The House of Dead Maids

by Clare B. Dunkle

  “And what’s his name?” I asked casually. I had a plan, you see. This pirate’s character seemed an accurate portrait of my bloodthirsty young charge, and I had high hopes his name might serve a double purpose.

  Himself grew quiet to ponder this, and his pirate grew quiet as well. Then he waved the scarred warrior around in a great flourish.

  “Rogue!” he shouted. “That’s his name, Lord Pirate Rogue.”

  And so my cunning plan came to nothing.

  A piece of patterned chintz in the basket caught my eye, white flowers with a background of red. I soon had it cut into pieces and basted together. As I sewed the tiny seams, I hummed to myself, admiring my choice. The bold pattern was just the thing for a confident, adventurous lady. She should have petticoats, though, and if I didn’t mind the work, I could make a band of lace to edge them. Ma Hutton had taught us a simple pattern. Setting the dress aside, I rummaged in the rag basket for a piece of bleached muslin to serve as undergarments.

  When I turned back not a minute later, I found my doll’s dress stuck fast to the kitchen table. A forest of straight pins transfixed the white flowers, skewering them to the wood beneath. I caught my breath and felt myself grow dizzy.

  “Did you do this?” I asked Himself when I could speak, although I knew he hadn’t. He had been sitting cross-legged before the fire, shouting orders while his pirate flogged a company of twigs. Now he rose and trotted over to the table to see.

  “Pull them out, Tabby. I can’t,” he complained. “They’ve been driven in with a hammer.”

  Mrs. Sexton fetched pincers and soon wrenched them out.

  “I didn’t do it,” I told her as she gathered them up.

  She answered, “I never said you did.”

  I went back to my sewing, sick at heart now, with all the joy gone out of the task. Himself crouched on the hearth, whispering to himself or to his pirate in his play. Mrs. Sexton bent her head over her mending. By degrees, the room grew quiet.

  I felt someone lean over me, but a quick glance found nothing.

  “Come play,” ordered Himself from the hearth. “My pirate wants to meet your lady. She can be his third wife.”

  A presence behind me made my skin crawl with its nearness. “My lady won’t have him,” I snapped.

  “He’ll run her through with his sword then. What do you keep looking at?”

  “Nothing!” And nothing it was. My nerves sang like plucked strings.

  “You’re poorly,” declared Mrs. Sexton, setting down her mending. She went to the pantry to fetch me a mug of milk. But when I reached for it, invisible fingers clutched the handle. I shoved it from me and jumped to my feet.

  “It’s her!” I cried, stumbling from the table.

  “No, it’s him,” said Himself, pointing at the ground.

  The spilled milk had puddled on the slate floor in the shape of a thin white face, with two dark slate circles for eyes and a round empty O for the mouth. We stood in a body and stared down at it.

  “It’s the old man,” said Himself. “He smells bad, and he yells at me. He was just here.”

  Stunned, I appealed to the busy housekeeper, who was on her knees mopping up the face. “Mrs. Sexton, is there another ghost?”

  “The dead master? Oh, aye,” she said. “He’ll not rest easy at a time like this. Such a temper he had on him, and it grew worse before the end. There’s times I thought he’d throttle the life from me for letting his bread fall.”

  Feeling ill, I sat down at the table. Himself seemed subdued too. He leaned against me and began playing with Alma Augusta’s red dress.

  “What happened to the old man?” he wanted to know.

  “Had an attack,” said Mrs. Sexton. “Apoplexy or some such. There’s rules to this house. Master can’t be an invalid.”

  “But what if he is?”

  “He isn’t for long.”

  She replaced the spilled milk, then laid another coal on the fire and resumed her seat. I gingerly reached for the mug, secured its handle, and shared its contents with my young charge.

  “Master Jack would be the old man’s son, then,” I guessed.

  “I’ll say not!” Mrs. Sexton pursed her lips in a grimace. “A right fine time those two will have when they’re together at last.”

  “Then I can’t make it out at all, at all,” I told her, spreading my hands in an appeal for reason. “How is it Master Jack’s master now if he wasn’t the old master’s son?”

