Behind the Veil

by E. J. Dawson

  But it was she who reminded them of their grim task, yet unfinished.

  When she spoke, Abby took Finola away, and Mr. Driscoll drank the last of his coffee and led her to the stairs.

  At the door’s maw, guarded by Letitia’s vision of light, she let no fear escape the tight bonds within her mind before proceeding.

  Tugging her gloves on, Letitia descended the shallow stone stairs into the depths of the cellar with caution. They were a sickening reminder of her encounter last night. What was a joyous submersion into the dark for the specter was an exercise in controlling dread for Letitia. She focused on the distant button that would give unnatural light, hand tight on the railing until she hurried the last few steps in darkness to push it on.

  The gloom of the cellar fled under the warm glow of electric lights, shapeless ghosts turning to furniture covered in dust sheets. Stone arches gave way to bays leading deeper under the house. Sunlight trickled in from arching windows high in the walls but at ground level outside and covered in vines and plants. They wouldn’t illuminate the murky room if the lights went out.

  Letitia gritted her teeth.

  No, this was not her responsibility, she acknowledged to herself, but she would not leave until she knew the connection this house had to the old hotel was gone.

  She crossed the floor, having mapped out the rooms above, and walked to the section underneath Mr. Driscoll’s study. She heard Mr. Driscoll follow her, close enough that his presence was reassuring.

  There were several boxes, cutlery and plates, some folded linen, and a few glass vases.

  Letitia didn’t know where to start. Without the shadow of night oppressing her it was much harder to find the source.

  “This is where you keep the things from the old hotel,” Letitia confirmed, examining the dusty objects and wondering how she would find which one had caused so much trouble.

  “Yes, and I’ll have them all removed today,” Mr. Driscoll said. “In fact, there will be people arriving within the hour to clean it all out.”

  “No children or women?” Letitia said.

  “Contractors hired to move furniture through the firm. They’re all able-bodied men.”

  “I―” Letitia hesitated, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to take any risks.”

  “Neither do I,” he said. “I find your protective attitude admirable under the circumstances.”

  Letitia saw a twinkle in his eye that might have been amusement and a softness to his mouth that bespoke endearment. His words were one of many compliments on her prowess he’d plied her with during the long hours of the night, and Mr. Driscoll was charming when he wanted to be. Letitia still didn’t know how to react to such turns of phrase. The veiled innuendo became innocent with company, but it wasn’t lost on Letitia that there was another meaning to Mr. Driscoll’s attention.

  Her breath caught in her throat when he leaned forward. She couldn’t move out of his way with the furniture cluttered around them.

  With a whirl of cloth, he’d tugged a dust cloth from a piece of furniture.

  “Is it this one?” He asked, not breaking his gaze from hers.

  Letitia turned about and knew it wasn’t right. “No.”

  Another dust cloth ripped through the air. “What about here?”

  “No.”

  The dirt-streaked covers piled up in a corner, Mr. Driscoll discarding them as they kept checking under each of the filth-covered sheets. Letitia would check the item itself, and if it had cupboards, she’d open them and check the contents. She didn’t know what she was looking for but would when she found it.

  Mr. Driscoll’s face became streaked with dirt, hair dusted an unbecoming brown. The grime caked her own clothes and gloves.

  “How long were they stored here?” Letitia asked, wiping motes from her nose.

  “Not long,” he said, “but I had them all moved as they were. I didn’t clean them beforehand.”

  “Why did you bother moving them?”

  “They’re all quite valuable antiques,” Mr. Driscoll said. “The original Mr. Calbright spent some time and money making it a fine retreat for those with enough money. People from the gold rush would put their elderly relatives there, assured their hard-earned money paid for the best of attentions from the staff.”

  He kept working, and she asked no more questions.

  They were at the back of the section, in a far corner, with only a dim light from the basement windows to guide them. Letitia looked upward, knowing the study and Finola’s room were above their heads. Mr. Driscoll’s form and his strong arms had distracted her following any verbal cue she gave but when he touched another sheet, she felt a skitter over her skin and called out.

