenly to the door, her fingers lingering slightly on the frame.
The dining room doors loomed as she crossed the hallway. Though they lay open, not a single sound drifted from the room. She could see the woman sitting still in the chair closest to the door, her hands folded in her lap. As Rose approached, the woman jerked slightly as if roused out of a dream, but she didn’t turn around.
The others must have seen the movement, for at that moment, as if a dial had been turned, the conversation became audible. The men sounded as if they were in the middle of their conversation, but Ro
se was sure she would have heard them as she approached had they been speaking. She took a deep breath and entered, glancing wistfully back down the hallway before the servant closed the door firmly behind her.
The conversation suddenly stopped again as the men turned to look at her. The man rose, fumbling slightly as he realized he was still wearing his hat. Doffing it, he bowed. Henry got up as well, his eyes flitting quickly to the woman before settling back on Rose.
“Rose, may I introduce you to Mr. Hill.”
“Wonderful to meet you,” he said. “You must forgive us for our rudeness. We feared spreading the illness. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Hill.”
Rose turned to face the woman. She pushed herself up hesitantly, an uncomfortable smile lingering on her face. Up close, Rose could see Mrs. Hill was significantly younger than her husband, perhaps even younger than Rose, with very pale skin and light brown hair parted perfectly at the center. The loose bodice of her dress failed to hide the round stomach that jutted out slightly from her otherwise thin frame.
Henry turned to Rose, and she saw something almost like a tear hanging beneath his left eye. Must be the dust, because her new husband had shown no emotion since she’d arrived, and it certainly would have been out of place at this time. Besides, the house was bound to be dirty and dusty, especially since Marge had taken ill.
“This is my wife, Mrs. McCann, Rose,” Henry said softly, avoiding Mr. Hill’s gaze.
Mr. Hill moved toward Rose, his hand out.
Unable to stop herself, she shrank back. There was something about the man’s dark eyes that made her feel strange and cold. Henry met her eyes and cocked his head toward Mr. Hill, his lips pursed tightly. Rose forced her own hand out and winced slightly as he took it.
She couldn’t quite determine Mr. Hill’s expression because of the overwhelming mass of his wiry beard. Not wanting to meet his eyes, she lowered her own and quickly moved back. Mrs. Hill still stood beside her own chair, what looked like worry dancing in her eyes.
“Please, sit down,” Rose said, pulling Mrs. Hill’s chair out farther and offering her arm as assistance.
“Thank you,” she said timidly, sinking wearily back into the unyielding chair.
The fire crackled loudly, breaking the moment of stillness. Rose turned to look at it, realizing that somehow, up until that moment, it had been completely silent as well.
Seventy
Rose lay in her bed, having fallen into the morass of malaise. The lamp still burned beside the bed, and she grasped a novel tightly in her hand. She skimmed the pages, trying to concentrate, but the words faded as her thoughts blotted out the evolving story.
At some point she must have drifted off, for when the terrible crash woke her, she realized instantly that the light had gone out. Hot and cold shivers racked her as she fumbled in the horrible darkness, terror nearly paralyzing her. A faint glow at the front of the room lit the floor in cold bluish tones, and Rose suddenly realized she could see outside. The curtain rod had fallen. She got up instinctively, moving toward the window to inspect the damage.
The pale moon showered tiny teardrops all about the room, making it possible for Rose to see the wardrobe door had opened upon impact. As she stared at it, her eyes adapted to the low light and the new shadowed shape that lay before her. At first, her mind refused to comprehend it, as images of what it might be, what it could be, rushed through her mind, her brain trying desperately to protect her.
Rose’s hand, which had been reaching for the curtain, dropped as she let out a small croak. She felt as if she was suffocating as her legs became weak, her blood frozen.
There, in the soft moonlight, in the hollow of the wardrobe, sat a body. A frayed rope draped its neck, and its head lolled disgustingly to the side, almost as if it were nodding. The eyes, Rose could see, were open wide, the look of horror on its face turning her blood to solid ice. She sank to the ground in the same pose as the thing in the wardrobe. Try as she might, she could not scream, could not issue a sound from her throat to summon help though she knew she’d never exit the room of her own power.
Rose gasped for breath, trying her best to make a louder noise, her eyes fixed on the monstrosity in front of her. Sweat poured from her in steady streams as her skin burned. Air passed in and out of her mouth, but still no words.
Scream, scream! Rose thought to herself. She croaked, feeling the scream building, but just as she was about to shriek her lungs out, the thing’s head fell farther toward Rose, almost as if it was cocking its head to listen. She gasped for air, tears flooding her eyes. Goddammit, scream!