  Mrs. Sexton’s unexpected chattiness dried up. She closed her teeth around her pipe with an audible snap. For several minutes, she stared into the fire, puffing, until curls of smoke surrounded her. Then, just when we thought to hear no more from her, she spoke.

  “In most houses, family’s related by birth. Seldom House family’s related by death.” And that was all she would say.

  My young charge seemed to take meaning away from the riddle that changed his conduct for the worse. When Mr. Ketch came into the kitchen not long thereafter, Himself was decidedly cool. He went on directing the battle his twigs were waging to claim the coal scuttle for their lord and ignored Mr. Ketch’s jokes and blandishments. As Mrs. Sexton didn’t bother to speak, either, I felt the obligation descend upon me.

  “Are you ill, sir?” I inquired. The clear response was yes. Jack Ketch’s countenance was sickly yellow, almost a match for his beard.

  “Not at all, I’m fit for a wager,” he answered with an attempt at a grin. “So, heathen git! What’s the game then?”

  Himself went on playing.

  “He’s not well either, sir,” I interjected when I saw the man’s hurt expression. “A ghost in this house threatens him.”

  I expected raised eyebrows or a hearty laugh, but Mr. Ketch shivered and quickly scanned the room, then turned up his collar and drew his coat close as though he stood outside in the cold drizzle. “You’d think they’d leave children in peace,” he sighed.

  “The boy is in peril,” I made bold to add. “It’s no surprise he’s surrounded by evil spirits when he’s still in thrall to the devil. We owe it to him to see him christened and set on the right path.”

  “Oh, ah!” exclaimed Mr. Ketch, and now he seemed amused. “You’re an old-fashioned little body, aren’t you? But we’ve no parson here, so your righteous plan will take some doing.” He gave a start, glanced behind himself at nothing, and made for the door.

  “You might do it yourself, sir,” I pointed out, but he was past hearing.

  For the next hour, not a single twig was whipped or burnt at the stake, and by this I could see that my charge’s mind was not on his play. But we scarcely could have dreamt what that barbaric little thing was up to. When Mrs. Sexton reached down the earthenware plates for our tea, he surprised us both.

  “I’m master, and old Jack’s master,” he said. “That’s a joke, though, isn’t it? It’s like the Lord Pirate Rogue, there can’t be more than one.”

  “I told you that days ago,” I said primly.

  “I thought so. I’ll have to kill him,” he said, quite calm. “He’s bigger than I am. There’ll be lots of blood.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I have never been squeamish, but I thought I might faint, hearing a small child speak so about murder.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” I snapped. “That wild talk is fine for your wax doll, but this is a civilized land. You’ll end up on the gallows if you go on raving like that. Gentlemen don’t kill one another. Do they, Mrs. Sexton?”

  But that grim lady gave a puff on her pipe and turned away to fetch our meal.

  “How else do they get land, then?” Himself asked, as cool as you please.

  “They wait, and they inherit it. That’s what Mr. Ketch did. After all he’s done for you, to say such a thing! I wonder he doesn’t send you about your business.”

  He seemed half inclined to believe me, though a trifle disappointed. I honestly think the little savage would have liked to try his scheme.

  “Old Jack don’t act
like a master,” he retorted. “I’d not do as he bids.”

  “Of course he acts like a master,” I said. “He does as he pleases, that’s what masters do. Have you seen him out hoeing the fields?”

  “Masters sit at the head of the table with their people around them, all watching to do as they’re told,” he replied. “And masters give the orders like Arnby does. Jack doesn’t do it, he runs away and hides even from me, and he’s scared all the time now. He acts like a sneaky dog.”

  He jumped up from the hearth and faced Mrs. Sexton.

  “If I’m master, I won’t have my food in here like you do,” he told her. “I’ll sit at the head of the table and make old Jack come to me. Then we’ll see which one is master.”

  “Masters don’t act so,” I argued. “Not when they’re little. You’re not fit to leave the nursery!”

  But Mrs. Sexton was already returning the humble earthenware plates to their places.

  “Supper in the dining room, then,” she said. “I’ll see to it, young sir.” And she crossed the passage to another room, from whence we heard the clink of dishes. It upset me terribly to see her coddle him so.

