Behind the Veil

by E. J. Dawson

  “I’m aware of that, Ms. Hawking.” Mr. Driscoll gentled his tone, beseeching her. “Help me understand what I can do for Finola. Anything you ask.”

  When she met his gaze there was a seriousness there, determination an easy mantle for him, but to her, it was a shaky bridge at best. She took one deep breath, and then another, collecting her thoughts.

  She hadn’t eaten yet and was still fatigued from the fever. She also didn’t know what to do about Finola. The girl needed the help Letitia thought Old Mother Borrows could provide, but they were running out of time.

  Her thoughts returned to the dark stain filling the waters of the dam, the creeping tendrils staining Finola’s mind surely as weeds growing through a stream, choking it off.

  Even if they took her to the old woman, Letitia felt Finola wouldn’t make the journey. It would be several weeks, a month’s travel at most, and Letitia knew Finola could be insane or dead by then.

  Whatever the presence was, she would have to find it and face it. Her hands wrapped about her middle, swallowing against the rising terror that she may have to face down a spirit. Or something worse.

  But her choices were slim—it was either that or leave Finola to the darkness.

  Dread pressed her to leave but she wouldn’t abandon a young girl to face such a creature alone, in spite of Letitia’s growing concern.

  “There is a monster hunting and hurting her within her dreams,” Letitia began, and Mr. Driscoll raised his eyebrows.

  “We know she’s having nightmares―”

  “No, it’s more than that.” Letitia tried to articulate what she had seen. “You know how when you are having a nightmare you almost know? Or you at least wake up?”

  He nodded, and she came to stand in front of his desk, hands clasped in front of her, willing him to understand what she was about to say.

  “It isn’t like that for Finola,” Letitia said, “she is being made a prisoner of her dreams. Everything that happens she feels, the pain as genuine as if it were happening to her body. The presence for Finola is real, so even when she wakes up, she sees it, even if no one else does.”

  “Did you see it?” he said, alarmed. “Is it there now?”

  Letitia was caught off guard by his sudden question.

  “Yes. I mean, no.” She hesitated over her next words. “It’s left its impression on her, and she’s having nightmares about it. But it wasn’t there in the room, not now.”

  Her gaze had fallen to the floor, the seconds ticking onward.

  “That’s what you meant about a darkness that followed us. You’ve seen it before. That day I first came to your house and why you ran from Abby.”

  “Yes.” Letitia didn’t dare lift her head. She was ashamed she’d behaved in the manner she did, but it was worse now Mr. Driscoll knew more about her past and subsequent fears.

  “Does that mean that this monster should be in our nightmares?”

  “I’m not sure.” Letitia returned to the fire. So much was uncertain, yet Mr. Driscoll and Mrs. Quinn were trusting her with Finola. A trust she wasn’t sure was misplaced. Letitia may be familiar with what had happened, but too much was out of her scope, and she did not have Old Mother Borrows’ gifts.

  “What is it?” he said, and for the longest time, she wouldn’t answer. When she heard his chair creak and footsteps cross the carpet, she faced him before he could reach her.

  “It could be anything,” she said. “The soul of a person who hasn’t passed the veil, or something far, far worse.” She closed her eyes on the last part, trying not to remember the séance. The longer she thought about what she’d seen standing on the weir of the dam, the more the trepidation grew within her.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” he asked, voice icy.

  Her gaze shot to his, ignoring the fury there because underneath it she saw the same fear. “That there are far worse things than being tormented by the souls of the dead.”

  “My daughter believes she is being ravaged by someone in her sleep,” his voice was rising with every word, “and you think there is something worse?”

  He stopped, and Letitia had been about to remind him of her scars when she realized what he’d said.

  “Your daughter?” she asked, shock in her voice.

  “Yes,” he bit out, “my daughter.” He reached for her, and she cringed until his hand passed her to take the brandy she’d left on the mantel, which he gulped down himself.

  Letitia took several steps away, moving to the door.

  No wonder he had been so determined. It wasn’t his niece that this was happening to, it was his daughter, and he’d been there when it started and hadn’t been able to stop it.

