by L C Kincaide
He read:
ME remains unconvinced that I am clearly the most suitable wife for him. Perhaps he being English and I, American, he is not accustomed to our ways of thinking and he persists in thwarting even my most heartfelt advances, genuine that they are. Why can he not envision the glorious future we are destined to share?
An entry several weeks later confirmed Victoria’s burgeoning obsession.
It is only a matter of time — and I know this to be true — for I remain convinced his feelings for me are sincere and deep, and only his English breeding inhibits their full expression. How could they not be when my devotion to him is so complete?
The last entry for the year that referred to ME indicated her desperation.
I am lost. Utterly bereft. Today ME announced that he is sailing back to England in two months time. His mindset remains unaltered, despite FS’s (Fortescue Seabrooke) most flattering attentions toward me, and having spent so much time in my presence. I was convinced when another man found his way into my good favor, it would spur his masculine instincts, yet he has instead resolved to leave — and for two years! Is there nothing left for me to do?
According to the rest of her entries that year, she announced her engagement hoping Mason would at long last come to his senses and propose marriage. She had waited in vain for him to claim her, and when he didn’t, she found herself the new Mrs. Fortescue Seabrooke and stepmother to a young woman who despised her. Mason Everdon returned to England, and Victoria took to bed for a month.
John stretched and checked the clock — nearly dinnertime. Carrie had poked her head in once, curious what he was doing in their father’s study. When he told her, she nodded grimly and backed out. She’d had enough of family-related drama, which reminded him his parents were on their way back from Nairobi, but still hours away.
He straightened and glanced at the remaining stack of diaries. Maybe he can skip the next two years since ME was not a player. So far, the relevant parts were focused on him, and poring over every entry made for sluggish and frustrating progress; at this rate, he’d be up all night peering at yellowed pages searching for clues to their current predicament. The answer lay somewhere among the many pages of entries in the rest of the nine diaries, at least that was his hope.
He checked his phone, but Emma hadn’t called back since he’d talked with her. She’d mentioned going to Elinor’s, so she was probably still there. He would have liked to hear her voice, but he had nothing to tell her yet, no interesting discoveries. He hoped she was all right. She hadn’t sounded as if she was the last time they spoke.
~*~
Emma sat cross-legged in front of the fire scraping the edges of a can of baked beans with a spoon. The day was already darkening, made more noticeable by the lack of electricity, and now most of the manor’s interior was swagged in shadows. Fortunately, the nearest bathroom was just down the hall near the service stairs, so she didn’t have far to go.
After her reconnaissance mission, she had gathered candlesticks, matches and hauled firewood from the dining and drawing rooms. On second thought, a fire in the drawing room would have been a good idea and she’d be able to play pool. It wasn’t full dark yet, which meant there was still time to move if she chose to. She had planned on keeping things simple — rolling out her, rather Matthew’s memory foam mattress pad and the sleeping bag — at least that was her own, on top. There were plenty of cushions to choose from.
Setting down the empty can, she licked her lips. The flames danced merrily in the grate, and for a moment, she had the sense of being on a camping adventure, though the situation was far from that. Already five hours passed since she arrived, and nothing happened if she didn’t count the clocks chiming and the lit sconces in the portrait gallery. Ivy had not come out to greet her. Not yet. She twisted open a bottle of juice. Should the need arise later, she had wine and whatever else was left in the decanters.
~*~
When Emma didn’t answer the door, Rachel let herself in with the key she gave her when she was in a bad way and moved in with them for those months. Rachel had called and left a message, restraining herself to one, not wanting to hound her. Emma already had a full plate. Maybe she was worrying for nothing. Emma may have just gone out to get away from everyone, not that she blamed her.
With the tape recorder in hand, Rachel checked around in the apartment making sure Emma was not sleeping nor in the bath, but it was deserted. She didn’t have to search for the tape; it was on the counter where they’d had their drinks after the session. Rachel set the ridiculously clunky machine down and plugged it in. Matt had shown her how to use it so she wouldn’t accidentally record over anything, not that it wasn’t unlikely. She popped the lid open and inserted the cassette, closed it with a click, pushed one of the huge buttons and waited. First was Medium Mabel’s voice asking for protection, then some breathing. What happened next had Rachel staring at the player in disbelief, and she rewound it two more times and listened again to be sure.