  “Now, you go fetch old Jack,” he said, turning to me.

  “I won’t do it,” I said, standing with my hands behind my back. “I’ve had enough of your heathen airs and threats, and I’m not going to humor you further.” I was resolved, if he came at me, to turn him over my knee.

  But the little imp was smarter than that.

  “Don’t be angry with me, Tabby,” he said, putting his arms around my waist, and I swear he knew what it meant to me to hear my name, since no one else in that godforsaken house would use it. “Mrs. Sexton doesn’t mind. Why should you? Go find him now, I know you like to see him.”

  I said no to that and more, and I argued and grumbled besides, but in the end I found myself walking the hallways, searching for Mr. Ketch.

  Voices issued from behind the closed door of Miss Winter’s parlor. I leaned in close and ascertained that one of them was his. I had already lifted my hand to knock when I heard Miss Winter say, “Please, Jack. No one needs to know.”

  Now, it’s a wicked thing when staff listen at doors, and I’ll be the first to say it. But in that disordered place, with nothing but riddles to go on, and the whole house at sixes and sevens, I am not ashamed to say that I listened as if I had two sets of ears.

  “Just a little money,” she begged, “enough to set me up on my own, and you’d never have to see my face again. They don’t need a maid, you know that. Arnby says it’s the master who counts.”

  “And ruin the luck?” Mr. Ketch’s voice was indignant. “You’ve damaged it enough already, trying to run off with the coal merchant. The Annabelle Jacobs sank that very week, and all our cargo with her. You know what investments mean to this estate. We’re not getting rich off the village. Those clods pay their rent in potatoes and corn!”

  “You’re rich enough to lose five ships, I know you are,” she said. “They tell me how you live. As for the luck, I don’t give two pins about that. I wish this house and its village and all its luck were gone from the face of the earth.”

  “You were glad enough when we found this place,” Mr. Ketch returned. “You danced through the halls with your hair down.”

  “I hate it just as much as you do now, and you know perfectly well why. I’m begging you, Jackie. Just do this one thing for me, please.”

  “And let you out to come creeping down alleys after me?” His tone was snide. “That’s all I need, my old friend Flora skulking and spying on me.”

  “I know you won’t believe it possible,” rejoined Miss Winter. “Your powers of imagination will be taxed to the utmost. But I don’t care to spy on you. I don’t love you anymore.”

  I heard a loud thump and started back, but it was only him rising from his chair and dropping something, or perhaps throwing it to the floor.

  “Love!” I heard him shout as he paced the room with rapid strides. “Is that what they call it in your grand books of poetry when a woman leaves her baby in the cradle to run off with a boy of sixteen? Love!” He gave a snort. “I know some other pretty names for it.”

  “I didn’t do so badly by you, Jackie,” she cried. “Those early years were good years, when we’d found this place and the money came pouring in. The luck of Seldom House came true for us, didn’t it, and we were as happy as two people ever could be.

  “I know about her, the fair-haired girl,” she continued, and her voice shook as she said it. “She’s lovely, Jackie. Really quite lovely. I know that’s why you sent me home, but I’m not angry, truly. Just remember the good times like I do. Give me this one thing now.”

  “Her? You mean them!” His laughter was harsh. “I’ve lost count, there’ve been so many, and every one of them was better than you, with your jealous moods and mad rages. What about poor little Evie, who ended up in the mill race for kissing me at the harvest dance? No, I’ll not let you out to roam the countryside; it’s a public duty to keep you confined.”

  At first, only harsh and irregular breaths answered him. Then Miss Winter mastered herself and spoke, her voice strangled and harsh.

  “Evie drowned herself,” she said. “I was miles away, and you know it. It suits your precious vanity to pretend I’d do murder for your sake, but listen to me, little Jack Cookson, you puling mamma’s darling, I feel nothing but pity for those silly girls who waste their days buttoning your breeches and wiping your chin. And I’d not leave now if you begged me to. I wouldn’t miss the show. It warms my heart to think that one day I’ll watch you die, and we’ll always have each other then, Jackie boy.”

