by L C Kincaide
“She told her that?” John was skeptical.
Emma had mentioned nothing about a psychic, but again, they had spoken little since he left. What his father, and likely Elinor and his mother assumed sounded far-fetched.
“She went with Rachel, Matthew’s wife and raised one angry Spirit, according to Rachel. Everything started to happen soon after that.”
John didn’t want to believe it. But having grown up alongside the Everdons and in their collective history, he was prepared to accept what an otherwise rational man would dismiss as being delusional. No wonder she’s been keeping a low profile. Already haunted by guilt over her friend’s disappearance, they now cast her in blame.
“Then it’s just as well I’ve been going over everything.” He said.
“So, did you find anything in those pictures?” Godfrey indicated the laptop with a nod.
“Just that some of the pictures seem to be corrupted, so I wanted to have a closer look.”
“Corrupted? How?”
“Some blotchiness. I thought it could be from sun flares, but I wanted to be sure.” He clicked to enlarge a picture with Ivy in the background — those were the only images with the whitish spots. She was turned toward the camera observing the croquet match, a white translucent shape beside her, vertical and about her height. The next picture showed Ivy in profile gazing off into the distance surrounded with more of the strange vertical gauzy imperfections. Enlarging the image didn’t help, for as he zoomed in, it pixellated and he found himself looking at nothing more than a mass of faded squares.
“Do I need a new camera?”
“I thought that at first. Then, I went back to thinking it’s sun flares. But,” he clicked through the images, “only the ones with Ivy in them are affected.”
“Now, that is interesting.” Godfrey sat down on the stool beside him, and John turned the laptop.
“See this? And these here?”
They scowled at the images and shook their heads.
“Ah, finally!” John pulled up a picture taken closer from another angle featuring Ivy with the refreshments tent in the background. Surrounded by pearlescent forms, her head was turned toward one and she was grinning as if in response to a witty remark. Both men furrowed their brows, and John enlarged it. Then he realized what those ethereal shapes were.
“Do you see what I see?” John asked his father, who was transfixed by what he was looking at.
“It’s them.” He breathed as he discerned the ghostly figures. “My God! That’s… that’s him, and this is… good heavens! They’re all here. Mason, Lucy, even George!”
John stared at him. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. Elinor told me the last night, the night of the party that Ivy had seen them as clearly as she saw the rest of us, and that they too were in the ballroom. That’s when she knew for certain.”
The next picture showed Ivy with Emma, the cluster of figures now gathered farther away, but still observing her. John looked at them in disbelief. Another picture was of Ivy and two others. He enlarged it.
“Who is this one?” He indicated a figure facing Ivy and her companion, who his father was convinced was Lucy Everdon. How he could be this sure was beyond him, but his father had a lifetime more of experience with these matters than he did. And if he squinted, he could discern individual features as if from a badly faded photograph.
Godfrey leaned closer. “Ah, that is none other than Victoria Ruskin Seabrooke.”
“She doesn’t look too happy, does she?”
For some reason, the night of the party came to mind. Had they all been around Ivy since she arrived? Mason would have been and Lucy, but Victoria?
”It’s common knowledge Victoria despised Amelia. I suppose she can’t have been too pleased to have her old rival return.” He climbed from the stool. “Just don’t let your mother see this.” He cautioned before leaving the room.
John closed his laptop and checked the time. Still early, but he felt compelled to speak with Emma. Damn! Straight to voicemail. Rather than leave a message, he called Matthew instead.
~*~
Emma pushed herself upright, wincing at her aching body. The ancient settee wasn’t meant for sitting in for long stretches at a time, never mind sleeping. She glanced around the undisturbed parlor encouraged to find sunlight struggling through the gap between the brocade panels. On stiff legs, she shuffled and parted the deep red curtains squinting in the sudden brightness.
Memories of the past several hours rushed forward; of her observing all those people in the ballroom, then her encounter with Ivy, Amelia, and Mason, and the incredible euphoric state she had found herself in. Was it possible? Was Ivy Amelia returned? Was there indeed such a thing as reincarnation? From what she had seen, it appeared that way, and she took heart in knowing her friend was not entrapped.
The settee was still jammed against the door, and she remembered why she had done that. First, the nightmare that had started off the auspicious night, her being led to the salon to look at pictures, then something trashing the room. Nearly getting clobbered by a tipped over candelabrum would have been enough, but “it” wasn’t finished with her yet. The creepy old wheelchair gunning for her across the marble floor until it flipped over rounded out her action packed adventure. To accept she was going crazy was easier than trying to explain these incidents.
Sunshine made a world of difference, for which she was grateful. So far, all the bad stuff was happening after dark, and she needed to get dressed and head to the bathroom which meant leaving the parlor.
~*~
“Is that John?” Rachel hurried to Matthew’s side. “Put him on speaker. John, hi. It’s Rachel. You haven’t heard from Emma either?”
“No, I was hoping you did. Every time I call, it goes straight to voicemail.”
