by Carrie King
She left her room, arms folded across her chest against the chill as she padded to his room. He wasn't there. She heard the sound of his voice. It came from downstairs. Who was he talking to?
As silently as possible she moved to the top of the stairs, peering down into the darkness at the floor below, which was also enveloped in darkness.
Wylie whispered to someone.
She couldn't hear what he said. What alarmed her more than his whispering was the image of something dark; an even blacker shadow than the room surrounded him, it hovered over him.
Just the sight of that darkness stopped her heart for a moment for she knew it was evil.
Chapter 38
"Wylie? What are you doing?"
He remained unmoving on the landing, just staring into the darkness of the foyer below. The shadow appeared to dissipate but he didn't even turn to look up at her as she spoke. She blinked, confused.
"Wylie, who were you talking to?"
He finally jolted out of his reverie and turned to look up at her. "No one, nothing," he said, heading back upstairs. "I was just talking to myself. Go back to bed."
With a sigh, Tiffany shrugged off her anxiety. Had she seen something there? It didn’t make sense, it must just be a shadow as she had first thought, maybe the moon was causing it. Soon she had convinced herself she was being silly, more than likely as a result of her guilt and her earlier migraine.
Forgetting her dark and anxious feelings she returned to her room and quietly closed the door. She had been terribly mistaken, thinking that getting away to such a beautiful location would help bridge the deep rift between them. Instead, coming here might have been yet another mistake.
Exhausted she climbed back into bed, again fighting back the tears. What if she couldn't mend their marriage? What if, at the end of the weekend when they got back to their flat, Wylie told her it was over, that he was done with her?
Her thoughts disturbed, she finally fell into an exhausted sleep, but her sleep was far from restful. Instead, her slumber was filled with not exactly nightmares, but unsettling dreams. And that's how she felt when she woke the next morning. Unsettled. Uncertain. Wondering what the day would bring.
After she dressed and went downstairs, she was surprised to find Wylie down in the kitchen making breakfast. Scraping a spatula around a skillet full of scrambled eggs and bacon, he glanced at her over his shoulder and offered a small smile.
"Hungry?"
More than a little surprised by this change in mood, she nodded a smile coming across her face. He'd grown increasingly moody over the past week, at times trying to be pleasant, as if shoving thoughts of her betrayal to the back of his mind, yet the next moment he was unable to contain his resentment. Tiffany had been walking on eggshells since the moment she'd told him the truth. For now, she was happy to enjoy the moment.
"Sit down and we will eat.” He turned to face her. “Did you sleep okay?"
She was going to nod, but then shook her head, not quite sure what to make of this change in his attitude. "I woke up a lot last night with bad dreams, and there's something about this place that …"
"What about it? I think it's kind of neat. It's so old." He gestured with his chin toward the dining room as he divided the portions of the skillet onto two plates and brought them over to the table. He sat down, stabbed at a clump of scrambled egg, and popped it into his mouth.
"It just feels … I don't know how to say it, but it feels heavy. Does it feel like that to you?" She didn't want to focus too much on the fact that he was talking to her, she was just glad that he was.
Chewing, he shook his head, lifted a slice of almost charred bacon from his plate and nibbled on it.
"The place used to belong to the Lord Viscount Angus Greyfield. Apparently, he was murdered by his wife."
Tiffany, who had just bitten into a piece of her own charred bacon, nearly choked. She swallowed and looked at him with a frown. "How do you know that?"
He offered a shrug. "Can't remember. Maybe I read it somewhere when you first told me about the weekend."
She didn't recall telling him exactly where they were going on their getaway weekend, just that they were going away somewhere secluded. To talk. Still, she didn't want to disrupt his apparently good mood. She nodded.
"You did quite a bit of exploring yesterday."
"Indeed I did," he nodded. "But there's one place I didn't get to, at least not yet."
She carefully chewed. "Where?"
