Into the Gloaming

by Mercy Celeste

  He opened the journal on the page he’d found marked. March of 1916. The stillborn child would be his great-grandmother’s child, a first child that wasn’t documented. He hadn’t found mention of the woman having a previous pregnancy, but the family wasn’t the best at recording facts and seemed to be damned good at keeping secrets.

  Culla would have to be a nickname for HC’s sister Henrietta Charlotte. Their mother’s name was Charlotte, he noted. The child, Ruth Charlotte would be closely related.

  He opened the thick journal at the beginning, the first entry dated 1912. There were probably more journals predating this one, but there were none listed on the list of artifacts taken from the house.

  July 1912

  The nephew hasn’t been himself for several days. He doesn’t eat. He rarely speaks and when he does his tongue is surly. He finds excuses to shirk his chores. If my brother was here, he’d take a firm hand to him, I’m sure.

  The stable boy ran off three days ago. I do not know if this is happenstance, or merely an inconvenience. We could scarcely afford to keep him on, but there is no one to muck the stalls I am told. Shiftless boy. Always loafing around and keeping Heath from his own chores.

  The tingling sensation returned, not just at the back of his neck, but this time it was like he’d stepped on a live wire. He closed the book. Almost dropping it. His arms felt heavy. He couldn’t catch his breath. The wind and ice pelting the side of the building may as well have been a deafening roar.

  Heath covered his ears and leaned over his knees so far that he fell out of the chair. He screamed. He couldn’t hear himself scream. His throat burned with the feel of a scream.

  The room became so hot, sweat-soaked his clothing. Sweat… and blood. He held his hand in front of his face, blood dripped from his fingers and he screamed again. Screaming for mercy and forgiveness and for… the nightmare to end.

  The sound of a horse whuffling in the heat… the clomp of hooves… the chirp of birds. The grass outside the open stable doors so green he could smell the freshly cut crispness of it… a smell he associated with summer.

  Yet he’d never lived where there would be freshly cut grass. He’d lived in apartments and penthouses and condos and townhouses or on his grandfather’s yacht that one summer when his parents went away to work on their marriage.

  The horse whinnied. No… it screamed. Its eyes so wide he could see the whites. It reared back and slammed its front hooves into the dirt floor. The scent of blood so strong Heath retched.

  A pounding on the barn door mingled with the screaming pain in his head.

  The ice-cold floor stung his knees. He knelt in his own sick. His clothing soaked with sweat… the world was so quiet now. No wind. No ice. No horses. No birds. A fire died in the fireplace. He smelled wood smoke, not grass.

  The pounding became louder and more insistent. He heard his name shouted through the weathered wood. “Mr. Cortlandt, are you okay? Mr. Cortlandt. Can you hear me?”

  It wasn’t the curator. Which was probably for the best. His face seemed so fresh in his memory. The voice was masculine. A second voice called out… this one feminine.

  He reached for the napkin he’d left on the table and wiped his mouth and hands. Pushing himself off the floor, Heath staggered to the door and threw open the bolt.

  The day had turned a dark pewter gray. Funny, just a few moments ago the sun had been shining and the birds singing and the green grass had smelled so good as he lay in it with—

  Looking as spooked as Heath felt, the bartender pushed his way inside first. He had a sleep wrinkle along his jaw. The woman, the dark-haired ponytailed take-charge one, rushed in behind him. Thankfully, they were alone.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, wondering why he felt the need to apologize. “I had a terrible nightmare.” Which wasn’t a lie. He just didn’t remember falling asleep. “And I think I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me. The combination… I am utterly embarrassed.”

  “It’s fine, Mr. Cortlandt. I’ve had a few strange dreams since I’ve been here, myself. The other night I swear to god I was at a ball wearing a corset and a silk dress. I think it’s the ambiance of this old place. Or that we’ve immersed ourselves in this living history project. I swear I was the pretty girl in the wedding photo we hung yesterday.” Jemma used the same calming voice she’d used with Doctor Baylor this morning. And strangely, Heath felt better.

