A Hymn in the Silence

by Kelley York

  “James,” I call softly, uncertain whether what I saw was him or a wayward spirit. I follow shadows and a sixth sense through the halls, occasionally catching sight of something, always just ahead, just past the short threshold of what I’m able to clearly see.

  Finally, the halls open out into the top of the double stairwell leading down into the foyer. The sconces here have been put out completely for the night, but the tall windows let in just enough moonlight that I’m not stumbling entirely blind.

  Which means I see James half a second before he’s on me.

  Even on an ordinary day, James is stronger than I am. Now, there’s an inhuman aspect to his strength. The ease in which he bears down on me until I’m crowded against the railing, bent back and over it until I’m clinging to the front of his shirt to both keep from plummeting backwards, and to keep him at bay so he doesn’t give me an injury matching the one I received from Madeline.

  I open my mouth to shout his name. The sound swiftly turns to a sharp yelp as James sinks his teeth into my arm, hard enough to draw blood even through the fabric of my shirt. My fingers spasm in reflex, nearly losing their hold. If he keeps on, we’re both going to topple down to the ground floor and I don’t fancy a broken neck for either of us.

  I cannot reach the bottle in my pocket. Frantically I try to recall the verses James has drilled into me time and again, but what comes out of my mouth instead—

  “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight.”

  A poem. One of the first I recall James reciting to me, one I could recite in my sleep because I can hear it in my head, in his voice, and the words come tumbling inelegant and hurried from my lips.

  James sneers though he releases his bite on my arm and instead clamps his fingers about my throat to shove me further back.

  “—To the level of every day’s most quiet need, by sun and candle light.”

  Then something in his expression shifts, a key clicking a lock free. His grip on me relaxes, and the colour begins to freckle back into his eyes.

  “William…?”

  His voice is hoarse and quiet, confused, but it’s most definitely James, and I could cry out for how relieved I am. As he begins to pull back, I’m able to straighten up and grab hold of the railing to ensure I won’t be sent over it to the floor below.

  Before I can respond, I realise the battle is not over. James retreats a few paces, a hand in his hair, shaking his head. The noise that escapes his throat is guttural and pained. Even as I reach for him, James wrenches back and out of my reach, turns, and tears down the stairs.

  By the time I’ve stumbled blindly down to the foyer after him, the front doors stand wide open, and James has disappeared into the night.

  Abraham is silent.

  He must still be in there because the door is wedged firmly shut and I see no evidence it’s been tampered with. I’m not about to open it and take a peek, however.

  Lord Wakefield, Virgil, and Adelia have joined me in the parlour, oblivious to the boy trapped nearby. They each have a seat while I linger near the hearth, soaking in the heat from the fire.

  Virgil frowns. “You’re bleeding.”

  I glance down. My sleeve is stained an impressive shade of red where James bit me, but it’s nothing compared to what Madeline did.

  “It’s nothing,” I mumble. “James is always hungry.”

  It’s a stupid attempt to lighten the situation, even if I feel anything but uplifted. Virgil and Adelia’s eyes widen as it dawns on them what I mean by that remark.

  “James is—” Virgil starts.

  “Yes. The good news is he came back to himself, if only for a moment.” I pocket my hands, leaning a shoulder into the mantle. “He’s still in there, and that means…”

  “You can save him?” Wakefield asks.

  “That’s the idea.” And I’m not going to entertain any other thoughts on the matter. James will be saved. I’ll see to that.

  My eyes settle on Wakefield, who has made it a point not to meet my gaze once since I left his bedchamber earlier. “So…are you going to tell them, or shall I?”

  Adelia looks to her father. “Tell us what?”

  Wakefield slouches forward, elbows on his knees. I’ve never seen him look so dishevelled and uncertain of himself; he’s a man who exudes confidence and hasn’t balked at anything during this entire ordeal. Not even being chased into his room by a possessed man seems to have shaken him quite like the truth does.

