Serafina and the Black Cloak

by Robert Beatty

  “There’s nothing to be frightened of,” he whispered, trying to coax her out.

  She listened and waited, trembling like a field mouse.

  Finally, the man in the black cloak made his way into the laundry room.

  Mice are timid and prone to panic-induced mistakes at key moments.

  She heard the man moving from place to place, rummaging beneath the sinks, opening and closing the cabinets.

  Just stay still, little mouse. Just stay still, she told herself. She wanted to break cover and flee so bad, but she knew that the dead mice were the dumb mice that panicked and ran. She told herself over and over again, Don’t be a dumb mouse. Don’t be a dumb mouse.

  Then he came into the drying area where she was and moved slowly through the room, running his hands over the ghostly sheets.

  If I’d hidden there…

  He was just a few feet away from her now, looking around the room. Even though he couldn’t see her, he seemed to sense that she was there.

  Serafina held her breath and stayed perfectly, perfectly, perfectly still.

  Serafina slowly opened her eyes.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep or even where she was. She found herself crammed into a tight, dark space, her face pressed up against metal.

  She heard the sound of footsteps approaching. She stayed quiet and listened.

  It was a man in work boots, tools jangling. Feeling a burst of happiness, she wriggled her way out of the machine and into the morning sunlight pouring through the laundry windows.

  “Here I am, Pa!” she cried, her voice parched and weak.

  “I’ve been gnawin’ on leather lookin’ for you,” her pa scolded. “You weren’t in your bed this mornin’.”

  She ran forward and hugged him, pressing herself into his chest. He was a large and hardened man with thick arms and rough, calloused hands. His tools hung from his leather apron, and he smelled faintly of metal, oil, and the leather straps that drove the workshop’s machines.

  In the distance, she heard the sounds of the staff arriving for the morning, the clanking of pots in the kitchen, and the conversations of the workers. It was a glorious sound to her ears. The danger of the night was gone. She had survived!

  Wrapped in her father’s arms, she felt safe and at home. He was more accustomed to mallets and rivets than a kind word, but he’d always taken care of her, always loved and protected her. She couldn’t hold back the tears of relief stinging her eyes.

  “Where’ve ya been, Sera?” her father asked.

  “He tried to get me, Pa! He tried to kill me!”

  “What are you goin’ on about, girl?” her pa said suspiciously, holding her by the shoulders with his huge hands. He looked intently into her face. “Is this another one of your wild stories?”

  “No, Pa,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I ain’t in any kinda mood for stories.”

  “A man in a black cloak took a little girl, and then he came after me. I fought him, Pa! I bit him a good one! I spun ’round and clawed him, and I ran and ran and I got away and I hid. I crawled into your machine, Pa. That’s how I got away. It saved me!”

  “Whatcha mean, he took a girl?” her pa said, narrowing his eyes. “What girl?”

  “He…he made her…She was right in front of me, and then she vanished before my eyes!”

  “Come on now, Sera,” he said doubtfully. “You sound like you don’t know whether you’re washin’ the clothes or hangin’ ’em out.”

  “I swear, Pa,” she said. “Just listen to me.” She took a good, hard swallow and started at the beginning. As the story poured out of her, she realized how brave she’d actually been.

  But her pa just shook his head. “You’ve had a bad dream is all. Been readin’ too many of them ghost stories. I told ya to stay away from Mr. Poe. Now look at ya. You’re all scruffed up like a cornered possum.”

  Her heart sank. She was telling him the God’s honest truth, and he didn’t believe a word of it. She tried to keep from crying, but it was hard. She was going on thirteen and he was still treating her like a child.

  “I wasn’t dreamin’, Pa,” she said, wiping a sniffle from her nose.

  “Just calm yourself down,” he grumbled. He hated it when she cried. She’d known since she was little that he’d rather wrangle with a good piece of sheet metal than deal with a weepy girl.

  “I’ve gotta go to work,” he said gruffly as he separated from her. “The dynamo busted somethin’ bad last night. Now get on back to the workshop, and get some proper sleep in ya.”