Rachel bit her lip. Emma was officially missing.
“We haven’t seen her since Friday. She was upset about what’s been going on.” Matthew volunteered.
Rachel pulled his hand, holding the phone closer to her. “Elinor suggested bluntly it was her fault everything bad was happening, which it isn’t. I’m the one who took her to that psychic.”
“Do you know where she could be? I’ve been doing some research into the family, and I found something she might be interested in.” Though he had his suspicions, he wasn’t ready to voice them in case Rachel knew of Emma’s whereabouts.
Matthew and Rachel exchanged glances. “No. She didn’t say a word to anyone. We’re pretty worried.”
“I’m feeling that way too.”
Rachel got an idea. “I have the tape of the session. Do you have time for a listen?” She motioned for Matthew to move to the laptop and play the recording. “It’s not long, but really creepy. Matt digitized it so we could hear the parts that weren’t audible before.”
John rested his elbows on the counter and listened to the original which was disturbing enough. It must have frightened Emma, and no doubt added to her guilt, which was already considerable. Listening to the digitized version, the slowed down voice in particular, he straightened himself. It all became clear to him — Emma’s disappearance, where she went and what she hoped to accomplish by going. And he realized the danger she was walking into completely unawares, on her own with no one look out for her. What worried him all the more, was that she could have been there since at least last night with no way to contact anyone if she needed help. A sudden anger flared within him for not having become aware it sooner. If he had truly been listening to her, he would have guessed long before now, and she would not have had to struggle on her own. They all had ownership in the situation.
“John? Are you there?”
“I’m here.” He said more tersely than he intended, but his mind was miles away. “I think I know where she is.”
“Oh my God! She went to the manor, didn’t she?” Rachel gasped.
“I’m heading there now.”
Rachel was about to remark on that, but he had already disconnected.
“She’s there all by herself.” Rachel turned enormous eyes to Matthew. “With that… thing! She thinks it’s her friend!”
“Now, calm down...”
Rachel didn’t let him finish. “We have to go too! We can’t just sit here! What if she’s hurt? She’s all alone! Oh God, I should’ve said something earlier! It’s all my fault!”
Matthew placed firm hands on her shoulders before she became completely overwhelmed and hysterical.
“I know. I feel responsible too. We can go if it will make you feel better.”
Rachel nodded vigorously.
“John is on his way and he’ll get there before us. He’s closer. He’ll know what to do.” Her shoulders slumped a little in response. “Pack a couple of things just in case, and we’ll head out, okay?”
She nodded again and wrapped her arms around him. “I hope she’s okay.” She mumbled into his chest.
~*~
John thought telling his father, the most rational Ruskin in the house, of his plans, but thought better of it. After all, what could he do but worry, and being a bad liar, it would take a split second for his mother to find out, then Elinor, and chaos would ensue. He considered too whether he should bring anything along, food, a blanket, but time was of the essence.
“I’m going out for a while. I’ll see you later — no I won’t be back for dinner.” And he was rushing for the car.
He didn’t expect to encounter much traffic in the city, but once on country roads on a clear Sunday, he may have to deal with Sunday drivers out sightseeing and taking pictures of the turning foliage. He took heart that it was only a two-hour drive.
~*~
Emma squinted in the sudden brightness of the central hall finding it awash in brilliant sunlight, all the shadows from the night before banished to its furthest corners. The wheelchair too was gone, much to her relief — she hated that thing, and for the first time, she felt reasonably safe. The manor actually appeared normal.
Having limited options, she cleaned up at the bathroom sink — a shower would have been better, but once she got the famous Psycho shower scene in her head, it was just as well there was no hot water available. After that, she took an apple for breakfast and wandered around trying to think of with what to do next.
She hadn’t come down armed with strategies, and even if she had, they would have proven useless considering her recent discoveries. That Ivy was not angry brought her immeasurable relief. She had suffered for months over what she had done to her by bringing her here. Even now, thinking about their encounter warmed her.
Emma circled the patch of sunlight on the carpet knowing why the rug was there and what it concealed beneath a corner at the foot of the stairs. When she was just a girl, maybe seven or eight-years old, she made the discovery while running down one corridor, turning the corner to run past the ballroom, then back up the eastern hallway by the library, and when she turned to continue round the staircase, her foot caught the edge of the rug and she went sprawling. Looking to see what she tripped over, the tip of the terrible rust-colored spot under the upturned corner revealed itself, and Emma quickly nudged it back in place with the toe of her shoe, making a point to avoid even using that side of the staircase for quite a long time. No one ever told her what happened there, but she just knew it was something awful. Several years later, her mother would tell her the circumstances behind that gruesome splotch which was the reason for them all being down for the Weekend year after year. The stain on the marble floor was a mark on both families.
Emma chewed thoughtfully as she stared at the carpet. Ivy had stood here watching something only she could see, then she crumpled to the floor in a faint. She never said what she had seen and blamed the episode on a petit mal seizure. If Emma was correct, she saw her own death. God! She couldn’t imagine! No one ever figured out why Margaret did it. Everyone agreed she loved Amelia, and the old lady wasn’t exactly strong either. They said she went crazy.