  For several long breaths, the room is silent save for the steady ticking of a clock and the crackling fire. Just as I’m about to let loose the truth, Wakefield finally straightens his spine and speaks.

  “I was the one Flora was having an affair with.”

  Virgil’s gaze snaps to me. Adelia’s holds fast on her father. “Pardon?”

  Wakefield clenches his jaw shut tight, watching her, but at a loss for what to say. If he hasn’t the courage to speak, then I’ll do it for him. I have no time for his hesitation, not while James is still out there.

  “Your father was the one bedding Mrs. Brewer. I feel a bit foolish I didn’t notice it sooner. Buying their land to help them financially, hiring investigators to look into her death…”

  His hands wring together tightly. “It is not something I’m proud of, Mr. Esher. But yes. I did what I could for the Brewers because I cared for Flora a great deal. They were attempting to get their horse breeding to turn a profit, and they were at risk of losing their farm. So, I purchased the land and charged them half what the previous landowners were, and I made an investment to get their business going.”

  Adelia, to her credit, maintains a quiet and cool expression save for the slight narrowing of her eyes. Virgil appears to be piecing things together, and he glances over, studying Adelia’s profile. “Is that why Flora Brewer’s ghost attacked Adelia in the woods the other day?”

  Wakefield startles. “You went gallivanting off into the woods, Adelia? When?”

  “And the children,” I press on, ignoring his question. “They were yours. Some of them, at least. I realised it when I saw that portrait of Adelia in your room. Some of Flora’s girls look just like her at that age.”

  Colour flushes to Wakefield’s cheeks. “Flora swore they were not, but…”

  “But you knew. She could deny it all she wanted for the sake of her marriage, for simplicity, whatever. But you knew.”

  Before Wakefield can respond, Adelia rises abruptly to her feet, mouth thin. “We’ve other matters to concern ourselves with right now, do we not?”

  I incline my chin toward her. “This has everything to do with current affairs, Adelia. Why do you think Flora’s spirit attacked you? What made Abraham and James come all the way out here to break in and, seemingly, target your father? Prior to this, they’d only ever come near the farm.”

  She shoots me a sharp look, and it occurs to me what a shock this is for her. I don’t for a second think she had any idea about any of this.

  Taking a deep breath, I duck my head. “The point I was leading up to… You might have been correct, Adelia, that the possessed are being controlled. It would also seem a possibility that whoever is controlling them is purposely targeting people. I think Lord Wakefield was the target tonight. Abraham and James came in here and James immediately went in search of someone specific while Abraham distracted me.”

  “Speaking of,” Virgil interjects. “You said James fled, but where did Mr. Fletcher go?”

  Ah. Yes. That. I pause and turn my head to the closet door. Their gazes go with me.

  “Who would care to target my father?” she asks, glancing back to me. “None of the Brewers are alive to try to extract revenge.”

  “Correct.” I push away from the fireplace and meander over to the closet, studying it. “Peo
ple were being targeted prior to the Brewers’ deaths. I think whoever wanted your father dead wanted Flora’s family dead, as well.”

  “And Madeline and Abraham before them,” Virgil murmurs.

  “So the real question is—do the victims have anything in common to make them targets, or is it random?” I roll my stiff shoulders back. “Abraham here might be able to shed some light on it for us.”

  Adelia folds her arms, a bit of thoughtfulness creeping into her pinched features. “How can you ask him?”

  I don’t know that I can, but I have to try, don’t I? For James’ sake. “I would attempt to exorcise the spirit. Reverend Thomas might have the rite of exorcism in his possession.”

  Adelia scoffs. “I’m not so certain that man knows how to be that useful.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “If anyone has a better idea, I’m happy to hear it.”

  “Do you not know how to do it?”

  “Exorcisms are performed by ordained clergymen, Adelia.”

  “And yet you and James routinely put spirits to rest. I’m not so sure there’s a vast difference between the two. Besides, aren’t you an atheist? Why would you think only a man of the cloth to be capable?”