"The attic. Hurry up and finish eating and let's go see what's up there."
He grinned, slipping the last chunk of bacon into his mouth.
"Maybe there's some skeletons hiding in the closet up there."
He laughed and stood, taking his plate and returning it to the sink.
Chewing and swallowing past the lump in her throat she followed. Without another word, he brushed past her and left the kitchen.
Not wanting to get left behind, and willing to take advantage of any moment that Wylie actually wanted to spend time with her, Tiffany stuffed the last piece of bacon into her mouth and then followed him out of the kitchen. He was already halfway up the stairs. Chewing and trying to swallow, she quickly followed.
They reach the second floor and he moved to the far end, toward a closed door with an old-fashioned brass knob opposite the loo. He reached for the knob.
"You really think we should be snooping around?"
He shrugged as he turned the knob. "Who's going to know?"
She said nothing, but watched as he turned the knob and pushed open the door. Behind the door rose a rather narrow set of stairs enclosed by walls. She couldn't see past the first landing because the narrow stairs took an abrupt forty-five-degree angle right and continued upward.
"They look like stairs that perhaps the servants used."
“Maybe.”
She followed him up, wary of the dusty cobwebs dangling from the corners of the ceiling. It smelled musty, as if the stairwell had not been disturbed for years, maybe even decades. The only sound that broke the silence was the heavy clomping of Wylie's footsteps on the wooden stairs, often creaking under his weight. At the top, nearly in full darkness now, stood a door.
"We should've brought a flashlight," she muttered.
He lifted a hand. "I already have one. Didn't you see me take it from the drawer before we left the kitchen?"
“No.” She hadn't seen him do any such thing.
"Seriously, Tiffany, you have to start paying attention. You're the one who wanted to come up here in the first place."
"I didn’t...”
He opened the door and flicked on the flashlight, sweeping the interior of the room briefly before stepping inside. Tiffany watched him pass over the threshold, but she hesitated, not sure she wanted to go in there. It felt funny. The pressure in her head increased; her heart pounded; and a funny, tingling sensation raced down her spine.
"Come on!"
Taking a deep breath, Tiffany swallowed and entered what looked to be an attic space. Wylie swept the flashlight around, at first highlighting the extremely slanted ceiling, then piles of boxes and a few crates at the far end. The wood floor was coated with at least an inch of dust, Wylie's footprints, the only evidence that anyone had been up here in years.
She crossed the room quickly, trying to ignore the ominous creaking of the old floorboards under her weight, but anxious to stick close to him. What kind of critters sheltered up here? After the sounds she had heard last night, she wouldn't be surprised if wildlife leaped toward them from the shadows. Maybe even bats.
"Wylie."
"Look at this," he said, aiming the beam of light onto an old crate, nearly hidden by several others in the corner of the attic space.
The crate was falling apart, but something solid was contained inside. "What is it?"
To her dismay, he quickly pulled the slats off the crate, exposing what she could only describe as a miniature treasure chest, a little larger than the average
jewelry box.
"Here, hold this."
Wylie handed her the flashlight and she quickly took it, aiming it downward at the container as he lifted it from the crate.
"Is it heavy?"
"No, but it looks old." He moved toward the attic stairs. "Let's go downstairs and see what it is."
Without waiting for her to reply, he headed back across the room for the doorway. With a quick glance around her, Tiffany followed, tightly clasping the flashlight. At the threshold of the door, she turned to reach for the knob to pull the door shut behind her.
Wylie had already rounded the landing. Tiffany took the first step, definitely feeling creeped out now. Just then, something hard slammed into the middle of her back, eliciting a gasp, followed by a broken scream as she suddenly found herself flying down the stairs.
Chapter 39
Her startled scream was abruptly choked off as she landed hard on her shoulder. She desperately tried to lift her hands to cover her head and protect her neck as she slid downward, but everything happened so fast. The seconds passed in a blur. She tumbled downward, banging her head against the wall, and then, as she bounced over the next step, she landed hard on her hip. It was all over in a couple of seconds.
