And then she turned around.
Lizzie recognized her instantly. The young woman was dressed as she was in the painting in the library. In her hand, she held a gleaming dagger. The figure shimmered, alternated between almost transparent and solid. Her stare mesmerized Lizzie.
Lizzie breathed her name. “Arsinoe.”
The figure nodded, slowly. “You have come to me. And I have come for you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We need rebirth.”
“We?”
“I need rebirth.”
But she meant “we.” Who was the other spirit? Only Arsinoe stood before her. Was there another, hiding in the shadows?
“You have brought the life force.”
“Are you the one who trapped me in this woman’s body?”
“I needed the life force. The woman you inhabit was buying this house. She was the obvious choice.”
“You didn’t need to kill my body. What possible purpose did that serve?”
“I did not kill you.”
“Dr. Quintillus, then. He killed me when his experiment failed, but you were the one who put me into this body.”
“It was necessary.”
“But why do you need me? My spirit? You have hers. Gerda Zimic’s.”
“I will be avenged. My death at the hands of my sister must be paid for.”
Now Lizzie understood. Because Quintillus had chosen her to be the vessel for Cleopatra’s reincarnation, he had established a link—one which Arsinoe was determined to exploit for her own ends. But the experiment had failed. Cleopatra’s spirit had been released to return to her body in her tomb and Lizzie had lost her own physical life in the process. Surely Arsinoe didn’t mean to try again?
She seemed to read Lizzie’s thoughts. “This time it will be done. Caladrius has brought you back. He has done my bidding.”
Caladrius. So Lizzie had really seen it. Maybe Caladrius had cured her sickness in Egypt, as Abbas suggested. But this time was different. Now the bird had been pressed into service by this woman, whose intentions were pure evil.
Lizzie awoke, slumped in a comfortable chair in the library. She glanced up at the painting. There stood the girl, dagger in her hand. Strange she had never seen that before. She could have sworn she was holding back reeds.
* * * *
Switching between her new life in this house and her host’s old life became gradually less strange as the days became weeks and Lizzie settled in, with a butler, housekeeper, cook, and maids to renovate and keep her house immaculate. Gerda’s mother insisted on bringing her camera and photographing the rooms, including the basement, so that she would have a lasting record of the improvements she had made. Her mother had the pictures developed, and met up with her one morning for coffee at Lizzie’s home.
Gerda’s mother seemed agitated and on edge.
“It’s really most extraordinary. I took all these myself so I know they weren’t tampered with.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow,” Lizzie said.
The older woman removed a large batch of photographs from a wallet. “All the pictures are fine, except for those I took in the basement. I needed to use the flash as it is so dismal down there and…well, see for yourself.”
She lay four color photographs on the table. Lizzie picked them up, not daring to believe her eyes.
There were the familiar kitchen utensils, the scrubbed table, range, chairs, exactly as she knew them to be. But there was more. A ghostly figure of a man, with no eyes. He wore a stovepipe hat.
“Dr. Quintillus,” Lizzie whispered.
“What did you say?”
Lizzie shook her head and handed the photos back. “Nothing. That’s certainly peculiar. Maybe another photograph somehow got itself superimposed on those shots.”
“If it did, I’m sure I would have remember taking a picture of that extraordinary-looking man.” She shuddered. “Anyway, I showed them to your father. You know how interested he is in the supernatural. I’ve never understood it myself but there you are. He could have worse hobbies. He’s all for sending them off to one of those haunted house magazines. Naturally I told him I thought the idea was quite absurd, but he’s adamant. He wants to send them off in your name.”
“What?”
“I know. Crazy. But you know your father, once he has an idea firmly fixed in his head, there’s no shifting him. In the end, I agreed to ask you. I wouldn’t normally entertain any such thing, but, as you know, he hasn’t been feeling too well this past week or so and I think it might give him a boost. Finally, after years of searching, a ghost lands on his doorstep.” She laughed.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Of course not, but would you let him do this?”
Lizzie thought for a few moments. “Very well, if it means that much to him. Just as long as I don’t get hordes of sightseers breaking down my door.”
“Oh, I’m sure they don’t reveal your actual address. It’s the photographs they’ll be interested in. I expect they don’t believe in this stuff themselves. It’s just an easy way to make money. Nevertheless…” She looked at one of the photos again. “I wish I did know what had created this odd effect. It must be a trick of the light or the flash, but it’s so realistic.”
After the woman had gone, Lizzie made her way down to the basement and into the deserted kitchen.
“Where are you hiding?” she said to the shadows. “I know you’re here somewhere. I’m not scared of you anymore. What do you want of me?”
A tap dripped one solitary drop. It sounded loud in the suffocating stillness. Lizzie moved off, down toward the wall at the end of the corridor.
She could find no broken or chipped plaster to show what she had been sure she witnessed weeks earlier.
“I know you are here. Both of you.”
The voice had lost none of its gravitas. “You are quite right, Miss Charters.”
