Darker Still

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  He had me educated as if nothing were wrong with me, bringing in tutors and academics. As my hearing and relative temperament seemed fine, I was taught to read and write from an early age, and I received a very fine education for a young girl, though I could not speak of it. I had made noise until the day Mother died. Evidently I had been quite the chatterer.

  Father had just kept waiting for the day I would start back up again. As if nothing had ever happened.

  But because I never did simply chatter away again, Father had sent me off, as there was no use pretending that I might.

  I assumed that, because of this preternatural quiet, my hearing must be hypersensitive, an overcompensation.

  There was often a Whisper at my ear, gentle and subtle. While it was a human voice, I could never decipher words. I heard occasional familiar English syllables and was sure I often heard my name. But if it was a message on the wind, like some paper in a bottle sent to wash ashore, the communication failed because I could determine no meaning. I closed my eyes, straining when I heard her—it was most certainly a her.

  Once I was old enough, I understood that the vague “mother” I faintly recalled no longer existed. Yet it isn’t beyond the pale for a child, like I was, to hope that an inexplicable, disembodied voice at her ear is that of her lost parent.

  A movement would follow the sound, something out of the corner of my eye. A rustle of white like the corner of a lace curtain billowing in a soft breeze. It indulged every fantasy of a ghost without ever producing an actual image of one. I would turn, squint, and strain but never quite grasp hold of it.

  No vision, no message. It was infuriating.

  Devoted to such authors as Wilkie Collins, Edgar Allan Poe, and Charles Dickens, I wished to escape into their worlds where ghosts could be seen and addressed. I wondered what good speaking in this world was if I couldn’t even hear the most important words being said from beyond. What good was speaking when I’d determined none of the world listened to one another, especially not when a woman was speaking. I dreamed that were I to step into Mr. Collins’s or Mr. Dickens’s world, I would be able to speak freely. Then I’d turn and greet the specter that had haunted me ever since I could remember.

  But the pain of adoring a world that I could never touch grew too great for me.

  At thirteen, I rejected it all, with all the vehemence that year of my life produced, and refused to entertain the idea of a ghost story.

  Until Denbury.

  He has brought back that old familiar pull, the pining ache of those dear old stories. He is water on parched lips. I’ve missed the sweet longing for those worlds, the titillating sense of magic that courses down my spine with delicious possibility, and the sense that the veil to another existence is very thin near me…the sense that I am gifted. I’ve missed that thought.

  However, as that feeling returns to me now, it is drastically altered. There is, of course, the excitement of a ghost story. But if the tale proves true, it’s suddenly not as alluring. It is, in fact, terrifying.

  3 a.m.

  I woke from a dream and must recount the details. There was the Whisper. Mother’s whisper, surely. I saw a flicker of white at the corner of my room as I lay in my bed. I struggled to move, to crane my neck to see her, but I was pinned. The Whisper was insistent, that female voice. In the dream, I could understand it. It called my name. I opened my mouth to respond. But even in my dream I couldn’t. How cruel to be denied the faculty of speech even by my own unconscious state!

  “Natalie…” came another voice. One with a British accent. A delectable voice that sent shivers down my spine.

  I turned my head toward that familiar voice. And there in my room was Denbury, striking and compelling Denbury the painting, filling my wall and staring down at me. His blue eyes were wide and searching. “You are the girl…the girl to help me. Please, help me, Natalie…” The lips of his painting did not move, yet I heard him clearly.

  My body was heavy, weighted, but I reached out my hand. My back arched. I did want to help him. I wanted to go to him, to be with him…

  And then he turned. His eyes went glowing black. The lips of his painting moved, and his was the voice of his lascivious shade. “Pretty thing.”

  His image peeled from the canvas, and his body stepped down from his painting, down onto my bed, as if entering through a door. He fell upon me, and a hand like a claw closed over my throat.

  I shot awake with a small choking gurgle. An ugly sound.

