A Hymn in the Silence

by Kelley York

  “I’m glad we aren’t late,” James says pleasantly.

  Wakefield beckons to the empty seats beside Adelia. James has a seat; however, he leaves the spot between Adelia and him open, and I’m not certain if he thinks he’s doing me a favour or if he’s getting back at me for making eyes at her before. Either way, I sink slowly down between them, wishing I could be in James’ spot so that I might tuck myself as far back into the corner of the pew as possible where no one will notice me. I do offer a tight-lipped smile to Adelia and a good morning, because nervousness does not make me abandon my manners.

  In return, Adelia offers a smile and murmurs under her breath, “You had the chance to avoid this; you should have taken it.”

  Such a response is understandably startling, and I glance at her with a brow cocked. “Well, I thought it might be rude to turn down the invitation.”

  “I don’t know why it would be rude. You’re not here to save your soul, you’re here to work.”

  The smile her words coax out of me is a little more relaxed this time. “I am working. Which is also why I showed up.”

  Her eyebrows lift, and she seems to understand that I’m referring to needing to question people. “They’ll talk you dry.”

  “That’s all right,” I chuckle. “I have a secret weapon.”

  “Your friend?”

  “James could out-talk every person in this room.”

  Adelia looks about to respond, but from the front of the church, the vicar begins to speak, and she falls silent. I turn my attention to the altar.

  The Reverend Bernard Thomas is close to Lord Wakefield’s age. He’s a thin man, just beginning to go grey, and possesses a kind smile that one would expect a man of the cloth to have. He greets everyone warmly, and if he happens to notice the unfamiliar faces in his front row, he either doesn’t care or doesn’t let it show.

  Instead he delves right into his service, and I do try to pay attention. Really, I do. James humours me so often by not dragging me to church that I feel I owe it to him to not tune everything out this one time. But I’m certain, at some point, my eyes have glazed over in boredom and I’m biting back the urge to yawn.

  When it comes time for communion, I freeze in my seat. Do I participate? It was something I sat out at Whisperwood, much to the displeasure of our school’s chaplain. But here in the presence of strangers and our employer, I wonder if it would provoke too many awkward questions. I might very well be overthinking it; surely others will be sitting it out, too.

  James touches my knee briefly as he rises and gives a reassuring nod of his head to let me know it’s all right for me to stay put. I sink back against the bench, keeping my eyes downcast to avoid any curious or disapproving looks I might be receiving.

  Only once Reverend Thomas concludes everything for the day do I finally relax.

  Thank God.

  Of course, the end of that just means the beginning of work for us, doesn’t it?

  Reverend Thomas bids each of the parishioners farewell from the front door. As we approach, Lord Wakefield greets him jovially. “Lovely sermon, as always, Reverend.” He then beckons to us. “Mr. Spencer, Mr. Esher, this is Reverend Bernard Thomas. Reverend Thomas, James Spencer and William Esher.”

  “You must be the ones here investigating the Brewers.” Reverend Thomas smiles and extends a hand, first to me and then to James. “Thank you for coming today. It’s always a delight to see new faces in our church.”

  James sports a sunny smile. “I never turn down a good sermon. I hope we can be of some help.”

  “I certainly hope so. The Brewers were an important part of our community.” A troubled frown crosses his face. “If there is anything I can assist with…”

  “We do have questions,” I say, glancing back at the other parishioners and wondering if we’ll have time to catch them before they leave.

  “Any information you might have about strange occurrences, people behaving oddly, anything the Brewers might have said, would all be immensely useful.”

  Reverend Thomas ducks his head into a nod, pausing only long enough to bid farewell to a few passing families. “About a week before their passing, Mrs. Brewer came to me. She said the children had been speaking of seeing strange things around the property. Shadows, people watching them. They brushed it off as overactive imaginations at first, until Mrs. Brewer herself woke one night to someone outside her window.”

  “And yet no suspects?” James asks.