  My cheeks warm a little in embarrassment. “This entire situation is very new for me. We’ve not had to deal with this before.”

  “Well…” Virgil starts to say. Despite me levelling a warning scowl in his direction, because I know what he’s going to say, he continues, “We have, but it was just once, and the spirit left of its own volition.”

  “It also was not a very malicious spirit, when all is said and done,” I point out dryly. The victims of Whisperwood had been dangerous, yes, but not malicious. There’s a difference.

  She tips her head. “I didn’t ask if you’ve done it before. I asked if you knew how.”

  A pause. “I mean… In theory, on paper, I… Perhaps?”

  “Then you will have to do your best, William,” she says. “Virgil and I will assist however we can.”

  My face blanches at the thought of attempting this on my own. Perhaps she’s right in that a priest is not necessary, but that doesn’t mean I’m capable of doing it, either.

  Wakefield’s eyes widen. “Now, wait a moment! I don’t think this is something a young lady ought to be getting tangled up in, darling. Let’s leave this to the professionals.”

  Adelia’s posture snaps straight and she turns to Wakefield with a steely gaze. “Beg pardon, Father, but I will do my part to bring an end to whatever you’ve brought into this house, and I will thank you to let me do it in peace.”

  Wakefield startles, clearly at a loss. What he does not do, however, is argue, although I imagine he wants to. I’m not about to give him the chance, regardless.

  I gesture to the closet. “We need to get Abraham out of there. Suggestions on where we can restrain him?”

  Adelia turns her attention back to me. “The cellar. Single exit, no windows large enough for a man to crawl through.”

  “Right, then. My Lord, if you would see if any of your employees are yet on-site who would be willing to assist? The more of us there are when that door is opened, the better. And you might want to fetch some rope.”

  Dealing with Abraham Fletcher is not unlike wrangling a wild animal. Within the hour, Virgil, Wakefield, Foss, his servant Nathaniel, and myself, are opening the closet door. Abraham, who seemed to have gone almost catatonic left in the darkness on his own, immediately jerks to life again the second he sees us.

  It’s with a lot of brute strength—and not without a few bites and scratches to our own persons—that we wrestle him to the ground, binding his wrists behind him and his arms to his sides, and drag him down into the cellar. The cooks and maids and other servants who’d arrived in the early hours of morning to begin their work had been promptly cleared out to ensure as few injuries as possible.

  Nathaniel and I chain Abraham to a solid fixture upon the wall, giving it a few sharp tugs to ensure it will hold against his struggling. And struggle he does—particularly when Wakefield is in the room. The moment I usher him out, Abraham settles, instead grinning horribly at any of us who venture too close. Adelia, in a moment of brilliance and after seeing Nathaniel nearly get a bite taken out of him, procures a piece of chalk and draws a safety line across the floor.

  As for me—well, I suppose I’m really going to try this. Better test it on Abraham than on James, though I’m aware it isn’t a very fair method of thinking. It’s all right if I botch this because I don’t know him, isn’t it? Tsk.

  I have little in my notebooks about possession. Not like this, anyway. It’s occurred to me to send a telegram to Miss Bennett and ask for advice, but I know what she’d say. Get a priest. At least I was able to offer a few key passages to my companions that should prove useful for this endeavour.

  As I stand at the far end of the cellar behind that chalk line, arms crossed, with Virgil and Adelia at either side, I comment, “I feel it fair that I warn you: I have absolutely no idea if I can do this.”

  Adelia, dressed for the day in her maid’s dress and flat boots, folds her hands neatly together and watches Abraham impassively. “You must be exhausted, William, being so negative and pessimistic with yourself all the time.”

  “I consider myself a realist,” I say dryly, rolling up my sleeves with a bit of a wince. “And realistically speaking, I probably cannot do this.”

  Virgil folds his arms. “He’s the only way we’re likely to get answers about James. Consider that your motivation.”