Sprawled on the landing, she lay there, heart pounding, eyes tightly shut. For several seconds she didn't move, then slowly she opened her eyes. The stairwell was now wreathed in darkness, the flashlight lying at the base of the stairs, the beam shooting through the doorway. It felt as if she had bruised every bone in her body. Though that was unlikely, the air had been knocked out of her, so she waited for the initial shock to pass before she could assess whether she'd been injured.
"Wylie!"
Her voice was not loud enough, not much louder than a whisper. Where was he? He couldn't have been that far ahead of her that he hadn’t heard her tumble. Peering down she could only see about half of the doorway from where she had landed.
"Wylie!" Louder this time. She heard a muffled reply from beyond the stairwell entrance and called his name again, louder still. Footsteps responded and, a moment later, she heard him approaching.
"Did you drop the flashlight?" He picked it up and slowly climbed the stairs. "What the ..."
"Something pushed me!" Tiffany slowly and carefully rose to a seated position, her back leaning against the wall as she tried to stop the pounding in her shoulder and head.
Wylie crouched down in front of her on the first set of steps.
"You okay?"
He asked the question begrudgingly, as if he didn't want to but knew he should.
"I think so," she said bemused at his behavior.
"You probably just tripped over your feet," he said, shaking his head, hands on his thighs, assessing her. "And you didn't break your neck, or you wouldn't be sitting up and talking to me right now."
Tiffany was once more shocked. She had expected something more, maybe a word or a touch of comfort. Or him checking to see if he could feel any broken bones. But he didn't touch her. For a moment she thought she saw a brief glimpse of concern, but it was gone as soon as it came.
"Wylie, it felt like something pushed me."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, but I was at the top of the stairs and suddenly I was literally flying down and ..." She lifted a hand to grope her bruised shoulder. "There's something about this place … doesn't it feel creepy up here to you?"
He shook his head. "Not really. It's just old. Here, let me help you up."
He extended a hand.
Grateful for at least that much, Tiffany grasped it as he slowly helped her up. She tested her weight. Other than the pain in her head and the throbbing in her shoulder, and a likely bruised hip, she figured she'd gotten off lucky. Maybe he was right. She glanced over her shoulder to the top of the stairs. Maybe she had just underestimated or missed the first step. But she could have sworn that it felt like someone had clobbered her right in the middle of her back between her shoulder blades. In fact, that spot felt a little hot.
"Feel my back, Wylie," she said. "Right between my shoulder blades."
"I don't think—"
Short-tempered, in pain, and more than a little frightened, she snapped at him. "Wylie, please, I'm not asking you to have sex with me. I'm just asking you to feel my back, right between my shoulder blades." She turned slightly. "Does the skin feel hot there? It feels like it's burning."
Reluctantly, he lifted her shirt and reached under it, laying the flat of his hand against the middle of her back.
"The skin does feel a little bit warmer, but I'm not feeling swelling or anything, but … wait …"
"What is it?" she asked, trying to turn to look over her shoulder. Stupid. She wouldn't be able to see anything there anyway. Besides, the movement hurt.
"It feels like … like a few scratches." He flicked on the flashlight and shone it on the steps. "Maybe you scraped your back on some nails or something."
He removed his hand from under her shirt and Tiffany turned to look at the stairs. She didn't see anything that she might've scratched her skin on, especially since her shirt wasn't ripped. No nails, no splinters, no nothing.
"Oh, well, looks like you're okay. Come on, let's go downstairs and see what's inside that box."
With that, he climbed over her and retraced his steps down the stairs and passed through the doorway. With a sigh, she slowly followed, keeping her hand pressed against the wall as she descended.