  This was far more complicated and personal than Letitia wanted to know, but it didn’t seem to stop Mr. Driscoll as he refilled the glass and returned to the fireplace. He leaned on it, taking comfort from the glass as he spoke.

  “The woman in question was supposed to marry someone else,” he said, “but we were in love, and it didn’t stop our foolishness or our indiscretion. Her family hid her away, tried to stop me from seeing her, but she kept the babe a secret long enough to bear Finola. My intended’s father was the kind of bastard who would have paid a doctor to be rid of it had he known. She told her parents they’d have to see her married or shamed. They relented. It would have all worked out had she not died in childbirth. At the time, Abby and Seamus—Mr. Quinn—had discovered they couldn’t have children, and so I gave Finola to them to raise as their own. Finola needed a mother, and I could still be her uncle. It worked for everyone in the end.”

  “Everyone but you.” The words were out before Letitia could stop them. He didn’t turn from the fireplace, but his eyes drifted to hers before they slid closed.

  “I suppose,” he said, finishing the drink.

  He fell silent and Letitia was at a loss for words. No solution on what to do was coming to her, and she’d laid all these problems at his feet. Mr. Driscoll barely believed, let alone possessed the tools to banish such a creature. She wasn’t surprised at the resentful silence.

  But when he wasn’t demanding, she found Mr. Driscoll’s presence an easy balm.

  Enough so to open herself to his presence and to sense that summer heat.

  But even as she basked in that fire Mr. Driscoll unwittingly exuded, her stomach being to roil, and despite having had her walls up there was an unsettling wariness creeping about her.

  Like people, houses too emanated their past. But houses weren’t as direct, the subtle nuances often lost in other overt senses.

  The house wasn’t saturated with the memories of English castles, but enough people had lived within it that there should have been a sense of the past lives. She’d blocked the impression when she first came in, protecting herself should there be anything untoward, but she sought out the house’s atmosphere now. As it slipped through her shields, she saw something else.

  There was a darkness beneath her feet, extending through the wood and stone of the floor and down into the cellar. She could see the basement cluttered with furniture covered in dust sheets and boxes of dusty and worn goods as if the floor she stood upon were glass.

  Down in the depths of the house was the specter.

  She stood frozen, afraid it would stretch incorporeal hands through the floorboards and carpet to wrap around her ankle and drag her into darkness. Letitia couldn’t believe how long it had been there, waiting and watching like a sulking viper in a pit. It had lain dormant until she’d sought the source that haunted the people of this house.

  At Letitia’s attention to the phantom, waves of hatred crashed over her, violent and destructive.

  Her instincts screamed for her to flee before it overwhelmed her, but the longer Letitia stood staring at it she realized it wasn’t staring at her, though from the twisted resentment it acknowledged her presence.r />
  It focused its attention past her to the ceiling. Letitia lifted her head, wondering what it sought.

  The world slowed to a pause as the sounds of Mr. Driscoll breathing, the fire crackling, and the floorboards creaking faded away into velvet silence.

  Finola screamed.

  Letitia whirled about, flinging open the study to dash for the stairs. Slipping past the butler and avoiding a maid in the hall, she hurtled through the door and to Finola’s bed.

  “Get back!” she commanded the nurse and Mrs. Quinn, as she strode into the room.

  Finola lay as though pinned, hands bound by invisible ropes, mouth wide, her high keening filled the room. Under the duvet her legs thrashed, but she seemed to grow weaker by the moment as she lost the fight against her demon captor.

  “Finola,” Mrs. Quinn pleaded, “it’s a dream. Please, my darling, wake up!”

  Letitia pushed her aside, swatting the nurse with the needle away.

  “Don’t touch her,” she snarled at the well-meaning Hopkins. The nurse drew back in horror.

  Letitia hadn’t put her gloves back on. She couldn’t sit by and do nothing regardless of her terror. She would not leave Finola to face such a demon, not when Letitia had conquered her own and come out the other side. Scarred and broken, and defeated in every possible way, but alive.