On her next breath, Rose let out an animal howl, forcing out every bit of air she held trapped in her lungs. She immediately heard the rushing of footsteps outside her door, almost as if someone had been waiting for his or her cue. The pounding on the door that followed startled Rose so badly she collapsed against the wall, whimpering. From far away, she could hear someone calling her name.
After an agonizing wait, the door burst open and lights filled the front of the room. One of the lights was raised, and its beam touched the area around the wardrobe. Rose was dimly aware of swearing and gasps as someone moved quickly to her and lifted her off the floor. She beat against her rescuer in terror, her eyes still fixed on the cloudy gaze of the thing in front of her. Whoever carried her tightened his grip as he moved her away from that horrible place and out into the hallway.
“Wait here for me,” someone shouted, and Rose was sure she recognized it as Henry’s voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you got another light?”
“I’ll get one now.”
Suddenly she was being carried down the hallway, around a bend, and into another darkened chamber. Rose whimpered, causing her rescuer to make soft shushing sounds in an attempt to soothe her. She was placed gently on the bed in the unfamiliar room while the candle in the holder beside the bed was lit. The shadows jumped and bound wildly, highlighting the pale walls and large, heavy dresser across the room. A fireplace, cold and empty, lay at the other end of the room.
The candle was moved from the table and a lamp carefully lit. Rose watched as Henry, who had apparently carried her there, moved the light close to her.
“It’s all right now. Try to rest.”
“What was that?” she gasped, the images of just moments before seared into her brain.
“I think it was one of my servants.”
“The cook,” she said softly, sucking in her breath.
“Why don’t you get under the blankets? I’ll leave the light.”
Henry moved away from the bed toward the door, but Rose quickly grasped his hand, her terror still palpable in the cold, still air. “Please stay.”
He appeared to contemplate the thought for a moment before sinking back onto the bed and resting his head against the carved headboard. She relaxed, slowly sliding under the covers and propping her head on the pillows. The candlelight continued to flicker, and Rose noticed, as it bobbed and danced, that no one had pulled the curtains that night. Either Henry had gone to bed with them open or he hadn’t yet retired.
A knock sounded loudly on the door, and once again, Rose jumped, her head knocking against the headboard. Henry got up instantly and hurried to the door. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Mr. Moffatt leaned slightly past the open door and whispered softly to her husband.
Rose shut her eyes and strained but couldn’t make out any of the conversation. A moment later, the door closed, and to her surprise, she felt the mattress sink as Henry returned to his previous position on the bed. She waited for him to slip under the covers as well, but he simply sat on top of them, unmoving.
Despite the comfort of Henry’s presence, the night passed in fits and starts, punctuated by visions of the cook’s lifeless body waiting in the wardrobe. Rose awoke early in the morning only to see Henry rise and slip almost silently out of the room. She got out of the bed to follow him, her nightgown still wrapped around her as s
he didn’t dare go back to her old bedroom for her clothes.
She watched as Henry rounded the first corner that led past her room and then the second one leading to the main hallway. He paused for a moment, and Rose froze, waiting for him to continue. He began walking again, this time heading directly to the front parlor doors. They opened almost as if they’d been waiting for him but failed to shut behind him.
Rose, from her position to the left of the stairs, could see Henry, Mr. Moffatt, and Mr. Hill standing around a low table. On top of it lay a bulky shape draped completely in a blanket, and she knew instantly what it was. The men began speaking softly amongst themselves. She could just barely hear their voices but once again could not discern what they said.
A loud knock at the front door broke up the grouping, and all three of their heads rose as one, their eyes searching the hallway. A servant rushed to the door, glancing briefly at the men before moving to open it. Rose shrank farther back into the shadow of the stairwell.
In short order, the servant led an older man in a navy wool coat and tan breeches into the parlor. Just a moment before the door closed, Rose caught a glimpse of the man’s face. His eyes were dark and wide, his lips pressed together nervously as he shakily raised a hand. He looked absolutely terrified.
Rose went back to Henry’s room and sat sullenly on the bed, trying desperately to muster the courage to retrieve her bags. The body was now lying in the parlor, but the remnants of last night still lingered. And as far as she could tell, there was no new girl to help her.
Finally, after she could stand the stillness no longer, she tiptoed out of the room and around the corner to gaze at her bedroom. Drawing on her last reserves of strength, she left the safety of the bend in the hallway and cautiously approached the room. Once she reached the threshold, her hand rose reflexively to knock.
“Stupid,” Rose muttered, grasping the knob firmly. She flung the door open and watched it bounce against the opposite wall.