  Hot frustration flashed through her and she clenched her fists in anger, but she could hear the seriousness in his voice and knew there was no point in arguing with him. The Edison dynamo was an iron machine with copper coils and spinning wheels that generated a new thing called “electricity.” She knew from the books she’d read that most homes in America didn’t have running water, indoor toilets, refrigeration, or even heating. But Biltmore had all of these things. It was one of the few homes in America that had electric lighting in some of the rooms. But if her pa couldn’t get the dynamo working by nightfall, the Vanderbilts and their guests would be plunged into darkness. She knew he had a lot of things on his mind, and she wasn’t one of them.

  A wave of resentment swept through her. She’d tried to save a girl from an evil black-cloaked demon-thing and almost got herself killed in the process, but her pa didn’t care. All he cared about was his stupid machines. He never believed her about anything. To him, she was just a little girl, nothing important, nothing worth listening to, nothing anyone could count on for anything.

  As she walked glumly back to the workshop, she fully intended to follow her pa’s instructions, but when she passed the stairway that led up to Biltmore Estate’s main floor, she stopped and looked up the stairs.

  She knew she shouldn’t do it.

  She shouldn’t even think about doing it.

  But she couldn’t help it.

  Her pa had been telling her for years that she shouldn’t go upstairs, and lately she’d been trying to follow his rules at least some of the time, but today she was furious that he hadn’t believed her. It’d serve him right if I didn’t listen to him.

  She thought about the girl in the yellow dress. She tried to make sense of what she’d seen: the horrible black cloak and the wide-eyed fear in the girl’s face as she disappeared. Where had the girl gone? Was she dead or somehow still alive? Was there still a chance she could be saved?

  Snippets of conversation drifted down the stairs. There was some sort of commotion. Had they found a body? Were they all crying in despair? Were they searching for a murderer?

  She didn’t know if she was brave or stupid, but she had to tell someone what she’d seen. She had to figure out what happened. Most of all, she had to help the girl in the yellow dress.

  She began to climb the stairs.

  Staying as small and quiet as she could, she crept up the steps one by one. A cacophony of sounds floated down to her: the echo of people talking, the rustling of clothing, dozens of different footsteps—it was a crowd of many people. Something was definitely happening up there. We’ve got to keep to ourselves, you and I. Her pa’s warning played in her mind as she climbed. There ain’t no sense in people seein’ you and askin’ questions.

  She slinked to the top of the stairway, then ducked into an alcove on the main floor that looked onto a huge room full of fancy-dressed people who seemed to be gathering for some type of grand social event.

  Massive, ornately crafted wrought-iron-and-glass doors led into the Entrance Hall, with its polished marble floor and vaulted ceiling of hand-carved oak beams. Soaring limestone arches led from this central room to the various wings of the mansion. The ceiling was so high she had the urge to climb up there and peer down. She’d been here before, but she had always loved the room and couldn’t help marveling at it again, especially in the daylight. She’d never seen so many glistening, beautiful things,
so many soft surfaces to sit on, and so many interesting places to hide. Spotting an upholstered chair, she felt an overwhelming desire to run her fingernails over the plush fabric. All of the room’s colors were so bright, and the surfaces were so clean and shiny. She didn’t see any mud or grease or dirt anywhere. There were brightly colored vases filled with flowers—to think! Flowers, actually inside the house. Sunlight flooded in from the sparkling, leaded-glass windows of the spiraling, four-story-high Grand Staircase and the glass-domed Winter Garden, with its spraying fountain and tropical plants. She squinted her eyes against the brightness.

  The Entrance Hall teemed with dozens of beautifully attired ladies and gentlemen along with manservants in black-and-white uniforms helping them to prepare for a morning of horseback riding. Serafina stared at a lady who wore a riding dress made of white-piped green velvet and cranberry-red damask. Another woman wore a lovely mauve habit with dark purple accents and a matching hat. There were even a few children there, clothed as finely as their parents. Her eyes darted around the room as she tried to take it all in.