  There was no telling what it would do to a mind so young, and one more attack may be the last one.

  Letitia didn’t hesitate, touching Finola’s temples as she reached for the veil.

  Chapter 10

  There was darkness. There was always darkness. More inside than out, which made this the perfect place. Stairs descending into the earth, each one filling him with elation at the freedom to be himself. No more gesturing and posing, a smile on his face and courtesy in every word.

  He’d help them with their dinners, make sure the beds were made, and smile for the senile old woman whose son only visited to pay the bills. There were always fresh flowers in the rooms and throughout the hotel. The lawn out onto the headland was always manicured. Everyone who stayed thought well of the place, and he orchestrated it all.

  And it was a face he wore, a mask. Everyone had masks.

  They’d wrinkle their noses at the smell under talcum powder and oil of lavender.

  Avoid his gaze when their loved ones shat themselves.

  They’d leave, and he’d clean it up.

  All the while a greater reward awaited. For the kindness and patience he afforded everyone who stayed at his home, there was a counterpart to the compassion he showed them.

  Cruelty akin to hell lay below as the domain above was heaven, and he was master of both.

  This was his space, his time, everything he was or would ever be.

  He didn’t mind the poor patients above who needed him so, the elderly and feeble. But it left a corner of him unsated, lonely, and full of relentless anger. It had taken many years to find out how to express his displeasure, and by happenstance had found the perfect place.

  Afterward, he’d found the perfect person and brought them here to defile that perfection.

  Here, where he was free.

  Humming a lullaby for his loves, he came to the heart of his darkness.

  The smell of rot was a tang on his tongue. He licked his lips, anticipating the taste of salt, sweat, and tears. Another scent assaulted him—urine, excrement, blood. That wasn’t as pleasant. That would have to be removed.

  Chains rattled in the dark. He heard a whimper, and his fists clenched.

  Holding himself back, he stayed on the last stair absorbing it all, no point in even closing his eyes it was so dark. He could reach by feel he knew the way so well. And it wouldn’t matter the sounds they made, for no one could hear them.

  The snivels grew to sobs, each one drawing heat to his loins, but he held out, wanting to savor every second that ticked by. To feel the shadows caressing him, urging him on, sending shivers up his spine.

  Satin skin, soft bodies, and endless tears.

  He couldn’t wait for the shrieking to start.

  

  Letitia screamed.

  Hands were on her shoulders, helping lift her from where she fell onto the floor. She scrambled back from the bed, the low light blindingly bright. People were shouting, there were calls for a doctor. Letitia covered her eyes, curling up as much as she could, trying to remove herself from the vision she’d just witnessed.

  The threads of their pain sunk into her skin along with the satisfaction of the killer, staining her with his joy and arousal. Disgusted at the impression, she rolled over onto her stomach trying to retch, but nothing would come out. She brought her hands over her face, sobbing to release whatever she could of the vile emotion that held her captive.

  Hands again pulled her from the floor, brought her close, and enfolded her in warmth. She was safe, she wasn’t in the cellar, she wasn’t the killer, but the abhorrent thoughts were trapped in her throat, and she had to say them.

  “He’s a vile beast.” She uttered the words between panting gasps of despair and revulsion. “He kept them chained in the dark, and nobody knew. Nobody knew!”

  Tears flooded down her face, and she trembled all over, unable to open her eyes.

  “Ms. Hawking.” A voice called her name and hands gripped her tight, but she couldn’t look. Someone gave her a light shake, but it was her name that brought her to her senses.

  “Letitia!”

  Her eyes snapped open and met the emerald gaze of Mr. Driscoll. She was sitting in his lap, cradled against his chest. His face was pale, but his expression softened as she focused.

  “Ms. Hawking,” Mr. Driscoll said, relief in his voice, “look at the bed.”

  Letitia’s head whipped around.

  Finola lay over the edge, stretching her hand out for Letitia. Eyes the color of a cerulean sea sought her out with desperation. The nurse and Mrs. Quinn were trying to hold her on the bed to make her lie back.

