Bypassing the man’s bedroom, she went down to the hall. The music had stopped. She went back into the drawing room to find no one there. The chairs were arranged as they had been, and the lid on the piano now covered the keys. Outside, the sun was going down on a lovely day, the sky tinged with pink and orange.
Where had everyone gone?
Evelyn left the drawing room and returned once more to the hall. The front door was shut. She opened it and inhaled the sweet evening air, scented with honeysuckle. All around her, birds fluttered. A bright purple butterfly flew past her, and, in the distance, she heard the unmistakable sound of a woodpecker tapping away at a tree.
Evelyn left the house and entered the garden. The trees seemed to welcome her, their branches parting to let her through.
But that shouldn’t happen.
An instant’s panic. She spun around. The branches had closed behind her, blocking her view of the house. If she went any farther she would lose track of herself.
I must keep calm.
Swallowing hard, she started back in the direction she had come from. This time the branches didn’t part. She had to struggle through them. Twigs tangled in her hair, and her hat caught on a particularly stubborn one. Her dress snagged and ripped. A branch sprang back, nearly knocking her over. She pushed harder and harder. Another branch scratched her cheek, and she felt a warm trickle down her face. Blood.
Still she pushed on until at last she caught a glimpse of the house. She pushed harder. A large butterfly alighted on her outstretched hand. It fluttered its wings once and then transformed. A hideous, grinning, black imp sat where it had been. Evelyn let out a cry, and it opened its mouth wider, revealing sharply pointed green teeth. It emitted a heinous laugh and took off, wings beating and buzzing like some monstrous fly.
One final shove, born of sheer desperation, and she made it through, clear of the wood and into the garden. Scratched, torn and bleeding, she staggered up to the entrance of the house but stopped before she opened the door. What would she do now? She had no plan, no apparent means of escape and no idea of Claire’s whereabouts. She was about to reenter a house about which she knew nothing, except something felt badly wrong with it and its inhabitants. She looked back over the garden. Such tempting beauty. It looked so innocent and inviting. But what if she had plowed on through the trees as they clearly wanted her to? Where would she be right now? An image of the horrible grinning imp flashed through her brain. She shuddered. No, nothing was as it seemed in this place. At least in the house, she had something between her and whatever waited out here, ready to trap her.
But even in the house, everything felt wrong. Maybe that was the trap itself.
The sun had almost set, and, all around her, the shadows lengthened.
Shadows of evil.
With a shudder, Evelyn opened the door and closed it behind her. In the distance, the tinkling of glasses and the sound of another Strauss waltz being exquisitely played on the piano. She forced herself to follow the sound. The drawing room door stood slightly ajar. She grasped the handle and tugged it. It opened smoothly.
The music stopped. The cardboard figures were each frozen in mid-action. Some seemed about to sip a glass of champagne. Others were laughing. Instead of sitting and listening politely to a piano recital as before, this had all the hallmarks of a party in full swing. Or it had been until she had opened that door and somehow ended it.
Should she enter? Could she? The floor looked like painted cardboard too. She put her toe on the edge. All sensation drained out of it, as if it too was taking on the texture of her surroundings. Numbness shot through her foot and up her leg. She pulled back, and feeling returned. Blood flowed through her veins once more. Now what could she do? She had come no nearer to finding Claire, and this strange world was no place for her.
A baleful howl shattered the silence. It came from beyond the garden. A wolf perhaps, or a large dog.
Heavy footfalls approached. Steady but thumping so hard they shook the house.
The voice, when it came, seemed to be in slow motion. Like a gramophone that needed winding up.
“Ev… Ev…”
So loud she thought her eardrums would explode at any moment. She clamped her hands to the sides of her head.
“Claire.” It had to be her. For all it seemed distorted and out of time, she would know her sister’s voice anywhere.
Evelyn screamed as a massive eye filled the window. Every detail magnified. The threadlike red veins. The enormous blue iris and black-as-night pupil. The long tendrils of lashes.
Claire’s eye. But enhanced a hundredfold.
“Claire.” Evelyn’s voice could hardly reach her. It must sound like no more than a squeak.
A rush of wind threatened to topple the house. Evelyn staggered. Some of the cardboard figures fell on top of each other in an untidy heap.
The wind died down. Until Claire took her next breath.
The cardboard windows bowed. The whole flimsy wooden house shook. “Claire. Move away. Please.”
“Ev. I can see you there.” The voice boomed out. Evelyn had to make her stop. At the same time she had to convince her sister to get her out of there. But carefully. Claire didn’t know her own strength. One false move and Evelyn would be broken. Dead.
“Claire. Listen to me.”
“I can’t hear you.”
“Don’t speak. You’re killing me!”
Her words must have reached Claire because her sister withdrew. Evelyn waited, anxious to know what she would do next. She didn’t have to wait long.
With a loud, tearing sound, the roof of the house disappeared, along with the upper stories.
Two fingers, thick as massive tree trunks, probed the drawing room.
“I’m here.” Evelyn waved from the hallway. The fingers moved closer until Evelyn was able to catch hold and clamber onto them. Her sister’s skin felt warm, reassuring. The hairs Evelyn knew to be virtually invisible, when she was of normal size, appeared long, almost like fur.