  “You damned witch!” he shrieked. “Why, I’ll watch you die right now!” And from within the room came the sound of crashing furniture. I did not stay to listen while they killed each other, but ran away in fright.

  Himself stood in the doorway of a handsome dining room, with Chinese plates and crystal glasses set upon the table, and tapers shining in the brackets. Mrs. Sexton brought a tureen from the kitchen, and I turned to help her. He stood by to watch us work, like proper gentry.

  “Well?” he asked when he saw me alone.

  “I couldn’t disturb them,” I said.

  Mrs. Sexton looked me over, and she must have guessed what had occurred. “I’ll disturb them,” she said grimly.

  She soon returned with the unholy pair. Their eyes were flashing, and their color was high, and not a word did they say while we sat on padded chairs and Mrs. Sexton served the soup. But after supper was over and Mr. Ketch had stormed off to cool his temper in some other corner of the house, Miss Winter sipped wine by the fireside quite peacefully and watched the two of us play.

  “What do you have there?” she asked Himself.

  Now, I had had the good sense to leave Alma Augusta in the kitchen, but Himself was playing with the other wax doll right in front of her. He trotted over and showed her his plaything, bristling with pins and scars.

  “He’s a pirate,” proclaimed Himself.

  To my surprise, Miss Winter smiled, and she seemed a whole person just then, not two darting eyes behind a white mask. “He certainly is,” she agreed. “A most selfish and conceited pirate. Be sure to play rough with him, won’t you?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Seeing himself succeed at giving orders made me bold to try. That evening, while Mrs. Sexton ran the warming pan under our sheets and Himself employed a feather as a plank to save his pirate from drowning in the washbowl, I carried a chair over to the shrouded mirror to lift the pillowcase away. As I reached for it, I saw a movement in the glass beneath the cloth: my own movement to uncover it, no doubt. But it startled me, and I decided to try my luck at assigning the task to another.

  “Mrs. Sexton,” I said as she gathered her things and prepared to leave for the night. “I don’t believe you’ve noticed, but a cloth is blocking the mirror.”

  “Aye, it is,” she grunted. And before I could say another
word, she had gone and locked the door. That ended my attempt at a lady’s graces, and the mirror stayed as it was.

  Himself dropped off like a lamb with Rogue tucked in the crook of his arm, and how that injured figure had managed to survive the day was more than I could account for. But I had asked Mrs. Sexton to leave us a candle, and I used its light to sew by, sitting up in bed and working on Alma Augusta’s pretty dress until I had it complete.

  A humming caught my notice, as of an insect that had been but half crushed, so that life still stirred. I sought the offending creature to end both life and noise, but I could find nothing; it seemed to move about the room and got the better of me. I concluded that the candlelight had awakened it to a false day, but that night would restore its rest, so I blew out the candle and climbed into bed.

  Two white eyes stabbed the darkness in the corner by the clothes press. I lay in terror and watched as they prowled the little chamber, and where they moved, the humming went with them. At the same time, an odor suffused the room, as of putrid, maggot-riddled flesh.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and lay as still as a statue then, but the aura of evil that traveled wherever the specter moved assaulted my senses like a visible form. The darkness that hid under the skin of my dead maid appeared here naked and virulent, like a tumor grown so fat that it had corrupted the healthy tissue and consumed the entire body.

  The hum drew near, next to my pillow, and the foul odor made me retch. Beside me, Himself awoke.

  “Go away!” he cried. “My pirate’s going to carve you up, you nasty strip of horsemeat!” The humming receded at his words, and the stench began to fade.

  “Is that your ghost?” I whispered, unwilling still to open my eyes.

  “The dead master with the eyes like windows,” he confirmed, stretching. “Much good it does him to curse me—he hasn’t hands to throttle me with.”

  “I like my ghost better,” I said, shivering, and it was a long time before I could sleep.

  The next day dawned sunny, with a riot of birdsong, and Mrs. Sexton turned us out of the house with our dinner in a napkin, saying she had work to do. As we walked through the kitchen garden, Arnby came whistling around the corner of the house, carrying a bucket and brush.