  I write this while the moon is again bright. I’m hoping its silver rays can banish the shadows. I rub my throat and still feel the pain. Knowing that a bruise is only in my mind is small comfort.

  • • •

  From the Desk of Mrs. Evelyn Northe

  June 7 (at an hour earlier than anyone should be writing letters)

  Dear Mr. and Miss Stewart,

  Alas, it seems we are now waging a dangerous war. I’m terribly sorry if I’ve escalated the situation improperly, but I’ll set aside blame for the greater issue of safety.

  Last night my house was quite nearly ransacked and my two guards overcome, and I had the opportunity to reassert that I’m a damn good shot with a pistol.

  It would seem burglars wished to take Denbury. I did inform the police, but now I’m beginning to regret it, for they simply do not understand the finer points of the darker forces at work here. However, they will post guards at my home. And perhaps at the Metropolitan, where, my dear Mr. Stewart, I hope you won’t mind keeping Lord Denbury from this point on.

  Keep your eye open for a man with a limp around the painting. In the darkness, I couldn’t make out the identity of the intruders as I fired a shot and they scrambled for the exit. One took a bullet of mine as a souvenir in his thigh.

  Respectfully,

  Mrs. Evelyn Northe

  June 8

  Father knocked on my door before breakfast, handing the above letter to me and having lost what little color he possessed. Once at the breakfast table, he was irate in a way I’d never seen, hardly touched his eggs, and jumped up as I placed the last of my bread into my mouth.

  “I’m going to see her. I don’t like that she’s there alone. All this over a silly portrait.”

  The fact was that Mrs. Northe wasn’t there alone. She had staff. But Father suddenly wanted to play the hero, and I tried not to smile at his uncharacteristic concern.

  He was on his feet and ready for departure more quickly than I’d seen him move in some time, whereupon I took up Mrs. Northe’s letter and have enclosed it in these pages. I shall keep all evidence I find in this curious case. Someday someone might thank me for it.

  Father told me I was to remain at the house while he checked on Mrs. Northe. I shook my head. I hailed a carriage and was seated inside before he was. He stared at me with his usual mixture of sentiment: always impressed by my initiative and always wondering why it never initiated my speech. Alas, I never had an answer to offer him.

  I write this en route to Mrs. Northe’s residence, my mind whirling and my stomach in a knot. A dark cloud hangs about this painting and about all those who come across it. Will all of us end up like Crenfall, odd and inept and slave to this beautiful man? Or am I the only slave among us? I cannot get Lord Denbury out of my mind’s eye for a second, even in sleep.

  Though I find Denbury a handsome, dashing man, I can only liken his effect to a siren as in the myths of old, meant to lure a hero toward danger. And I’ve arrived at his threshold once more.

  Later…

  Can you tell from my script how my hand trembles? The painting moved again! And this time I find there’s no other way to interpret the signs. Somehow this painting wants me, wants something of me. It is, in fact, calling to me.

  Perhaps by writing down the events, I can achieve some sense of things.

  Father and I were shown immediately to Mrs. Northe’s sitting room, where she stood to greet us, looking as charming as ever, if not a bit tired. Her vibrant eyes were ring
ed by faint dark tinges, as if the event had aged her slightly. It was the first time I’d seen her without Maggie present.

  “I’m terribly sorry that you should have had to deal with such a matter as an intrusion. It rattles the soul,” my father said quietly.

  “Indeed, Mr. Stewart. But what good cheer to have friends on hand to banish the terrible thoughts from one’s mind.”

  We sat and busied ourselves with tea. Father paced a bit before sitting down, his verbal awkwardness as much a handicap as my inability to speak.

  I finally signed to Mrs. Northe, asking how she was faring and if there was any word from the police about the wounded intruder.

  “Not a thing. It’s as if he vanished into thin air. If you want my opinion, it’s someone Bentrop hired. He’s very angry we’ve made such a public and strong claim on the piece and will resort to trickery to come by it.”

  “Is it really so valuable?” my father asked, an eyebrow raised.