  Serafina looked at the face of the lady in the green dress, and then she looked at the face of the lady in the mauve hat. She knew her momma was long dead, or at very least long gone, but all her life, whenever she saw a woman, she checked to see if the woman looked like her. She studied the faces of the children, too, wondering if there was a chance that any of them could be her brothers and sisters. When she was little, she used to tell herself a story that maybe she had come home one day to the house, muddy from her hunting, and her mother had taken her downstairs and stuck her in the belt-driven washing machine, and then went back upstairs and accidentally forgot about her, just spinning and spinning away down there. But when Serafina looked around at the women and the children in the Entrance Hall and saw their blond hair and their blue eyes, their black hair and their brown eyes, she knew that none of them were her kin. Her pa never talked about what her momma looked like, but Serafina searched for her in every face she saw.

  Serafina had come upstairs with a purpose, but now that she was here, the thought of actually trying to talk to any of these fancy people put a rock in her stomach. She swallowed and inched forward a little, but the lump in her throat was so huge, she wasn’t even sure she could get a word out. She wanted to tell them what she saw, but it suddenly seemed so foolish. They were all happy and carefree, like so many larks on a sunny day. She didn’t understand. The girl was obviously one of these people, so why weren’t they looking for her? It was like it never happened, like she had imagined the whole thing. What was she going to say to them? Excuse me, everyone…I’m pretty sure I saw a horrible black-cloaked man make a little girl vanish into thin air. Has anyone seen her? They’d lock her up like a cuckoo bird.

  As a tall gentleman in a black suit coat walked by, she realized that one of these men might actually be the Man in the Black Cloak. With his shadowed face and glowing eyes, there was no doubt that the attacker had been some sort of specter, but she had sunk her teeth into him and tasted real blood, and he needed a lantern to see just like all the other people she’d followed over the years, which meant he was of this world too. She scanned the men in the crowd, keeping her breathing as steady as she could. Was it possible that he was here at this very moment?

  Mrs. Edith Vanderbilt, the mistress of the house, walked into the room wearing a striking velvet dress and a wide-brimmed hat. Serafina couldn’t take her eyes off the mesmerizing movement of the hat’s feathers. A refined and attractive woman, Mrs. Vanderbilt had a pale complexion and a full head of dark hair, and she seemed at ease in her role as hostess as she moved through the room.

  “While we wait for the servants to bring up our horses,” she said happily to her guests, “I would like to invite everyone to join me in the Tapestry Gallery for a little bit of musical entertainment.”

  A pleasant murmur passed through the crowd. Delighted by the idea of a diversion, the ladies and gentlemen streamed into the gallery, an elegantly decorated room with its exquisitely hand-painted ceiling, intricate musical instruments, and delicate antique wall tapestries. Serafina loved to climb the tapestries at night and run her fingernails down through the soft fabric.

  “I’m sure that most of you already know Mr. Montgomery Thorne,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said with a gentle sweep of her arm toward a gentleman. “He has graciously offered to play for us today.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Vanderbilt,” Mr. Thorne said as he stepped forward with a smile. “This whole outing is such a wonderful idea, and I must say you’re a most radiant hostess on this lovely morning.”

  “You’re too kind, sir,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said with a smile.

  To Serafina, who’d been listening to Biltmore’s visitors her entire life, he didn’t sound like he came from the mountains of North Carolina, or from New York like the Vanderbilts. He spoke with the accent of a Southern gentleman, maybe from Georgia or South Carolina. She crept forward to get a better look at him. He wore a white satin cravat around his neck, a brocade waistcoat, and pale gray gloves, all of which she thought went nicely with his silvery-black hair and perfectly trimmed sideburns.

  He picked up a finely made violin and its bow from the table where it had been lying.

  “Since when do you play the violin, Thorne?” called one of the gentlemen from New York in a friendly tone.

  “Oh, I’ve been practicing here and there, Mr. Bendel,” said Mr. Thorne as he lifted the instrument to his chin.

  “When? On the carriage ride here?” Mr. Bendel retorted, and everyone laughed.

  Serafina almost felt sorry for Mr. Thorne. It was clear from their playful banter that Mr. Bendel and Mr. Thorne were companions, but it was equally clear that Mr. Bendel had serious doubts as to whether his friend could actually play.