At first she couldn’t see him. Then it seemed as if another set of eyelids opened and she could see him standing at her side. In profile.
As he turned toward her, she had her first sight of the dead Emeryk Quintillus. His skin seemed gray, dry, almost mummified, but his eyes unnerved her the most. Both sockets were empty. Two black holes remained. Yet, from his movements, he seemed to somehow be able to see.
“Now my house is restored to me, I no longer have any need of you. But Arsinoe does. It appears she needs you to let her into this woman’s body, so she might live again.”
“And what do her wishes matter to you? You used me to reincarnate Cleopatra and, when that didn’t work, you condemned me to this half life, neither living nor dead, with no body of my own to return to.”
“I do not possess Arsinoe’s power. What she does with you is up to her. I will have what I desire and, in return, she will be reborn.”
A movement in the corner of her eye distracted her. Arsinoe.
She stood beside Quintillus and spoke. “I shall reclaim my life.”
“And what will happen to me?” Lizzie felt she already knew the answer.
“I will set your spirit free.”
“And Gerda Zimic?”
“She is the life force now. I need her in order to live.”
“So she will be condemned to remain trapped in a body she no longer controls, until you decide you’ve had enough of her.”
“She will age and all too soon will be unsuitable. Then I will have need of someone else. At that time, I shall do as I will for you. Set her spirit free to move across the desert and into the world beyond.”
“And Quintillus. What does he get out of this?”
Arsinoe smiled. “My sister.”
“But who… How?”
“That is not your concern.”
From a distance, moving ever c
loser, Lizzie heard the rhythmic beating of huge wings.
Her voice echoed strangely, as if heard through water from a long distance away. Lizzie felt a tug. Like before. The invisible force dragged her out of Gerda’s body. She didn’t struggle, but allowed herself to be pulled ever farther away. In a corner of her consciousness, she saw a huddled figure weeping. Gerda Zimic. Lizzie tried to reach out to her, but she had become all spirit. For a second, it seemed the woman became aware of her presence so close by. Her dark eyes looked up, as triumph replaced the sadness.
Released from Gerda’s body, Lizzie floated free. The huge white bird steered her away from the body, the house, the world. A tunnel opened up and swallowed her. Her last thought was of the woman. Gerda Zimic. And then her consciousness left her.
Chapter 15
Gerda Zimic stretched her legs and sat up with a start. Such a strange dream. She looked around her. An old kitchen that obviously hadn’t been used in years. She examined her hands in distaste. How had her nails grown so unkempt and chipped? And her fingers—so dirty from touching the filthy floor. She struggled to her feet, wishing the wooziness would leave her and she could stand up straight. What was she even doing down there in the bowels of this house? And where precisely was she?
Her mind refused to cooperate. An image of a young woman dressed in Edwardian clothes with clear hazel eyes and a fresh complexion drifted in and out of her brain. But Gerda didn’t know anyone like that.
She must find out what had happened to her and get her bearings. Her limbs ached as she forced her unwilling legs to move. Slowly, she staggered through the kitchen, using the sink, table and wall to steady her as she passed along the corridor and finally arrived at a flight of stone stairs she couldn’t remember descending.
What the hell is the matter with me? Did I get blind drunk? How long have I been here?
She grasped the handrail and half crawled up the stairs. At the top, she found herself on familiar territory. This was the house she intended to buy. The heavy door to the newer kitchen stood wide open—another mystery since it had been firmly locked the last time she could remember seeing it.
Her mouth felt so dry she could barely swallow. Gerda closed the door behind her and reached for a glass. She half filled it with cold water and drank it all down, realizing how thirsty she was. She drank another and finally began to feel a little stronger.
She crossed the hall with firmer steps than a few minutes earlier and went into the library.
The distinctive smell of lilies met her at the door. Glancing around, she could see no flower arrangement of any kind, but then some rooms had their own individual smell; maybe this was the library’s version.
She went over to the window and gazed out over the garden. Her garden. She must have moved in already. Judging by the overgrown grass and weeds, she hadn’t yet employed a gardener. That would need to be rectified. Tomorrow. She would ring the agency and they would send someone. That’s what Mama always did. She wandered over to a small table on which stood a tray containing two decanters, one filled with cognac and one with scotch. A jug of water stood next to it as did a lead crystal tumbler. She selected the scotch, poured herself a generous measure, and topped it up with water.
The door opened and a maid appeared. Gerda didn’t recognize her. How long had she lived here? The girl spoke.
“Will you be dining in this evening?”
Gerda hadn’t a clue, but her grumbling stomach informed her she hadn’t eaten in some time. “Yes.” She would have to look for a tactful way of finding out the girl’s name—and the rest of the staff, too. There had to be a cook. This girl was a housemaid. Besides, Mama always had a cook, butler and housemaids. Maybe she had even arranged for them all. It was the sort of thing her mother would do.
A name floated into her head. “Clara.”
“Yes, Fräulein?”
“Thank you, Clara.”