~*~
Two hours later, and John struggled through 1897 and 1898 when ME once again appeared. Before that, Victoria made several references to a manor house that was under construction on ME’s recently acquired property. It seemed it impressed her, and she eagerly looked forward to its completion, and no doubt, many visits. In the summer of 1898 ME returned and also brought his wife, Amelia to whom Victoria took an instant dislike. No surprises there. Her entries continued to be full of her yearnings and schemes to be in Mason’s intimate presence, or rather worm her way between him and Amelia, although both were married, and that he, at least, loved his spouse. This situation had all the makings of a soap opera. Three months after that, FS, Victoria’s much older husband met his untimely death when he fell from his horse, leaving his widow a free woman, though her stepdaughter kept her occupied by contesting the Will in court for over a year.
During this time, Everdon Manor was in its heyday. The couple hosted many parties, which they referred to as Saturday-to-Monday, as proper high-born English folk did, but to their American friends it was the weekend.
John set the book down and winced standing up, his athletic body unaccustomed to lounging around for hours at a time. Just a half hour more and then he’d see what the cook had prepared for dinner, hoping it was something light. Carrie wasn’t eating much these days either. Walking to the desk, he sat on the swivel chair for a change and opened one of the ancient leather-bound photo albums and leafed through it carefully.
~*~
Should she tell Matt or not? Someone needed to hear this, confirm she was not imagining things, and preferably slow down the tape so she can better understand what she was listening to. Regardless of the source, it was creepy. It hadn’t been there during the séance.
“Is that your tape?” Matt asked coming up behind her and making her jump.
“Sorry.” He kissed the top of her head. “Whatever you have there must be pretty intense.”
“You can say that.”
“What’s on it?” He asked sitting down beside her.
Should she tell him or not? “Is there a way to slow it down?” She evaded.
“Not on the player, but I can make a digital recording and slow it down in that format. I can’t plug it directly into the computer, so it won’t be of great quality.”
“That’s okay. I just want to hear it slowed down.”
Matthew picked up the machine and took it to the desk. He opened the program and made sure he rewound the tape.
“You might as well tell me what’s on it. I’m bound to find out.” He teased her.
“Emma’s psychic session.”
He gave her a wary look. “You’re kidding.”
Rachel shook her head. “I went by her place to see if she wanted to hear it again, but she wasn’t home, so I listened to it when I was there.”
“I’m not sure.” Rachel admitted. “I heard a sound, kind of high-pitched, almost like a fly buzzing.”
He gave her a look. “Maybe it was a fly.”
“No. I thought of that. I’m pretty sure it isn’t.”
He shrugged, put a finger to his lips signalling it was time for silence and let the tape play. A few minutes later, the recording was complete.
“Okay.” He said after a while. “That is one interesting woman.”
“So, you think she was faking it?”
“It crossed my mind, but you were there.”
“I know. Part of me wants it to be fake, but I have a feeling it isn’t.”
“Does she have a cat? That would explain the noises.”
“I didn’t see one, only the smelled it. Let’s just play it.”
Matthew played the recording. Medium Mabel was speaking sleepily in sepulchral tones, giving instructions and asking for protection from evil, then Emma’s voice, equally slow and funereal, and then Mabel inviting the Spirit to come forward. A heartbeat after that, the voice spoke Emma’s name, calling to her, something they hadn’t heard before. Goosebumps erupted on Rachel’s skin. This was beyond creepy. Again, Mabel, horror movie gloomy was beckoning the Spirit. A series of shrieks and wails followed this request, then Emma asked if Ivy was there. The response was a maniacal laugh then, “Not here. No one is here.”
Next was Ivy’s communication through Mabel, acknowledging that “she” is here.
“Oh my God! What is that?” Rachel stared at Matthew wide-eyed.
They listened to someone wailing. When Emma asked what she can do to help, just before the bulb exploded, the voice shouted, “Your fault! She did this to me! Cast me out, away from them all, away… Alone! Release me!”
The shouting that was audible ensued, then the bulb shattered.
Matthew glanced at his stricken wife. “I don’t know what that was about.”
“Could she have faked that part?”
“With a simple tape recorder? Unless she has something going in the background, I doubt it.”
“Emma doesn’t know. She thinks she was listening to her friend.”
“She didn’t sound especially friendly to me.”
Rachel reached for her phone. “Emma needs to hear this.” She hit the icon and muttered. “Still no answer. Where could she be?”
She met Matthew’s gaze. “You don’t suppose…”
“She could just be taking time out. She was pretty upset yesterday. No sense in imagining the worst-case scenarios.”
Though Rachel agreed with his logical reasoning, she couldn’t help thinking otherwise, not when the feeling was growing stronger. The phone still in her hand, she tapped another name.
“Hello, Mabel. It’s Rachel Stuart. My friend, and I had an appointment with you a couple of nights ago. Do you have time to listen to something really strange?”
~*~
“What are you looking at?” Carrie peeked over her brother’s shoulder as he turned a page.