“Who are you?” She suddenly called out, feeling a bravado which eluded her after dark. As she suspected, nobody replied to her echoing demand. “It’s easy for you to mess with me after dark, but where are you now that it’s light, huh?”
Nothing stirred. What was this entity expecting her to do? Wait around all day until sundown and spend the night dodging flying objects? Whoever or whatever this was, she didn’t like it in the least.
“Coward!” She yelled and waited. “Did you hear me? You’re a damned coward!” She took a breath. “I hate you! I hate everything you’ve done to us. And you know what else?” She was in the zone and feeling empowered. “I hate everything you stand for! And you’re a liar too! You drag me out here whining about being trapped, well, where are you then? What the hell am I supposed to do about it when I don’t even know who you are? Or maybe you want to be stuck here!” Emma was shaking, her pent up anxiety and fear finding their escape at last. “That’s fine with me!”
Standing in the middle of the central hall devoid of furniture and other movable objects, she was unusually confident about her safety. What could happen? The rug may be pulled out from under her, or maybe the skylight would shatter and rain glass down on her head, or a pillar topple over and flatten her like a rolling pin on pastry dough, but none of those things happened. She squeezed the apple core in her hand, tempted to pitch it up the stairs where she suspected “It” was watching her.
Damn! An entire day lay ahead with nothing to do but wait, and she didn’t even know what for.
Frustrated, Emma stalked down the corridor to the service hall. A stroll in the garden would pass the time better than being cooped up in here, and a bit of sun wouldn’t hurt either.
A welcoming crisp, cool breeze rushed in through the open side door, and allowing it to invigorate her, she breathed deeply its spicy scent. The air quality in the manor was musty being locked up as it was, and she took another lungful of the bracing air before setting out.
The path ran a straight line between the two wings then curved to the right where the ruins of the old greenhouse lay scattered among the weeds like bleached bones beyond a stand of trees a few steps away. In the pictures, the Victorian structure had looked so pretty. Ivy had seen it as it once was, painted white, the glass panes gleaming and the interior filled with orchids. When Emma heard her say she’d been inside, a terrible premonition asserted itself, as clear as her mother’s voice whispering in her ear about Ivy’s unavoidable fate. From that moment on, Emma had no peace.
She stopped, a sudden chill settling over her. A cloud passed beneath the sun cooling the air dramatically, and Emma looked up to see how soon it would pass, but there was no cloud. In fact, the blue sky was gone, and a mist was descending upon her. It hung ahead of her too, faint, but growing more dense and pulsing like a living mass. As it crept closer, Emma detected a shape moving within it, obscure at first, and gathering itself into a form and moving toward her. She took a step back, and on impulse, threw the apple core at the vague figure and watched it sail right through. Of course it would, it was nothing but a patch of… the core darted out of the mist, skipping twice and breaking in half before a piece of it stopped at her feet. Emma’s blood ran cold.
“Who’s there?” She called out with more bravado than she had. The fog continued to swirl, and whatever hid inside it crept closer. Emma took another two steps back, and a slate tile crashed down in front of her, imbedding itself in the pea gravel path. When she glanced up to see who was up on the roof, she caught another tile on its way down, and turned and fled to the door as more of them rained down in her wake, crunching and cracking in rapid succession. She slammed the door behind her and locked it. Somebody was in the house with her an
d had made it out onto the roof!
Her pulse racing, Emma ran up the hall, finding it cast in greyness and gloom where only minutes ago, it was bathed in sunlight — before her tirade. Whatever she had seen on the path had the ability to move objects, throw things, small and large. Was it the same entity which was tossing the roof tiles and had she just seen it? Did that notion give her more comfort than if it had been a real person instead?
How she wanted to go home.
“What do you want from me?” She called out in frustration, her eyes darting around. She detected motion from the corner of her eye, the drifting shape from outside was emerging from the corridor up in the open gallery. It was pushing the wheelchair and with a shove, the contraption was racing forward and pitching over the edge, bouncing and somersaulting, and aimed at her. Emma watched transfixed and rooted to the spot as it hurtled down.
~*~
“Are you ready?”
“Yes. Got everything, let’s go.” Rachel hurried to the door where Matthew waited, car keys in hand.
“Do you think she’s okay?”
“I hope so.” Matthew replied noncommittally. He could have said, sure, she’s fine, if only to calm his distressed wife, but she would see through it. The truth was, he didn’t know. Bearing no biological relation to the Everdon clan, he had been spared everything, including ghost visitations, hallucinations, and the dread of encountering the former at any point in his lifetime. When he accompanied his mother, for Elinor was his mother in every way that mattered, and Emma, his sister, also in every respect except genetic, it was to keep them company, and if anything were to go wrong, he would be there, a safe person to protect them. That is what he hoped to accomplish by going now.