  Serafina watched in nervous silence as Mr. Thorne prepared himself. Perhaps it was a new instrument to him and this was his first performance. She couldn’t even imagine playing such a thing herself. At long last, he set the bow gently across the strings, paused for a moment to collect himself, and then began to play.

  Suddenly, the vaulted rooms of the great house filled with the loveliest music she had ever heard, elegant and flowing, like a river of sound. He was wonderful. Spellbound by the beauty of his playing, the ladies and gentlemen and even the servants stood quietly and listened with rapt attention, and they let their hearts soak in every measure of the music he made.

  Serafina enjoyed the sound of his playing, but she also watched his dexterous fingers. They moved so fast over the strings that they reminded her of little running mice, and she wanted to pounce on them.

  When Mr. Thorne was done, everyone applauded and congratulated him, especially Mr. Bendel, who laughed in disbelief. “You never cease to amaze me, Thorne. You shoot like a marksman, you speak fluent Russian, and now you play the violin like Vivaldi! Tell us, man, is there anything you’re not good at?”

  “Well, I’m certainly not as skilled a horseback rider as you are, Mr. Bendel,” Mr. Thorne said as he set his violin aside. “And I must say it has always been most vexing to me.”

  “Well, stop the presses!” Mr. Bendel called. “The man has a chink in his armor after all!” Then he looked at Mrs. Vanderbilt with a smile. “So, when exactly are we going horseback riding?”

  The other guests laughed at the two gentlemen as they quipped back and forth, and Serafina smiled. She enjoyed watching the camaraderie of these people. She envied the way they spoke to one another and touched each other and shared their lives. It was so different from her own world of shadow and solitude. She watched a young woman tilt her head and smile as she reached out and put her hand on the arm of a young gentleman. Serafina tried imitating the gesture herself.

  “Are you lost?” someone said behind her.

  Startled, Serafina whirled around and started to hiss, but then she stopped herself short. A young boy stood in front of her. A large black Doberman with sharply pointed ears sat at his side, staring
intently at her.

  The boy wore a fine tweed riding jacket, a buttoned vest, woolen jodhpurs, and knee-high leather boots. He was a little sickly looking, a little frail even, but he had watchful, sensitive brown eyes and a rather fetching tussle of wavy brown hair. He stood quietly, staring at her.

  It took every ounce of her courage not to run. She didn’t know what to do. Did he think she was a vagrant who had wandered in? Or perhaps she looked like a dazed servant—maybe a chimney sweep or window-washing girl. Either way, she knew she was stuck. He’d caught her dead to rights exactly where she wasn’t supposed to be.

  “Are you lost?” the boy asked again, but this time she heard what sounded strangely like kindness in his voice. “May I help you find your way?” He wasn’t timid or shy, but he wasn’t overconfident or arrogant, either. And it surprised her that he didn’t seem angry at her for being there. There was a trace of curiosity in his tone.

  “I-I-I’m not lost,” she stammered. “I was just—”

  “It’s all right,” he said as he stepped toward her. “I still get lost sometimes, and I’ve lived here for two years.”

  Serafina sucked in a breath. Suddenly, she realized that she was speaking face-to-face with the young master, Mr. Vanderbilt’s nephew. She’d seen him many times before, standing at his bedroom window looking out at the mountains, or galloping his horse across the grounds, or walking alone on the footpaths with his dog—she’d watched him for years, but she’d never been this close to him.

  Most of what she knew about him she’d overheard from the gossiping servants, and when it came to the young master, they sure did prattle on. When he was ten years old, his family died in a fire and he became an orphan. His uncle took him in. He became like a son to the Vanderbilts.

  He was known as a loner. Some of the less charitable folks whispered that the young master preferred the company of his dog and his horse to most people. She’d overheard the men in the stables saying that he’d won many blue ribbons at equestrian events and was considered one of the most talented horseback riders around. The cooks, who prided themselves on preparing the most exquisite gourmet meals, complained that he always shared the food on his plate with his dog.