  “Stop!”

  He paused and looked at her over his shoulder.

  “Move away,” she advised, and when he stepped aside, she saw it. Her gaze drifted up across the cobweb-strewn beams to the ceiling. Letitia was standing in the exact spot from last night, one floor down.

  A fine trembling took over her hands as she reached out for the dirty cotton, her mind envisioning the ludicrous horror that the figure would be behind that sheet and leap out and clutch her in its dark embrace.

  She swallowed against the restriction in her throat, unable to move, sweat breaking out on her skin.

  There was a hand at the small of her back, grounding her with its warmth, the life within soaking into her stillness.

  “Do you want me to do it?” Mr. Driscoll asked, his breath fanning over her ear, whispering as though her fear had infected him. A hush fell around them while he waited for her to answer, every second stretching on while her heart raced.

  Her leather-clad hands were within inches of the sheet.

  The cloth rippled.

  Whether a breeze caught the folds in the drafty cellar or the cause was her heavy breath so close to the thin material, she didn’t know.

  An insidious apprehension crept along her senses, exacerbating her own fear, and in the nearby window appeared Finola’s wide, terrified face. The girl had knelt before the glass panes to the basement, hands held to her chest, rocking back and forth, eyes unblinking as she stared at the sheet so close to Letitia’s hands.

  Someone pulled her away, but Letitia could still hear her cries.

  “Damn you,” Letitia cursed the specter, snatching the sheet and yanking it aside.

  A typewriter.

  It sat innocuously on a wooden desk, free from the other crowded detritus they’d uncovered, placed almost with purpose.

  Tiny. Delicate. There was even a floral brass motif across its sides.

  But underneath the oily sheen of its black lacquer, the surface seemed to wriggle like a handful of worms. The keys stuck up like the teeth of a creature that would bite. It might have been small but for all intents it was a snake, curled up, afraid of the light and ready to strike.

  “Is that it?” Mr. Driscoll was behind her, and Letitia nodded. She heard boxes shifting behind her, a clatter, and he was back, hammer in hand. He grasped her elbow, drew her aside, and then raised his hand.

  “No!” Letitia called out, stepping between him and the typewriter. “Don’t do it.”

  “Why on earth not?” he said. “Then this will all be over.”

  “Every screw, every key, every scrap makes a difference.” Letitia held her hand out to ward him off. “If you smash it here, all it will do is spread, fall down cracks, and stay in your house until it has a hold. Give the hammer to me.”

  He frowned down at her, and she saw the protest forming on his lips before his gaze shifted to over her shoulder.

  Dread rendered his face pale. His mouth widened, pupils dilating and growing. Outside, Finola screamed, but Mr. Driscoll stayed frozen, unable to move. Then she felt the finest brush of fingers across the back of her neck. A cold touch sent a pulse to the base of
her spine, and she shuddered in horror. She couldn’t breathe, seeing the same fear on Mr. Driscoll’s face.

  “Alasdair,” she whispered the name, just a breath of air. He stood transfixed, and she couldn’t turn to face it. Trying to fight the urge to push him aside and run, Letitia took control of the only thing she had. Taking a deep breath, she shouted his name.

  “Alasdair Driscoll!”

  He enfolded her in his arms, spinning her about to put her out of harm’s way, hammer raised to hurt a being made of shadow.

  There was nothing there.

  Finola was calling for her uncle, and footsteps crunched in the gravel as people bent to see what Finola had been crying about. Letitia pressed herself to Mr. Driscoll’s back, hand sliding under his upraised arm and over his heaving chest.

  “It’s gone,” she said. “It isn’t there anymore. It was only trying to frighten you.”

  Letitia said it over and over before his arm lowered, and though his hand tightened on the weapon, he laid it to one side. His hands came up to cover over hers, pressing hard before he cradled her hand. He didn’t face her. She kept her chest pressed to his back, the pair watching the corner for any sign, but nothing further emerged.

