Darker Still

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  3 a.m.

  Another nightmare, and this time no pleasant rest afterward. Worse.

  I dreamed of the study again. Of coming through the door again and surprising Denbury, who was attempting to distract himself with one of his books. The curtain was open to the world, the scene displaying the empty Metropolitan exhibition room, bare and lonely. Denbury jumped up and greeted me, and I closed the door behind me swiftly, wishing not to see whatever my mind would have placed there.

  “You’re dreaming again,” Denbury murmured, glancing at the door I would not have come through otherwise. “How long has it been since you were here? I’ve no sense of time.”

  “A day since my last dream, but reality is odd here, let alone in dream worlds. You’ve been transferred. Look, you’re in the Metropolitan Museum of Art now! In a room all to yourself…Would that we could stroll the exhibits—”

  “Rather than being one,” Denbury retorted.

  Then I heard the Whisper. I must have shown distress because Denbury drew close, putting a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “You hear something again? Your nightmares come to call?”

  Before I could answer, movement in the room outside caught our attention. A shadow. A tall, dapper-looking silhouette with hazy sparks of red and gold crackling around his person. The possessing devil.

  “Natalie, you must go.” Denbury’s voice was urgent. He began pushing me toward the door from which I had come.

  “I can’t go back, not there!” I protested. “That horrid phantom in the dark—”

  “But you can’t stay here. What if he sees you?”

  The fiend outside drew closer, and the runes around the back of the frame glowed bright as if lit by infernal fires. Denbury moved to the window, trying its latch only to be singed again by the confining magic of the room. He cursed and turned to stare for a long moment at the bookshelf. He grabbed me by the arms and nearly shoved me against the wall, so that I might be hidden from view by the wide and prominent bookcase. His eyes flashed me a warning, and he returned to stand at his center mark as if nothing were different.

  I pressed my back against the wall, which trembled as if it wasn’t sure whether to be a wall or canvas. I pressed my shoulder to the bookcase, which felt sturdier. Red and golden light crackled around the room as a small liquid sound filtered into the room, like pressing a face into a basin of water. Then came a voice. It was Denbury’s voice reverberating through the room, but a sick, mocking interpretation that jeered and chortled.

  “Greetings! I prophesy a harvest. Names. Souls. All for the greater society. By gathering terror from the saddest New York ward and taking their fear unto me, I further the greater cause. You’ll see much of me and bear all my weight. As it should be. The strong shall use the good of heart. I am strong. And you were good. I am the turning of the world. You’ll see…”

  Denbury lunged forward with a vengeful cry, his hands outstretched to choke the beast, but he was met by a wall of fire that, because he threw his arms up to shield himself, only managed to blacken the cuff of his fine suit coat and consume a few loose hairs.

  With a sick chuckle and more crackling fire, the demon in Denbury’s form withdrew from the frame.

  Denbury was singed and furious, his gorgeous blue eyes hot with hatred.

  The Whisper sounded again. A warning.

  Unbidden, the study door flew open. There on the threshold stood the same white-clad corpse I had seen previously.

  But horror of horrors, she was now beheaded. Her dark-haired head was at her feet, facing backward into the corridor.

  This time the dripping sound of blood, thick down her body and falling from her fingertips, came with an omen. Her forearms were turned out to reveal careful knife wounds. The name “Barbara” was carved into her dead, gray-white right forearm.

  My hands flew to my mouth, as I made that same ugly cry as in the dream before.

  “Demons, be gone!” Denbury bellowed, the air around him flashing like lightning. He rushed to throw the door closed on the phantom’s face, no matter that his hand smarted with the touch.

  Finally overcoming a stupor of fear, I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry,” I declared. “I’ll not bring this trauma upon you any more. I’ll try not to dream of you—”

  Denbury grabbed my chin and forced me to look into his crystalline eyes. “You’re the only good thing that has come into this world. Don’t you dare take yourself away. These terrible things aren’t your fault,” he said, and folded me in a tender embrace.

  “But they are,” I murmured, breathing him in. “It’s coming from me.”

  “I’d rather face all the specters of your mind than be left alone,” he stated.

  From there I felt myself fade away, slipping from his grasp into my bed, my heart hammering with the manifold shock of the demon’s appearance, the beheaded corpse, and being held by the man who captivated my very soul, awake or asleep.

  I shiver and shudder as I write this with moonlight streaming into my room. I can feel the terror fade away, leaving instead the lingering sensation that was so rich and pleasurable in the dream—being well and truly tightly held by Denbury. But it was only a dream after all, and in dreams, one may fancy her hero as she pleases, her hero who slams and locks the door against her nightmares.

  June 12

  Today began with high hopes, descended into bitter awkwardness, and has ended in what’s become commonplace, it seems—terror. I cannot trust my mind. I cannot trust my dreams, save that they are portents of disaster and death.