Evelyn clung on as Claire stood and brought her fingers up to her face. Behind Claire a shape moved. Dark, indistinct and larger than she was. A giant among giants.
“Claire!”
Her warning came too late. A strong arm encircled Claire’s waist and tossed her aside. Evelyn was thrown into the overgrown and all-consuming forest of trees. She hit her head and blacked out.
* * *
“You’re mine, Claire. All mine. Don’t ever forget it.”
“Branwell…”
“Take my hand. We have work to do if Lady Mandolyne is to escape.”
“Escape? Escape from where?”
“The creature. The Todeswurm.”
“Todeswurm?”
“Death worm. She saw it in the mist. You remember. You and Evelyn argued over what she had seen. You and I worked it out. She had seen the Todeswurm. Now it is here, and we must rescue her.”
“But, Ev—”
“She is sleeping. Unconscious. But she will be fine when she wakens.”
“Something happened to her. She—”
“I know, Claire. I know. It too is the work of the Todeswurm, which is why we must find it. Kill it if necessary. Then all will be as it should be.”
“I don’t remember…Todeswurm. I don’t remember writing any of that.”
“Because you didn’t. And neither did your sister. I wrote it. Perhaps now your sister will believe what you have told her all along. I am Branwell Brontë, and I am very much alive.”
* * *
Evelyn’s head swam as consciousness returned. She lay curled in a fetal position on damp grass – the only patch of grass in a sea of heather and gorse. She struggled to lean up on one elbow, squinting at the pale sun as it emerged from behind a dark cloud. She shivered. The dampness had penetrated through her clothes, chilling he
r to the bone, but she must get up. What had happened to her?
Memory swirled back. A strange house. Her sister tall as a giant. The man who had grabbed her. And he was a man. At least… But Evelyn could not remember any distinctive features. Just a shapeless form that had grabbed Claire and tossed her aside.
Everything seemed perfectly normal now. The peaceful, bleak moorland. The curlew crying to its young.
No sign of the house and garden or of the trees that seemed to have a will of their own. Could she have dreamed it? And where was Claire now? She prayed her sister had made it safely home, waiting for her, probably wondering what had happened to her.
Evelyn struggled to her feet. Her dress – stained with grass and mud. Her hair had come loose, and she had lost her hat.
She must get back home. As she set off, she prayed she wouldn’t see any of the neighbors. How would the normally well turned out Miss Wainwright explain her current state of dishevelment?
She hurried as fast as her tired feet would allow, reaching the cottage in a few minutes. When Evelyn had shut the door firmly behind her, she breathed deeply.
She called out to her sister. No reply.
Evelyn tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and stopped. Something had tangled itself up there. She tugged at it, wincing as strands of hair came out at the roots. After a few more tugs, she examined her hand. Lying in her palm lay a small twig. Not heather or gorse. This was unmistakably pine. And there were no pine trees on the moor.
But there were in The Garden of Bewitchment.
She trudged up the stairs as a wave of exhaustion overtook her. In her room, Evelyn yawned and laid the twig on her dressing table.
She must have a bath. She felt so dirty and stale. Maybe relaxing in the soothing hot water would help restore her fevered brain to something like sanity.
She discarded her filthy clothes. Even her underwear hadn’t escaped the grass stains. Her hair was tangled with more bits of twig and leaves, none of which belonged on the moor.
She heated large copper pans on the range and dragged the hip bath from the corner of the kitchen. Only at times such as these did Evelyn question her decision not to employ staff. Her mother would have had a fit if she had seen her daughter drawing her own bath.
Much later, refreshed and dressed in clean clothes, she sat in the drawing room, her long hair lying over her shoulders where she had draped a towel. She brushed it as it started to dry.
Still no sign of Claire. It would be teatime soon.
The sound of a key scraping in the lock made her jump. Her sister’s face lost its worried expression almost the instant she saw Evelyn.
“Thank God you’re all right,” she said.
“I think so. But I’m so confused. What happened up on the moors?”
“You were in the house. The toy house. I took it apart, and something grabbed me from behind. Then Branwell came.”
“What?”
“Branwell came. Ev, you have to believe me. Look, I’ll show you.”
Claire picked up the manuscript containing her part of The Chronicles of Calladocia.
“See? On this page. Branwell has written something, and he’s drawn it too.”
Evelyn said nothing. She remembered how she had grabbed the completed Chronicles in the house. Where was it now? She must have dropped it when she was flung out of Claire’s hand. Evelyn took the book from her sister and peered down at it.
The slithering creature oiled its way towards Lady Mandolyne, who could do nothing to escape. She took in the slimy body, scales overlapping and pulsing as it moved. The stench from its foulness made her retch. Any moment now and it would be upon her. It had left its cloak of mist and forbidding darkness, and, out in the open, it must feel its increasing strength. Strength given by Hell itself. Fearing no one, but feared by all who came into contact with it, the Todeswurm prepared to strike.
Lady Mandolyne prayed. But there was none there to save her. Soon it would be upon her and she would be no more.