  She went to the kitchen and brought back a roll of paper towels and the trash can from under the sink. “It’s not that bad. We’ll get this up. And maybe get you something to settle your stomach.”

  He dragged his soiled shirt over his head. It reeked of fear and sweat and… death. It reeked so much he was so tempted to toss it in the fire. The intern took it from him after she finished wiping up his vomit. “I’ll just throw this in the washer. Britney and I were about to wash a load. I’ll have it back to you in the morning.”

  He sank into the armchair and wrapped his arms around his bare chest. The bartender did the same from near the doorway, his eyes narrowed and almost accusatory. “How’s the curator? Doctor Baylor.”

  “Still sleeping. I doubled his dose. He slept through your screaming, thankfully.” The bartender… Rory’s gaze dropped to the journal on the floor. “Which probably saved your life. He’s been handling that thing with kid gloves. He’ll skin you for puking on it.”

  Heath lowered his gaze to stare at the book. Something like guilt washing over him. Never mind that it was technically his damned book, he had treated it poorly. “I’ll confess and apologize tomorrow. I’m… I believe the author of that journal might be mad.”

  “I believe that’s been Austin’s assessment. Cold-blooded was the term he used.” The intern brought back a spray bottle and more paper towels and sprayed the bricks at his feet. The scent of bleach nearly making him lose his breakfast a second time. He’d never been able to stomach the scent of bleach.

  Heath watched as the woman cleaned up behind him… the feeling of shame suddenly overwhelming him. “What’s your name?”

  “Jemma, Sir.” She answered with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She wasn’t his servant. She shouldn’t be cleaning up behind him.

  “I’m so sorry. I would have done that, Jemma. I was just… still feeling the shock of… the nightmare.” He’d figure out a way to make it up to her. The bartender, however, that one could kiss his ass.

  “Don’t worry about it, you’re still a little green around the gills. Why don’t I stay and we can talk? You look like you could use the company. And Rory can go back to keep Austin warm. Because I’m a big girl and I have a black belt in three martial arts and Mr. Cortlandt isn’t in fighting form.” She focused her ire over her shoulder and the bartender looked from her to meet Heath’s gaze.

  “You have my number, call me if you need me. Maybe later, when I feel like I’m part of the human race again, I’ll cook some supper. Austin’s fridge is fairly well stocked.” Rory smiled at the intern. He looked exhausted but willing to help his friend.

  “That sounds incredible. It’s not even noon yet. Go, sleep. Call me when you’re ready, and I’ll bring what we have. Which is mostly wine.”

  “Sounds good.” Rory quirked a half-smile at Jemma and winked. “See you later, darlin’.” And he left them without another word, the door closing soundly behind him.

  “You know, I wish Austin could see what’s right in front of his face,” Jemma mumbled, more to herself than to Heath.

  “You mean, the fact that the bartender is in love with him?” Heath felt the tight band, that had gripped his chest since the man burst into his life, relax. He stopped rubbing at the spot on the back of his neck and breathed easy for the first time in hours.

  “That would be correct. But Austin loves his artifacts. And that man will not wait for him to figure it out either. There’s only so much comfort one can give without getting something in return… know what I mean?” She chatted away while she took the soi
led towels and the trash back to the kitchen. “It’s freezing in here. Your fire has died. I should start it for you. And you need a clean shirt. Should I run next door and see if… wait, no, Austin wouldn’t have anything that would fit you. And Rory wasn’t wearing a shirt at all.”

  “I have another shirt. I’m still sweating out that dream.” He realized he was half-dressed and crossed over to his case again. He pulled out a light undershirt and put it on.

  “Want to tell me about it?” She sounded sincere in her curiosity.

  “Can’t remember it, something about horses.” He didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted to forget it. “What can you tell me about this journal? Is there anything about the author in your files?”

  “Austin thinks she’s the sister Henrietta Charlotte. But he can’t rule out another spinster aunt from the other side of the family. There’s no last name.”

  “Says Cortlandt,” he picked up the journal, but the last name was gone now. “That’s strange. I must have dreamed that too.”

  Jemma laughed, the sound warm and friendly. “Yeah, well, let me know when you dream about being squeezed into a corset.”