“Old pictures of the clan.”
“Hmmm… looks like one of the Weekends. Thank God those are over.” She said. “They are over, aren’t they?”
“They are.” He answered her more confidently than he felt.
“Then why are you in here cooped up all day going over this old stuff?” She indicated the coffee table cluttered with journals.
“Just doing family research. This,” he pointed to a striking woman in a large hat attired in an extravagantly frilled dress, “is our great-great aunt Victoria.”
Carrie leaned forward, peering for a closer look. “She looks full of herself.” She made her assessment. ”A real drama queen.”
“Really? You can tell all that from just looking at these few pictures?”
“Well, sure, if you know what to look for, but you’re a guy. You wouldn’t know.”
“Oh, I see. Then explain what I’m missing.”
“Her look-at-me outfit, for starters. And see how she’s looking at him here, and how she’s looking at her? Totally obsessed with the guy and wants her out of the picture.”
“Margaret Everdon got her out of the picture for her.”
“Hmmm… Nobody saw it coming, did they?”
“Definitely not.”
“It’s weird that an old lady in a wheelchair would do such a thing. And we all paid the price for that.” She added bitterly.
How strange, he mused, that they should be so casually discussing the family’s dark past as if they were talking about the weather.
“How are you doing?” He asked closing the album. “Did you get some sleep?”
“I’m better.” She paused. “Do you really think it’s over, whatever it is?”
“I hope so.”
“And we don’t have to go back?”
“No.”
“It’s different this time. The last time we weren’t all there somebody died.”
She was referring to George, of course.
“Now nobody’s there.” She looked at him wide-eyed. “Does that mean we’re all going to die?”
“Nobody’s dying.” He said vehemently. “Our nerves may get rattled, but that’s all.”
“I hope you’re right. My nerves aren’t in great shape.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”
“Our crazy families.” Carrie put it succinctly, eyeing the old leather-bound album with suspicion.
John had to agree. “Victoria was obsessed with uniting the Everdons and Ruskins, namely her and Mason.”
“Hmmm… guess that didn’t work out. The curse of unrequited love.” She mused. “Not many left on the Everdon side, except for Emma, and I suppose Grace and Robert, and Robert is off the list since he’s become engaged, so that leaves me out of luck.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were interested.”
Carrie rolled her eyes. “I’m not. He’s not my type. Besides, he’s too old.”
“Gee thanks!” John grinned. “Robert’s only a couple of years older than me.”
“Exactly. Jeez, to think how close he came to… the accident.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s in good hands.”
“I wonder how many people died because of the whole Everdon curse. Could be more than we know.” Carrie considered, biting her lip. “The Ruskins should have stayed home that weekend and it wouldn’t have involved us.”
Were it that simple, John thought.
“Did you know the land the manor is built on initially belonged to Albert Ruskin, our great-great-great-great-grandfather?” He tried to steer the subject away from the unnerving aspects of the family’s interrelations. “I found the original document of the transaction.”
“No. That is interesting.” Carrie stifled a yawn and crossed the room.
“Our families do go back a way, don’t they?”
“They certainly do.”
Carrie stopped at the door. “I hope you do better with the current Everdon descendant than our ancestor did.”
John raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Carrie rolled her eyes and shook her head with mock resignation then closed the door behind her.
~*~
Having unpacked and unbundled, Emma made her bed preparations with nothing out of the ordinary happening. No Spirit accosted her in the bathroom — thank God! — and she returned to the parlor and snuggled in her sleeping bag by a roaring fire. The drapes were drawn, the front door securely locked, and the parlor door closed with a chair wedged under the handle for good measure. She was feeling reasonably safe, at least from humans, but following hours with no weirdness, she was also
conflicted whether she should be relieved or apprehensive, for some sort of event still lay in store for her. This was no camping retreat, she reminded herself. She was still in the Everdon House of Horrors.
The dark wood wainscoting walls closed in, and the furniture wavered in the eerie shifting light of the flames. Emma burrowed deeper and cast a wary eye at the door. Maybe she’d get a couple of hours of rest, if luck was on her side. But to sleep meant to have a nightmare, and tonight, there may be no waking from it.
~*~
“Thank goodness you’re back, safe and sound!” Elinor breathed into the phone. “Frances, how was the flight? Any incidents?” She held her breath. At this rate, a plane crash would not have surprised her.
“An exhausting journey, but uneventful. Unless an infant wailing for twelve hours counts.”
“Oh, dear. How dreadful. I am so relieved you made it back safely. How fortunate neither of you was hurt. Of course, I can’t say the same for poor Robert.”