  I made a face just as Mrs. Northe scoffed.

  “Really, Mr. Stewart, you surprise me. You don’t believe its composition, brushstrokes, and essence of life are unparalleled?”

  My father nodded and sipped his tea. Clearly he was not as enraptured by the portrait as we were. But that was just as well. He didn’t know it was alive.

  “Then why didn’t he simply outbid you if he feels it’s that valuable? Why go to all this trouble and risk a potentially damaging criminal record?” he asked.

  “Certain objects, Mr. Stewart, will attract darkness. Something terrible happened around this painting and has imprinted the very fabric of the canvas. Not that the painting itself is to blame, but perhaps what happened to Denbury. Some people love to collect such objects and will use dark means to get them.”

  My father couldn’t have looked more skeptical. “I fail to see an imprint, Mrs. Northe.”

  “Then, indeed, its dark clouds will hardly be noticed in the grand company of other works at the Metropolitan. Let’s talk numbers, shall we? Natalie, darling, while I realize your new work is in acquisitions, I’ll not trouble you with monetary trivialities. Give us a moment to ourselves, would you?” And she nodded toward the hall. In the direction of the painting.

  I nodded, rising slowly and setting down my tea. The truth was that I longed to run from the room and to Denbury. Having him to myself again for a moment was a thrilling prospect.

  I moved toward the grandiose staircase where a great purple curtain was hung on the landing with the portrait behind it.

  Climbing the stairs seemed to take forever. The gas lamps were trimmed low, and I kept glancing around, afraid the house staff would disturb my moment alone with Denbury, afraid I’d be told to keep back, afraid some sort of trap had been set on the velvet drape.

  I tossed caution aside as I slid back the curtain. Seeing him again was every bit as breathtaking as the first time. Would it always be so? The hairs on my neck stood, I blushed, and my breath was short. He was so exquisitely rendered that his presence was truly felt. His luminous eyes set a claim on those who looked at him. The painting had a seductive quality that made the rest of the world drain away. When one looked at Lord Denbury, nothing else existed.

  And then I noticed that much like with Mrs. Northe, Denbury’s eyes looked a bit darker, a bit older, and weary. Though he was still devilishly handsome, something had changed about him.

  I studied the particulars of the scene. The book The Girl remained jutting out from the shelf.

  And then I noticed a new shift. Something else out of place. Different.

  On his desk, the pristine blotter bore droplets of ink, and the quill was lying on its side rather than upright in the shaft of the inkwell. Two words seemed to scream up at me from a note that faced my direction on his desk.

  Yes, you!

  I nearly fainted.

  I scrambled backward, my small bustle grazing a potted fern that would have toppled to the floor if the corner of the balustrade had not caught its fall. I tore off my gloves and hastily gathered up the bits of soil that had spilled onto the floor. Perhaps, I thought, when I turn back to the painting, that note will not be there and this whole ordeal will prove to have been a welcome hallucination.

  But no.

  I looked again at the note and then up at Denbury. I swear to you that he stared back at me. I could just hear his ghost, who had indeed said the portrait was watching me.

  My shaking hands closed his curtain again, and I had to hold the railing as I descended the stairs.

  Standing outside the sitting-room door, I wanted to slip inside and continue on as if nothing had happened. But intruding would be improper when I had been excused, not to mention that I’d surely appear as though I’d seen a ghost. Because I had, in a way. One of them, at least, was reaching out to me in an unexpected, impossible way. I kept looking around for Denbury’s corporeal ghost, he of the stifling presence and disturbing intent. Thankfully, the darker Denbury did not show himself.

  My trembling stride took me into the first lit room I came across a gilt-bedecked room filled with books, the gas-lamp sconces of beveled glass glittering and inviting. It was a room full of heaven. I’d have killed for such a library. Some cases were enclosed in glass and had locks. I was tempted to pull on the knobs to see if Mrs. Northe had indeed locked them. Were precious volumes of all manner of occult things within?