The Todeswurm opened its hinge-less mouth wide. Wider, until she could only see a vast and bottomless chasm. Its foul breath choked her with its sulfurous odor.
Two final words issued from her frozen lips. “Forgive me.”
And then all became darkness for Lady Mandolyne Montfera.
Evelyn pushed the book aside on the table.
“Well? Isn’t it magnificent?”
“Who wrote that, Claire? It isn’t your handwriting or mine.”
“I told you, Branwell. He did it when we were out. It solves the problem perfectly, don’t you think? And what an excellent creature the Todeswurm is. I had never heard of one before, had you?”
“That’s probably because it doesn’t exist. Claire, this can’t be Branwell’s writing. You and I both know it.”
“No. You’re wrong.” Claire’s eyes filled with tears. “How can I make you believe me? This is Branwell’s writing.”
“Then where is he? Why doesn’t he show himself to me and explain himself? Because he can’t, Claire. That’s why.”
“He can’t come to you. You’re right. But he can come to me, and he does. We belong together, Ev.”
“Look, I don’t understand what is happening to us any more than you do. Something happened up on those moors. That much we do know. And we seem to remember pretty much the same sequence of events, but Branwell can’t be any part of this.”
“There’s no point in arguing with you when you are in this mood, Ev. I know that. Just as much as I know Branwell wrote that and he comes to me. He loves me. He told me so.”
Evelyn shook her head, conscious of a nagging ache behind her eyes. Her vision swirled. “I’m getting a migraine. I shall have to lie down for a while. We’ll discuss this later.” Although, why bother? Claire would not be moved, and with everything else happening to them, was it really so impossible she could be right?
* * *
Evelyn tossed and turned, her head filled with hammering, nauseating throbbing. Wild thoughts clashed against each other. Matthew Dixon. Did he have some role in this? That box he had buried and then dug up. They still didn’t know what it contained or whether they could trust the man. Lady Mandolyne, who had somehow become all too real, at least for an instant. And the terrible toy that had somehow transformed into reality. Evelyn had been in the house and the garden. Either she had been vastly reduced in size or her sister had been transformed into a giant.
Nothing made any kind of sense, and the more the thoughts whirled and clashed, the worse the pain became until she would have given anything to smash her head against the wall until it stopped.
The door opened softly. Claire appeared, carrying a cup of tea.
“I thought this might make you feel better, Ev.”
“Thank you.” Evelyn struggled to sit up, every motion kicking off renewed agony.
“I put plenty of sugar in. I know you say it helps sometimes.”
Evelyn took the cup and saucer, noting how her hands trembled.
“Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, thank you, Claire. This was very thoughtful of you.”
Claire left her, shutting the door softly behind her.
Evelyn sipped her tea, feeling the hot liquid soothing her. When she had drained her cup, she lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Her troubled thoughts faded into the background until she fell asleep.
* * *
She awoke to darkness. The migraine had lifted, leaving the familiar feeling of physical tenderness behind. She heard voices and sat up, straining to listen.
Claire’s room. Talking to herself again. The words were indistinct, but she recognized the timbre of her voice.
And another voice. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Her breathing came fast and shallow. A man. Claire was talking to a man. There could
be no mistake this time.
She must go and confront him. What was he doing in Claire’s room in the middle of the night?
She made to push the sheet off her, but her head started to throb again. Too soon. She lay back, praying for the pain to subside.
Claire’s laughter rang out. Evelyn heard the scrape of her door as it opened.
“Good evening, Evelyn.”
The man’s voice. Distinct. Directly in her ear.
Evelyn screamed, but Claire didn’t come.
Chapter Ten
The morning was a uniform gray. A thick blanket of cloud hung low over the village, and Evelyn moved heavily in the humidity.
In contrast, Claire seemed alive with enthusiasm, humming a song Evelyn didn’t recognize and busying herself dusting shelves.
“Good morning, Ev. Feeling better? Did you sleep well?”
“Not particularly. I had a nightmare.”
“Oh?”
“Hardly surprising given the sort of day we had. Don’t you feel as if you’re losing touch with reality in some way? I know I do.”
Claire lowered the ostrich feather duster. “I don’t think I know what you mean, Ev. I mean, it all seems perfectly clear to me. The toy has come alive somehow and exists in some way we don’t understand up there on the moor. But always in the same place, so all we have to do is avoid going there. Branwell is helping with The Chronicles of Calladocia, and it is all the better for his intervention. And, as for Matthew Dixon…he is a man with a lot to hide and we should keep out of his company. Branwell warned me about him, by the way.”
Too tired to protest his existence anymore, especially after the previous night’s bad dream, Evelyn settled for, “Oh, really, and when did he do that?”
“Last night. After you had gone to bed. He came to me.”
“In your room?”
“Yes.”
She had said it as if it was perfectly natural to have a ghost – a male one – visit her alone in her bedroom. “And what exactly did he say?”
“He told me Matthew Dixon had come here for a reason. Not to recuperate. There’s nothing wrong with him. The stick is for show, to give him an alibi. He’s here to separate us from our inheritance.”
The Garden of Bewitchment Page 11