  “But no pressure. Right.” Deep breaths. “I suppose the both of you flipped through those notes on banishing? Any questions?”

  “No,” they say in unison.

  It’s simply not possible to cram experience and hours upon hours of lectures by Miss Bennett into a meagre few minutes, so here’s hoping the notes were enough, that our quickly discussed plan will actually work.

  With an unsteady, tired breath, I steel myself. “Grab him.”

  Abraham is tied, and not nearly as much of a threat as he once was. Still, Virgil and Adelia advance with caution, circling to either side of him. He snarls, teeth snapping inches from Virgil’s face. Together, the pair grab hold of the ropes binding his arms to his sides; a kick to the back of his legs sends him to his knees. Once he’s there, I step up, bottle of holy water in hand. I dampen my fingers and press the sign of the cross upon his forehead. He strains against Adelia and Virgil’s grips, hissing. It’s working this time. Good.

  I slide open the notebook, removing a few pages tucked within. Unfolded, they contain prayers written in James’ hand. Prayers I can recall just fine on my own but never when I seem to need them most. Some of these even appear in the rite of exorcism, but I can’t help but think this would have a better result if I had the rite in its entirety. “St. Michael the Archangel, illustrious leader of the heavenly army…”

  It’s an odd thing to speak with conviction when the words mean nothing to me. They sound hollow and weak coming from my lips. When James recites these same words, you can feel the faith and the strength and the confidence emanating from them, and I’m positive that’s why it works for him. My abilities lie with drawing the dead to me. James… James is the one good at putting them to rest.

  But I try. For James, I try. Picturing him, knowing he’s out there somewhere, counting on me to be able to do this, sparks a fire in my heart that gives power to my voice.

  I don’t give a damn about spirits or possessions or God. This is going to work because I need it to. Because James needs it to.

  “The Lord has entrusted you to the task of leading the souls of the redeemed to heavenly blessedness.”

  The water may have done nothing, but the words are starting to. Abraham squirms until Adelia and Virgil have to press him face-down to the cellar floor, Virgil with a knee against his back to keep him p
inned. Abraham snarls and howls, head wrenching side to side, eyes rolling into the back of his skull. He gnashes at nothing, unable to twist enough to get a hold of his captors.

  I reach the end of the prayer. Stop. Drag in a breath.

  Adelia says, “Again, William. And again. Until it works.”

  And so I do.

  Morning turns to afternoon. Lunch passes us by. My voice has long gone dry and rough and the cellar is muggy, reeking of sweat and something deeper, something sickeningly sweet and rotten, like a corpse left out in the sun.

  I’ve recited the prayers so many times that Virgil and Adelia have begun to speak the words along with me.

  We hurt. We’re exhausted.

  But so is Abraham.

  The spirit inside him pants and groans, whispering quiet, unintelligible things now and again. For a time, he goes deathly still and quiet. Then in one last burst of energy of a creature in its death throes, he convulses, nearly throwing Adelia and Virgil off him. He thrashes, howls with the undercurrent of a voice not his own, and the room trembles. Crates and barrels and stored furniture and fixings rattle and shake.

  Then he goes still, slumping to the floor, eyes closed.

  I drop to my knees, shaken, and scoot closer, pressing my fingers to his throat. His pulse is faint and thready, but present.

  “He’s alive,” I say, aware of the shock in my own tone.

  Despite her weariness, Adelia does not relinquish her hold nor move away. I can see the dampness upon her brow, the faint quivering of her arms. “Is it gone, then?”

  I try to focus. Really focus. My head is a muddled mess at the moment, a mixture of exhaustion and hunger and no medicine. “I don’t know. I think… Maybe…”

  Abraham jerks slightly. His eyes flutter open, unfocused and blurry, but very much a warm hazel and no longer the milky white eyes of a corpse. He inhales, a tired look of panic washing over his features as he gazes around the room.