The girl nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Gerda sipped her drink and stared up at the seemingly endless bookcases, stuffed with all sorts of learned works. Maybe she should look at selling them. She would certainly never read them. The most Gerda read was Vogue and Elle and other glossy fashion magazines.
She caught sight of her hair in a mirror and gasped. Her fingers became tangled in the normally glossy waves. It felt like straw. Whatever had she been doing to herself? Maybe she had been ill. That would explain quite a lot. Except that the maid hadn’t mentioned anything, which she surely would have if her mistress had been missing or sick.
Gerda switched on the TV. Maybe if she saw the news it would trigger something in her brain. On ORF1, the lunchtime news bulletin was just beginning. The date flashed up on the screen and Gerda did a double take.
September 3, 1980.
Three years. Three whole years had passed since she remembered anything.
Gerda poured herself another drink. The newsreader droned on. In the US, Ronald Reagan and Jimmy Carter launched their presidential campaigns. Reagan had made some misjudged comments about the Ku Klux Klan. Riots in Paris. Israeli Prime Minister Begin had agreed to resume talks with Egypt’s President Sadat after the US elections in November…
It all floated over Gerda’s head. She thought of calling her mother, telling her the awful three-year mental blank she was suffering. She even picked up the phone, but then put it down again. Her mother would worry. She would insist on Gerda seeing some expensive shrink. Above all, she must not panic. There would be a simple, logical explanation. All she had to do was find it.
When the news finished, she switched off the TV. The strain of the past hour had taken its toll—along with the scotch. Gerda took herself upstairs, intending to lie down, but a sudden draft at the foot of the stairs leading to the top floor made her keen to investigate.
She mounted the stairs and the draft became stronger. Maybe one of the servants had left a window open a little too wide. At the top, Gerda looked along at the bedroom doors. All except one were shut. She padded along the corridor to the open door and peered inside. The room was sparsely furnished with a single bed, covered in a worn and faded quilt. A large, old rug had seen far better days, and a small fireplace contained remnants of its last fire, probably decades earlier. Curtains, worn thin with age, fluttered at the wide-open window.
Gerda marched across the floor and pulled the window tightly shut.
The door slammed. Probably the draft from the window.
Gerda heard a long, low moan. It seemed to come from inside the room. She held her breath and waited.
Again the moan sounded. Like a wounded animal.
She tiptoed to the small, open fireplace. It seemed louder here. Footsteps sounded along the corridor. She told herself one of the servants had come up. The door flew open.
Gerda let out a cry as a woman she didn’t recognize stepped over the threshold.
“Who are you?” she demanded, glad her voice sounded strong.
“I have come to take you from this place. You no longer belong here.”
The strange woman was dressed in a long scarlet gown. She wore a snake amulet and her black hair was tightly braided. In an instant, Gerda realized she had seen her before.
“My God. You’re in the painting. In the library.”
The woman laughed and Gerda recoiled from the rotten teeth that had no place in such a beautiful woman.
“You are not destined to remain here. I have come to set you free.”
“I don’t understand, and I don’t know what your game is, but I want you out of my house.”
Again the woman laughed. “Your house? This has never been your house.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I bought it. Cash. My family always pays cash.”
The woman stopped laughing. Her eyes flashed. “This is not your house. You do not belong here. It returns to its rightful owner.”
Gerda felt no fear, even though she thought she probably ought to. Her anger had risen to fever pitch. How dare this woman talk to her like this?
“Who are you?”
But the woman didn’t reply.
A wave of nausea sent Gerda retching before she realized she was being transported, impossibly, through walls and space and down into the basement. Then she found herself in a room with a wall covered in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics.
And over by that wall stood a man she vaguely recognized. Tall, bearded, dressed in an old-fashioned long jacket and a tall hat, like the one Abraham Lincoln used to wear. She had seen pictures of the president wearing such a hat when she was at school.
Gerda smelled smoke. From downstairs she heard screaming. The house. It must be on fire. “What have you done?”
The man said nothing. He stared at her, a look of utter contempt in his…
He saw her, but without eyes.
The lapsed Catholic crossed herself. “My God. Who are you? What have you done to me? To my home?”
The woman spoke. “It is better this way. Your spirit will be released to cross the desert and rest for all eternity.”
“You intend to murder me?”
“No. Not murder. Not this time.”
“What do you mean? Not this time?”
“Because you are already dead.”
Chapter 16
Vienna, 2018
Paula tried to take it in. “The buyer died seventy years earlier?”
“Yes. The new owner signed her name ‘Elizabeth Charters’ and the only Elizabeth Charters fitting the bill disappeared and, it is generally assumed, died in 1908. As I said, the signature on the document matches known samples of hers exactly.”
“Don’t tell me she disappeared in this house as well?”
“That is uncertain. She certainly wasn’t seen after she had been in Egypt. She worked as assistant to Dr. Quintillus.”
“Him again.” Paula shook her head. “He’s the reason this house is infested with evil.”
“I cannot say,” Stefan said.
Dee stayed silent.
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