  “They couldn’t offer any descriptions,” he says, shaking his head. “Just shadows.”

  “What of the footprints?”

  “Ah, yes. Mr. Brewer told me of those. The children found them. The tracks came toward the farm, but not away. Mr. Brewer took two of his neighbours and tried to trace them to their origin but lost them about half a mile into the woods.”

  “Because of the snow?” I ask.

  “Yes. Even the hounds could not keep hold of the scent, the men said.”

  That the hounds were able to find a scent at all means we are, in fact, dealing with a person. Or people. As far as I’m aware, dogs cannot track a spirit.

  James asks, “No one who lives nearby has seen anything since?”

  “Not so far as I’ve been told,” he says apologetically. “Their neighbours would be the Griggs and the Clarks, if you’d like to speak with them.”

  I purse my lips, looking to where he points to a group of people conversing nearby. “Someone mentioned you were asked to perform a blessing on the farm.”

  The vicar’s gaze drops, guilt overtaking his features. “Yes. I was scheduled to go over there, but—well.”

  James’ expression softens. “Honestly, Reverend, if there was something there strong enough to do what it did, then I’m not certain anything you could have done would have helped.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so, Mr. Spencer, but I can’t help but wonder if I’d gone to see them sooner…” He draws in a deep breath, letting it lift his slumped shoulders and raise his head. “Does this mean you believe this was caused by something supernatural?”

  “That means I wouldn’t rule it out. It would be foolish to lean in one direction or the other so early on.”

  I glance at James, knowing better. “Thank you very much for your assistance, Reverend. I believe we’ll catch the other families before they leave and see if they can offer us anything further. James?”

  Without waiting for a response, I dip my head in a polite nod and turn to descend the steps of the church. I think the Griggs and the Clarks must have been waiting for us, because they cease their conversations and turn our way as we approach.

  Unlike the talkative friendliness of Wakefield and Reverend Thomas, these families are quieter, eyeing us with uncertainty. I can’t say I blame them. It was Mr. Griggs who found the Brewers, and as such, most of our questions are for him. He recounts the day in a sombre voice and with a haunted look upon his face, eyes downcast. He found Mr. Brewer first, face-down in the kitchen. Three of the children were there with him. Meanwhile, Mrs. Brewer had fled into the children’s room in a desperate attempt to retrieve the baby, and it was there they found her and the infant in similar states of mutilation.

  James lowers his gaze. “We’ll do everything in our power to apprehend whoever—or whatever—is responsible.”

  Mr. Griggs’ jaw tenses. “You find whoever did it, boy, I suggest you hand ‘em over to those that knew those people. No need for law enforcement after what we’ll do to ‘em.”

  “Thank you again for your assistance.” I bow my head as he turns to follow his family. But left alone again, I turn to James with a sigh. “So, they had no enemies, this is not a pattern, and we have no suspects.”

  James scratches a hand back through his hair. “A vagrant would be rare, but not unheard of.”

  “To what end?” I mumble. “Why kill a f
amily who had so little? Nothing seems to have been taken. No money, no possessions. Even all the horses were accounted for.”

  “And to what end a haunting? The house has no history we’ve heard of, and I haven’t heard of any member of the family disturbing a spirit. There are also the dogs. If they followed a scent, it couldn’t have been a ghost.”

  I sigh, folding my arms against the cold. Wakefield and Adelia are lingering nearby, conversing with some of the other parishioners, but I see them steal glances at us now and again, clearly waiting for us so we can depart as a group. “Well, I suppose we only have one way to find out. Let’s return to Lord Wakefield’s and prepare for tonight.”

  The hours at Evenbury tick by, but at least they include another full meal and a brief tour around the estate. It’s an impressive place. The gardens themselves are vast and undoubtedly stunning during the spring and summer. Even now in the snow, they’re quite enchanting.