  “Is that…is that what you see?” There was a rawness in his voice.

  “Yes.” Letitia wept.

  “I’m sorry, Letitia,” he said, voice breaking. “I am so sorry. It was in my head, and I saw—”

  He stopped, jaw clenching as he bit back the words. Letitia waited a moment and then let go of his comforting warmth. “We aren’t done yet, Mr. Driscoll.” Regaining some composure, she spoke the words with all the formality she could muster.

  Her voice snapped him with rigidity, shoulders tense and movements jerky. Picking up a wooden box, he tipped its contents to the floor, letting them smash to pieces. Letitia gave a startled cry at the sudden destruction, but when he faced her, she fell silent.

  “I take it you know what to do with this thing, Ms. Hawking?” His voice, his eyes, his face were closed off. Thin lips, dubious eyes, tension throughout his frame. Locked away until such a time as he could deal with what had happened. She recognized the expression. She’d seen a similar one in the mirror.

  Letitia did not want to speak to this Mr. Driscoll.

  “The typewriter, Ms. Hawking?” he snapped.

  “Don’t touch it,” Letitia said, not sure herself what to do with it. She made to step around him and when he wouldn’t move, she glared up at him. “Do you think it wants you? What did you see when it looked at you? What did you feel?”

  He dropped the box and stepped away as though she’d slapped him.

  Before it was more than a thought, Letitia picked up the typewriter in her gloved hands and plonked it in the box. As an afterthought, she covered it with a discarded sheet. Grasping its edges and taking care not to touch the sheet that covered the typewriter, she hefted it in her arms before holding it out for Mr. Driscoll.

  “Dispose of this in the ocean,” she said. “Far from the coast.”

  When he wouldn’t take it, Letitia took a deep breath, and walked toward the stairs. She didn’t want to stay down here a moment longer.

  “Are you coming, Mr. Driscoll?”

  There was a muttered cursing in the dark, and she heard the brogue of his voice.

  “My apologies,” he said, voice tight. “I was not prepared for such a…manifestation.”

  “Why do you sometimes sound like an Irishman if your family has lived in America for years?” Letitia asked, trying to distract him.

  “Because I grew up there,” he said, “and when the woman I loved died, I went back.”

  She didn’t ask more when she heard his footsteps on the cellar floor echoing behind her, relieved he followed. The poisonous thing in her arms didn’t stir, and when she was in the full sunlight of the entry hall, she breathed a sigh of relief. Letitia turned and tried to give the box to Mr. Driscoll, but he made no move to take it, leaning against the door jamb of the cellar and bathing in the morning light.

  “I do not wish to—” he broke off, a grimace stark on his face. “It has an unpleasant effect on me. I do not have the necessary skills you do to defend my thoughts.”

  Letitia didn’t dare leave it lying around. She took it to his study, placing it on the corner of his desk. As she walked out, she ran into Finola, who peered over her shoulder.

  “A typewriter?” she asked. Finola couldn’t have seen it since it had been under a sheet before she ran, and Letitia had covered it. She’d read Letitia’s mind.

  Finola’s were flushed, hands clenched, a resentment that a mundane machine had been the source of such terrible nightmares. The wave of hatred that crossed Finola’s face as she stepped forward made Letitia stand in front of the door to block her.

  “Move aside,” Finola used the same tone Letitia had used on Mr. Driscoll in the basement. Letitia stood her ground.

  “What do you think will happen if you touch it?” she said instead, moving so that Finola had to look into her eyes.

  “You don’t—” Finola bit the words out before falling silent. “I have to know, to see for myself.”

  “No.” Letitia whirled about and had a moment to be grateful there was a key in the door. She turned the lock and took the key.

  When she faced Finola, she thought for a moment the girl would launch herself at Letitia.

  “You should at least let me see it,” Finola whispered, tears coming so it took only a blink before they were cascading down her cheeks.