  Snatching up a paper closest to me, I found it was a spiritualist tract.

  I was fascinated to read about the idea of one’s essence being more, that life was more than simply our mortal coil. I was disappointed that the tract was about the cleanliness of the soul and maintaining a positive presence in the world for the benefit of one’s self and others. There was not a word about communicating with the beyond. Ashamed, I realized that I, like Maggie, was more taken with the sensational aspects of spiritualism. The dead. Séances. Haunted objects.

  But if life was more than just a body, something of Lord Denbury’s essence lived on in a canvas and another part was walking somewhere around Manhattan. I liked his painting part a deal better than the other. Like a séance luring out the dead, was there somehow a way to bring his canvas to life?

  June 9

  The plot has thickened, and how. Lives, sanities, and the very fabric of reality remain on the line.

  The day began simply enough. Would that it had ended so!

  Mrs. Northe came to call under the pretense of mere friendship and a sense of newfound “familial” duty. I heard her declare herself my new aunt to Bessie, our housekeeper of several years. Bessie simply nodded, happy that at least someone female was entering the house.

  She had lectured Father countless times about the dangers of too many male scholars around a pretty girl my age. The damage had already been done with Edgar. Bastard heartbreaker. If only he’d ruined me, it would have been truly tragic. But I think Bessie would’ve killed him if he’d even tried. If Bessie had been around when I was a child, I wonder if I would have talked. If for no other reason than out of exasperation.

  Seeing that I was alone in the house, Mrs. Northe promptly told Bessie that I would be in her capable company for the rest of the afternoon and escorted me outside. When I inquired after Maggie in sign language, Mrs. Northe replied, “While I do appreciate that my niece so admires and enjoys my company, I have to now and then return her to her own mother.”

  When the driver helped us into Mrs. Northe’s fine carriage, I realized this wasn’t just a friendly call. Mrs. Northe had a certain look on her lovely face, with something urgent signaling in the way her lips were pursed and her hazel eyes flashed.

  “There’s something I’d like you to see,” she said quietly.

  I didn’t move to sign or act like I knew what she meant. Perhaps I hadn’t left the spiritualist tract exactly where I’d found it, and she’d scold me for snooping. Maybe she meant the painting…

  The staff in the Northe residence was curiously out of the way when we arrived. Actually, when I thought
about it, I realized they were usually out of sight. Perhaps that’s how Mrs. Northe liked it. But she was so friendly to them that I couldn’t imagine their not appreciating her company. I’d even wondered if I should offer myself to her in employment if my father had another crisis about what to do with me. But no one greeted us at the front door once the driver hurried up the stoop and opened it for her, bobbing his hat and clearing our path.

  Perhaps they felt the chill in the air that I felt as I walked through. Perhaps they’d noticed how the light curiously seemed to hover, hang, and direct one’s eye immediately to the grand staircase and the purple velvet curtain, as if nothing else in the entire house was of importance.

  Mrs. Northe watched my gaze.

  “It’s like he’s magnetic, isn’t it? He compels us, doesn’t he?” she murmured. I nodded. It would do no good to pretend I wasn’t fascinated; it was far too late to hide that.

  “Did you notice anything different about the canvas? I highly doubt you passed by last time without peeking.”

  I wondered if besides being a spiritualist, she was a mind reader. I blushed, and that was enough for her to smirk.

  “I’d be disappointed in you if you hadn’t,” she continued, and we were silent as we ascended the stairs to his level, as if ascending a dais to the throne of a king. He would have made a good king, I thought, wistfully imagining myself as one of his loyal subjects, falling upon my knee to kiss his smooth, white hand. My blush persisted. This painting had done wonders for my already overactive imagination.

  We stood on the landing, and she drew the curtain back. Were I in the habit of making noise, I would have gasped aloud. But I did so inwardly with a small contraction of my rib cage and a skip of my heartbeat. Even though his face was emblazoned upon my memory, every time was like seeing him for the first.