  “Will do,” he agreed, allowing himself to forget the dream, and the haunting face of the curator, for a few heavenly hours of pleasant conversation with an interesting person he had no plans to sleep with.

  Chapter Eighteen

  On the eighth day of Christmas…

  Wait?

  “Did I sleep through New Years’?” Austin blinked in the dim lighting in his kitchen. Something smelled wonderful. Like heaven. He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and shuffled to the table. “Is there coffee?”

  “If you make some,” Rory replied from inside the refrigerator. His ass looked good in Austin’s sweat pants… very tight sweat pants. “What happened to the butter I put in here last week?”

  “How should I know? I haven’t cooked in days.” Austin hefted himself out of the chair and went to the coffee maker. He lifted out the grounds basket and sniffed and closed it quickly. “Guess I should wash this before I make coffee.”

  “Probably and make enough for guests.” Rory picked up his cell phone and called out. “Hey, he’s alive. Do you have any butter over there? A stick will do. Yeah, Austin’s is missing. Okay, see you in a few.”

  “You made that sound far kinkier than it probably is.” Austin turned on the sink and dumped the grounds in the trash. He put the coffee stuff in the sink of soapy water and stared at the bubbles. “I can’t get the cast wet. How am I supposed to do the dishes if I can’t use both hands?”

  “You’re the genius, Einstein, figure it out.” Rory sounded distracted as he stirred a pan of something sizzling that smelled like hamburgers. “Or come and keep the beef from burning. You can stir one-handed.”

  “Why do I feel like you’re making some weird sex triple entendre I’m not following?” Austin blinked. Rory was blurry. Blurry in a way that made Austin think he was looking through a human-shaped form to a person behind the form. “Why is it suddenly freezing in here?”

  Rory stepped through the blurred patch and it evaporated. He stopped and blinked and shivered. “Because it’s still freezing outside, and the fire is dying and it’s just butter… unless you have a guilty conscience regarding the missing butter, then… should I buy you some lube when I’m at the store next, because that’s just weird, man.”

  Rory didn’t seem to be playing. He looked as unsettled as Austin felt.

  “I can stir beef.” Austin took the wooden spatula from his friend and crossed through the area that had been blurred. He shivered, hard, and had to reach for the counter to steady himself. “There’s a draft right here.”

  “I noticed.” Rory pulled the sleeves of the shirt he’d borrowed from Austin up to his elbow and turned off the water. He had the dishes washed and drying on the rack. “Don’t let it burn. I’m about to make the gravy and I’m waiting for butter to mash the potatoes. Hope you don’t mind shepherd’s pie? And some biscuits left over from breakfast. I’m going to toast them and smear them with… crap.” He picked his phone up and called the person back. “Make it two sticks if you have it. Yeah… five minutes. Sure.” He disconnected and took the spoon from Austin. “They’ll be here in five minutes.”

  “Who?” Austin had no idea who Rory even knew that was close enough to… “Oh, the interns.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed, Austin, and they have names. Jemma is the one most likely to get your job when you’re fired.” He smiled and bumped his hip into Austin’s… nearly knocking him over.

  “I know who they are. I hired them. Or… I approved them… something. There was supposed to be a fourth, a guy, but he had a family emergency. The other two are Britney and Donna. But…” He rubbed his forehead, the faint headache threatening to return. “I can’t tell them apart sometimes.”

  “They look nothing alike.” Rory sounded amused and maybe disgusted. Wasn’t the first time Austin heard the two emotions in his voice. “Britney is short and blonde, Donna is African-American. How can you possibly mix them up?”

  “They’re all perky and bubbly and they flit around like hummingbirds, never settling in one place long enough for me to put a name to a face. Or maybe because I was slammed into a fence a few days after they got here.” He tried to defend the defenseless. “And I’m not good with real people, well, people I’m not sleeping with. You know this, Rory.”

  “This is, unfortunately, true.” Rory’s laugh sounded like he wasn’t expecting such honesty from him. “You’re only good with lovers and dead people.”