At the bottom of the stairs, she paused. "I'll be there in just a minute," she called out, then turned down the hallway to go into the loo. Inside, she flipped on the light and closed the door. She looked at her reflection in the mirror over the sink and saw a frightened woman staring back at her with wide, dilated pupils and pale skin. She shook her head. This wasn't her. With a sigh, she turned around and shrugged the T-shirt up and around her shoulders, then turned her head to look back over her shoulder at her reflection.
She gasped. There, in the middle of her back, she saw three scratch marks. They hadn't broken the skin, but they looked red and slightly raised. The area around them still burned. Sighing heavily, she lowered her T-shirt, turned on the water, and wet her hands, swiping them over her face.
"Get a hold of yourself," she muttered. "You're letting your imagination run away with you."
And that's exactly what it was. It had to be a wild and vivid imagination, triggered by her emotional turmoil. Now she was hearing bumps in the night, feeling creeped out, and imagining herself getting pushed down stairways in an empty house.
Shaking her head, she left the loo and walked toward the front parlor, sure that there was some logical explanation. She had simply misjudged the steps. She had scratched herself on something as she tumbled down.
By the time she entered the sitting room, Wylie had already opened the miniature chest. He pulled out a thick, old looking piece of paper, like parchment paper. It had been folded into a neat square.
"What's that?"
Wylie finished unfolding it and tilted it in her direction. The writing on it was small, written in old-fashioned ink, the kind that required a fountain pen dipped into a bottle. Tiffany sat down next to Wylie, pleasantly surprised that he didn't shift away from her. Together, they read the fine, elegant, yet strong writing on the parchment.
To whom it may concern. I, Lord Viscount Angus Greyfield, being of sound mind and body, do hereby accuse my wife of adultery and attempted murder. In the event of my untimely or unexpected death, I demand the authorities investigate Lady Beatrice Cornwall Greyfield to the full extent of the law to determine her guilt. If not, I will take matters into my own hand.
Written this day, 13th October, 1732. Signed, Lord Greyfield
Tiffany stared wide-eyed at the parchment, then risked a glance at her husband. He frowned, staring down at the parchment, his face flushed. Was it the accusation of adultery or the attempted murder that bothered him most?
"Murdered …"
"The legend. Remember the
one I mentioned on the way here? The place is supposed to be haunted by his ghost. What kind of a ghost haunts a place unless they want revenge for something?"
Tiffany frowned. "Surely you don't believe that."
He turned to her, the expression on his face startling. His eyebrows were pulled low and his cheeks were flushed with annoyance, anger, jealousy, or whatever; he stared at her for several wordless moments.
"And why not?" he said, his voice soft. "His wife cheated on him, and then, probably wanting his money or his house, or his land, or both of the above, she murdered him before he could throw her out. No wonder he wants revenge." He shrugged. "Maybe her lover helped him."
"Why would you think that?"
He said nothing for several seconds and then spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe because I know something about being cheated on."
Chapter 40
"Wylie, maybe this wasn't just a good idea, us coming up here … maybe it's too soon," Tiffany said quietly.
Inside, she couldn't help but admit that she was growing increasingly apprehensive, not only because of the way this place felt, but now, learning of the history of its owner, coupled with the look on Wylie's face… what kind of cruel coincidence could it be?
"We paid for the weekend, and we're staying until the end of the weekend."
"But if we can't talk about it, we can't move..."
He cut her off. "Dammit, Tiffany, don't you see that I'm trying?" His voice was still soft, but with a slightly hard edge to it. "I'm trying to remember what we used to have, to figure out if I can get past this." He paused and reached for her hand. "Do you understand that I'm trying to care?"
Her heart skipped a beat. She couldn't blink back the warm tears. "I'm so sorry, Wylie. I know that words are inadequate, but..."
He turned away from her and looked down at the parchment paper he held in his hands. He placed the paper underneath a corner of the box and looked inside. "There's a signet ring here, and what looks like a stamp. You know, one of those stamps that they used to seal envelopes with… and something else. I can't quite make out what it is."