  How many nightmares had Finola endured? How many touches from that vile thing had invaded her mind and her dreams? Precious moments gone, innocence stolen, and a lifelong fear of the dark.

  “Do you want it to come back?” Letitia asked, hating her own soft voice in the face of Finola’s wrath. “Because if you touch it, that’s what will happen.”

  Finola recoiled, and Letitia saw the betrayal there before the girl fled.

  Letitia stood against the door, catching her breath and shaking away the pressure of Finola pushing on her mind. Her power was great and dangerous, and it was no wonder such a small thing should have such an effect on a girl so young. Finola’s untried power had awakened the sliver of a dark soul who’d imprinted on the typewriter, and it gave him a window into her.

  Letitia’s own experience taught her well that what Finola needed most was time.

  She walked into the entry hall where Mr. Driscoll still stood, catching his gaze and something behind his eyes that spoke of defiance. The resemblance between him and his daughter was stark in the morning light.

  Though relief should have been his companion, she found a similar resentment, but the petulance in Finola differed from the glower on Mr. Driscoll’s face. Letitia sensed the stinging sands of his personality almost strike her with its wrath.

  Now the fear was done, the episode over, there was the hollowness of victory without vengeance, a rising anger after the ugliest episode the family might ever encounter. There was little to do with wrathful thoughts but give them time to fade, as Letitia knew for herself.

  “The typewriter is on your desk,” Letitia said. “I think the best thing to do would be to take it out on a boat. Don’t throw it too close to shore or it may end up back on the beach.”

  “And what of Finola?” Mr. Driscoll said.

  “She should recover,” Letitia said with a wane smile. “But you were right about her gift, and I am sorry, but I am ill-equipped to train her.”

  “Hasn’t the danger passed?” he asked her, brows furrowed.

  “Yes, it has,” she said. “And I have done all I can. The rest is up to Finola…and you.”

  Something in Mr. Driscoll’s eyes died. “That’s it?”

  Letitia bit her lip, wondering what else there was to his question—if she had read too deep into the night’s m
otivations to his attentions or not deep enough. With a sigh she gave way, stepping back from the warmth she found such solace, to retreat into her self-imposed winter.

  “I’m rather tired, and I’d like to go home now, Mr. Driscoll.” Letitia walked out the front door, collecting her coat and purse on the way out.

  She couldn’t stay.

  To do so wouldn’t only continue to jeopardize her safeguards, but Finola needed the kind of strict teaching Letitia didn’t have the strength to give.

  The sun warmed her skin. There was a soft breeze of winter, a welcome chill from the swirling sandstorm behind her. When she was in her own home Letitia would be relieved, but for now, she enjoyed surveying the castle grounds in the growing sunshine. Spindly, leafless trees and bushes pushed toward a blue sky, and it filled her with warmth, hope, and the promise of spring.

  Hearing a car engine, she stood closer to the house so she could get straight into the approaching car and leave.

  A bath, she told herself, and some of those biscuits, or maybe go down to the kitchen and make her mother’s soup. She’s been absent and not told Mrs. Finch, and that would upset the landlady.

  Letitia cluttered her mind with thoughts other than the one that wanted to be asked. Would Mr. Driscoll see her off and was this the last she was to see of him?

  She didn’t know if it was hope or fear that pinched in her chest, but when he arrived it twisted ever more.

  He held an envelope in his hands, and without a word, he thrust it at her.

  Letitia took it, though she didn’t know what it contained. Her curiosity died in disappointment as she saw the thick wad of notes inside, and the cream paper of a check.

  She didn’t want to calculate it because it wouldn’t be worth it.

  “Did you think you owed me?” she whispered, staring at his guileless green eyes.

  “Honestly, Ms. Hawking, I don’t know what to think.” He ran a hand through his dust-streaked hair. “You did what you came here and promised to do, and I wanted to be sure you didn’t leave empty-handed.”