  An hour before sunset, however, we request to be returned to the Brewers’. Wakefield again asks if we’re certain we don’t want company and I politely decline. While there is strength in numbers, having novices underfoot will only serve as a distraction. James and I have spent months honing our abilities, learning to be more in-tune with the spirits, learning how to defend ourselves against them. Even so, we still have much to learn.

  James seems as unbothered as always at the prospect of facing not one, but an entire family of the dead. He pats my leg during the drive and says, “If we can handle Whisperwood, we can handle anything.”

  Wakefield’s driver returns us to the farm with a long, almost solemn look, as though he suspects he’s never going to see us again. Not a settling feeling, to be certain. I grab our bag of supplies and a lantern, and hop out, unable to help a shiver that sends gooseflesh across my skin. It certainly looks much more ominous in the dark, doesn’t it?

  The carriage creaks away back down the road as the driver departs, leaving us standing on the side of the road, alone. Moonlight casts its haunting glow on the glittering blanket of snow.

  James murmurs, “It’s remarkably quiet.”

  “Too quiet,” I agree.

  Even the woods back at Whisperwood were never this silent. There’d been the wind rustling the trees, the low, haunting hoots of owls, and crickets chirping. Out here, everything is impossibly still. I find myself searching the shadows for any signs of movement, because I can sense something is off, but cannot for the life of me place what it is.

  Inside is no more comforting. Everything is as we left it a few hours ago, but the blood on the floorboards looks black in the absence of proper light and the cloying scent is still noticeably present. We don’t dare open the windows this time. The goal is to be locked in here with the spirits, and not give them an easy access to slip through our grasp again. While it is not a hard and fast rule, ghosts—for the most part—seem to abide by the same rules we do regarding barriers. Perhaps it’s the memory of being alive that makes it so.

  The moment the door is shut, I light our lanterns. James cups his hands and huffs a warm breath against them. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “This is your job and you’re asking me?”

  He laughs. “What are you, then? Merely an onlooker?”

  “I’m here to ensure you don’t do something stupid.” Someone has to be the voice of reason when James gets ahead of himself, after all. I shut the lantern hatch and straighten up. “If you want my opinion, we should take turns keeping watch and see who, or what, shows up.”

  James arches a brow. “You want to be left on your own for any length of time?”

  “You’ll be asleep right next to me, won’t you?”

  “Asleep,” he agrees, “unaware if something should happen.”

  “I appreciate you worrying, but I’m all right.” No, I don’t like having to face things on my own, but I’ve proven more than once that I can.

  James ducks in to sneak a kiss. “You’ve come a long way, dear William. Do you want first or second shift?”

  That simple gesture of affection eases some of the tension in my back. “I’ll leave that up to you, although I’ll not find sleep easy for a while yet.” My laudanum would remedy that, but on a job like this, I’ve little choice but to forego it. I can’t risk something happening and me being too drugged to respond appropriately. I wish I’d had more to drink at dinner to take the edge off.

  We take some time to search the house, looking in closets and cupboards, seeking reassurance that we are, in fact, alone. A trip around the perimeter of the farm is also conducted, checking the windows from the outside. Once James is satisfied it’s just the two of us, he slips out of his coat and settles upon the Brewers’ bed with a yawn. “Enjoy your first shift.”

  I have a seat beside him, legs stretched out before me, a hand in his hair to help coax him to sleep. “Sweet dreams, darling.”

  He rests a hand upon my thigh, and it’s no surprise to me that despite the surroundings and the circumstances, James is quick to drift off. I might envy him, that ability to sleep anywhere, were it not for the nights I’ve seen him hardly sleep at all due to nightmares. They’re a less frequent occurrence these days, but still as vicious when they do happen.

  As James rests, I pluck a book from our bag to read by lantern-light. I alternate between focusing on the words upon the page and remaining idly aware of the house around us.

  I’m not certain whether I doze off, or if I’ve simply lost concentration, but a dull thud from the other room kicks my heart into my throat and my spine goes rigid. Gaze snapping up, through the doorway, I spot something rolling across the floor of the kitchen.