  Austin paused in the stirring of the ground beef, he flailed the spatula, almost dropping it. The image of the man he’d loved… just fading away into the sunset like… a ghost. “I kill ghosts.”

  “That’s one way to look at it… another is not to faint when his doppelganger walks in that door. Because I suspect you’ve forgotten that Heath Cortlandt is your next-door neighbor for the time being.” Rory grabbed the spatula before it slipped from Austin’s fingertips. “Go sit down. Compose yourself. He’ll be here. And he’s not a ghost. He’s real. It’s still December thirtieth. We slept most of the day away. And he’s freaked out just being in this drafty old barn. Try not to freak him out even more by mentioning our mutual ghostly hallucination.”

  “You think it was a hallucination?” Austin wanted to be angry that Rory had changed his tune about seeing the ghost… Heath… disappear. “It’s only been a week since that happened.”

  “I don’t know what to think. And time makes it seem ridiculous. I just… I saw something that I can’t explain. And neither can you. Now, go to the bathroom and wash up, maybe comb your hair and brush your teeth. And put on pants. Pants would be… good.”

  Austin looked down at his legs, he’d wondered why it was so drafty, now he knew. “Oh, that would be the polite thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

  “Seems like it, yes.” He could hear Rory laughing even after he closed the bedroom door. A minute later someone knocked on the main door and Rory was still laughing when he let in their guests.

  ~

  “Hope you like shepherd’s pie.” The bartender, with the gorgeous ass, bustled around the large kitchen as if he owned the place. He took the butter and left Jemma to get everyone inside and close the door. “I was feeling like comfort food. Something warm and rib-sticking.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” Britney, the blonde one, took off her heavy coat and hanging it beside the door, she stepped out of her rain boots. She went padding around the cozy large apartment in her socks and flannel clothes as if this was a slumber party. “Need some help? I can cook. Not like you can. But I know my way around a kitchen.”

  “Thank god. I mean… Austin is okay at making basic meals when he has the use of two arms, otherwise, it’s like talking to a toddler.” Rory, the bartender, handed Britney two hot pads and pointed to a pot steaming on the large gas stove. “If you could mash the potatoes while I finish the filling, that
would be a life saver. Butter and milk and sour cream are by the fridge.” He stopped talking and handed her the butter sticks. “Sorry, milk and sour cream are by the fridge. The mixing bowl is there too, with the masher. There’s a hand mixer in the drawer if you want to whip them faster. Any way you do them is fine.”

  “I heard that,” Austin said from across the room. He seemed fine, maybe sluggish from sleep. “I might resemble that… but I don’t starve. Contrary to what a certain someone thinks.”

  Heath watched them all from the doorway. He wasn’t part of their dynamic. Jemma, the organizer, had gone to the fireplace and was putting in more wood and kindling and trying to get the fire to come back to life. Donna, the quieter one, went to the coffee maker and started the thing going. Rory and Britney danced around each other in the kitchen area. Austin eyed him from the sitting area. Or specifically, he glared at the book Heath had tucked to his chest. There was a scowl on his face, and Heath could tell he was biting his tongue, trying not to mention the handling of a valuable antique.

  “My apologies for not wearing gloves. Jemma has boxed my ears over the infraction. If it’s any consolation… I… well, shouldn’t have touched it without permission and I’m sorry.”

  “It’s your book, do what you will,” Austin replied, his voice as dry as the Sahara.

  “Still, it was a… dick thing to do. I should have known better.” Heath decided he’d grovel on his knees if it would get him into this man’s good graces. He walked into the sitting area and handed the journal over. There had been no vomit to clean off, so he was good there. Just fingerprints on delicate paper. “Jemma tells me you’ve been studying the entries. I’d like your opinion of the author.”

  “Batshit crazy comes to mind.” Austin sighed and opened the cover almost reverently and lifted the ribbon marker. “She’s not a wordy person. She doesn’t put her thoughts down often, but it’s always passive-aggressive and… cold. She’s freezing. I’m unclear as to who she was in the family. I’m leaning toward the spinster aunt. I’m also hoping there are more of her journals in the crates somewhere. I’d like to know what she was like as a young woman to make her so hard-hearted as an adult.”