  Letitia didn’t hesitate, remembering the rotting bodies of the fish, the dam the man stood over. She scrambled over the floor, pushing past the others to wrap Finola in her arms and use her own body as a shield to stop him from coming back.

  She poured what little energy she had left into imagining them both surrounded by light, safe from the creeping shadows. Letitia sensed the specter’s anger, and that it would attack Finola again.

  The lamp was growing dimmer, and the shadows slinked closer to the bed. And on the edge of hearing was the rattling of chains.

  “You hear them,” Finola whispered, burying her face in the crook of Letitia’s neck. “You can hear him.”

  Letitia had forgotten that she needed not only to guard her thoughts but to keep certain dark parts of herself from Finola’s view. The sudden apprehension that he would find his way to Finola again through the scars of Letitia’s soul made her gasp into Finola’s hair.

  “Turn on the lights, all of them,” she pleaded. “Now!”

  Hurried footsteps crossed to the switch and with a flick, the lights banished the dark.

  Letitia was weeping—in relief and fear, at the trembling bundle in her arms, at the promise of safety, and most of all at not being in that cellar.

  They rocked for several minutes, the room silent, and Letitia brought her breathing back under her control, wondering what they should do now. The immediate threat was gone, but it hovered on the edge of the light, waiting for its chance to reclaim its prey. It was not this house—Letitia was sure of that much—it was somewhere else, but the sinister shadow had attached itself to something in the cellar. That was how it found Finola. It used something within the cellar to attack Finola and finish what it started when she’d first encountered it.

  Letitia needed to break the connection and remove the spirit from the house. Once that was done, then Finola could fo
cus on healing. All Letitia had to do was throw out the item the spirit had anchored itself to, but she was not foolish enough to face it tonight.

  “Make coffee,” she told Mrs. Quinn, “lots of coffee, for we cannot go back to sleep.”

  Letitia had said we, but she looked at Mr. Driscoll when she said it, hoping he took her meaning to refer to Finola.

  Mrs. Quinn hesitated, hand reaching out for Finola’s arm where it was wrapped against Letitia’s waist.

  “Please,” Letitia begged, “you brought me here, and I broke the cycle, but he will be back.”

  “Don’t scare her!” Mrs. Quinn snapped, seeking to take Finola once more.

  “Do as I say or something far worse will happen,” Letitia promised, and Finola whimpered.

  “Abby,” Mr. Driscoll said, “do as she says. Lay out food, coffee—cake as well. I’m sure Finola wouldn’t mind a slice if she’s to join us. I also don’t think our hospitality to Ms. Hawking has been enough. Perhaps some dinner, too?”

  Mrs. Quinn’s delicate hand curled into a fist, and she left the room, glaring at anyone who dared to meet her eyes.

  Finola’s breathing fluttered like an expiring flame, and Letitia slid off the bed, changing her grasp on Finola to hold her hands as she sunk to her knees. Finola panicked at first, grasping her, but Letitia spoke like she would have to one of her students.

  “I’m here,” Letitia said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Please,” Finola said, “don’t let him come back.” The latter was a despairing sob.

  “Listen, hear my voice.” Letitia squeezed her hands, the words of Old Mother Borrows pouring out of her mouth. “You can’t control this, it’s beyond you, but you can control you—how hard your hand squeezes mine right now, your eyes focused on mine. You can control how you breathe, and I need you to breathe with me.” Letitia counted, drawing in deep breaths, getting Finola’s breath in time with her own, and then slowing it down until Finola’s tears stopped.

  The realization that Letitia was a stranger grew like dawn on Finola’s face, and eyes wide, her lips curled into what might become a smile. Letitia kept her gaze focused on the girl’s eyes, which dilated in curiosity. For a moment Letitia felt something she had only experienced with Old Mother Borrows—a sense of being watched from within. Letitia saw then that Finola was aware of using her abilities. She wasn’t naïve to them as Letitia had been. It would make explaining to her all the easier, but for the moment Letitia swept a veil between them to stop Finola from learning anything much about Letitia except that she was a friend.