  Should I wake James? It could be nothing. It could be something.

  Slowly, I place the book aside and slide out of bed. James sighs plaintively and rolls onto his other side but does not wake. I step to the doorway first, and then out into the main room, stooping to pick up the object that has come to rest just beneath the dining table.

  A ball. A child’s toy.

  When I look left, to the direction it came from, I spot a boy crouched in the corner.

  In as far as I can tell, it’s the same child we spotted before. He can’t be any older than five or six. His wide dead eyes are locked right onto me, and the gashes raked down the side of his face and the front of his chest make my stomach turn. The initial kick of fear is not more overwhelming than my sadness, and to be honest, he looks as frightened of me as I am of him. That fear could easily turn into anger and prompt him to attack.

  I drop slowly to a crouch and roll the ball back to him. The child catches it, smiles with the side of his mouth that isn’t a mangled mess, and rolls it back to me. Progress. Excellent.

  Wakefield told us of the Brewers’ children. They had four. Three daughters and only a single son, so— “Are you Douglas?”

  He nods, opening his hands in a silent plea for me to return his toy. I do so.

  “Hello, Douglas.” I sink forward to my knees, keeping my voice low and easy. “My name is William. Do you know who came into your home and hurt you?”

  Something akin to uncertainty flashes across the boy’s face, but again, he nods.

  “I’m here to help you. But to do that, I need to know more about who hurt you and where to find them. Can you tell me that?”

  Douglas’ face screws up into something pained. A shudder courses through his small body, and he heaves the ball in my direction forcefully enough that I have to duck aside to avoid being struck.

  And then he’s beside me, hand upon my shoulder, his voice a gargled whisper against my ear.

  “She’s under the bed.”

  Cold floods through every fibre of my being. I plant a hand to the floor and twist around toward the bedroom.

  Just in time to see the vacant eyes and bared teeth of a face appearing from beneath the bed James is sleeping on.

&
nbsp; The woman’s nails drag across the floor with the most ungodly sound. As she hauls herself from beneath the bed and crawls to her feet, I’m doing the same, painfully and purposefully slow. In part because fear has closed its hands around my throat and momentarily paralysed me. In part because I know from experience that running from anything supernatural draws its attention.

  She’s dressed in nothing but a nightgown, soiled around the hems, and her feet are bare. Her hair hangs about her hollow face in matted blonde ringlets.

  James stirs, sighs, and the woman begins to turn. Panic surges hot in my chest. Defenceless, he’ll never stand a chance if she can tear into him the way she did the rest of the Brewers. But if I shout for him, if he startles awake, the movement might only further divert her interest to him.

  The ball is still in my hand, my fingers gripping it so tightly my knuckles are mottled white. Without knowing if it’ll do a spot of good, I slam it down to the ground. It gives only the dullest of bounces before rolling away, but the sound of it thudding to the floor at my feet is enough to regain her attention. She whips toward me, dry lips pulled back in a terrifying grimace, and I’ve forgotten every single bloody verse I should be reciting right now to try to quell her. I have just enough time to grab the phial of water from my coat pocket when she rushes at me.

  The kitchen table is enough of an obstacle between us that a swift side-step on my part makes it a barrier. It does not hinder her. She leaps atop it and lunges at me, knocking the table and every adjoining chair aside.

  When spirits grab you, the sensation is unearthly—a cold vice against your skin. Tangible but not. I brace myself just in time for impact, unable to open the holy water before she’s slammed me to the floor. The feel of her, the weight of her atop me, is feverish and scorching.

  Something is different. The fingers that begin to dig at my flesh are very, very warm and very, very much alive.

  The burn of jagged nails rakes across my cheek and then through my shirt over my chest as she begins to tear at me. The blossoms of pain are only just bearable as I struggle to uncork the phial. A task that is abandoned when she sinks her teeth into the side of my throat, sending white-hot pain flashing into every inch of my body and ripping a scream from my chest.