  But first, tea.

  I arrived at Maggie’s beautiful home, knocked on the carved wooden door with beveled glass, and was greeted by a harried maid who took one look at me and said: “You must be Natalie, the quiet one. How I wish they all were like you.”

  I hardly had time to wonder at this or to enjoy the lavish appointments of the home before I was ushered into the parlor, where Maggie and her friends jumped to their feet, all chattering at once. Having grown up in a home that was preternaturally quiet, I wondered if the maid didn’t have a point.

  “Natalie, my dear, you’re here. Good. We’re driving Mama batty so she’s sent us out to have our high tea in the park. Isn’t that a lovely idea? Natalie, this is Fanny. She lives just a few blocks south, and her father runs a very successful mill.” Maggie gestured to a dark-haired girl with plump cheeks and a pinched nose, who waved at me but then continued staring at my dress as if she was a bit confused. Perhaps I’d worn the wrong thing? I bounced a bit of a nodding curtsey back.

  “And Elsie, who lives just north and whose mother was an actress but married into old New York money, so she redeemed herself.” Maggie giggled, gesturing to a blond with wide bright eyes and a small mouth, who also nodded to me. “All our lives the three of us have sneaked away at dinners and other functions to gossip,” Maggie explained. “Girls, Natalie doesn’t speak, but don’t you mind that. She’s very nice. Her father works for the Metropolitan and has been wrapped up in the business of that haunted painting!”

  The girls all cooed at once. Heavy with the burdens of nightmares and wondering if I’d ever have another magical turn inside Lord Denbury’s room, I could feel my heart sink. Could I ever begin to share such things with these young women who I hoped could accept me into their circle?

  “You’ve seen it then. What do you think?” Elsie cried.

  “Ells, she can’t respond to you, so don’t ask,” Maggie said.

  I waved at them not to worry and fumbled with my notebook.

  Exquisite, I wrote and showed it to each of them, drawing closer to sit on a poufy chair nearby.

  “Is that how you…communicate with the world?” Fanny asked.

  I signed: “Yes, or by sign language.” And then wrote what I’d signed for them to see.

  “Ah.” Elsie nodded. “Your voice doesn’t…work, then?”

  Rather than attempt to explain, I simply shook my head.

  “Girls,” ca
lled a matronly voice, I assumed a housekeeper’s. “The carriage is ready.”

  Everyone jumped up and rushed out to the portico. Maggie hung back a moment and drew close to murmur in my ear.

  “Natalie, dear, it isn’t that you don’t look nice, but that’s more of an evening dress than a day dress. I’m sure you’ve not many dresses, but it’s best if you know the difference. The one you wore out with Auntie and me would’ve been better.”

  My cheeks burned bright red. That’s why the girls had looked at me so curiously. Surely they thought me an unfortunate in more ways than one. I’d thought about wearing the dress Maggie had suggested, but I didn’t want her to see that I only had a few. I scribbled in my notebook: “I could go change.”

  Maggie batted her hand at me. “Don’t worry, we’re not out to prove anything or catch any particular eyes today.” She rummaged in a closet by the door and pulled out a thin, summery shawl and a parasol. “Here.” I took the items and followed, feeling shamed.

  A sour-faced housekeeper trundled us into the carriage, the folds of our skirts all touching, which gave the others more time to evaluate my green taffeta and wonder how much mending had had to be done. Their dresses were all laces and muslins, satin ribbons and light embroidery. Lovely summer flowers, each of the girls. And all I could do was stare out the window as the open spaces, clumps of trees, and sculpted knolls of the park came into view, hoping that my silence would, as it usually did, return me to simply not being noticed. It would seem that I’d fare better that way in this crowd.

  The chatter was nonstop, high pitched, and in a language I hardly knew. Some of the names they tossed about I knew well from the papers, but as for the turnings of the societal wheels down to the movement of each and every cog, such details were lost on me. It was as if they were spies, these girls, knowing details I’d thought only a butler would or should know. And the plotting! Which eligible bachelor would be where and how one might catch his eye and ensnare him by trickery, wit, or, shockingly, pregnancy. Nothing seemed off limits in the making of a name, a fortune, and a housewife. I had been sheltered indeed.

  We were trundled just as awkwardly, amid doubled skirts and crinolines, back out of the carriage by the housekeeper, whose name I overheard was Mrs. Ford—not that she’d been introduced. Elsie was quick to pick an open spot near both the avenue and a confluence of walking paths, an area shaded but widely visible. Clearly the girls wanted to see and be seen, as they kept glancing over their shoulders at any well-dressed passerby or particularly fine carriage, instinctively smoothing their skirts like preening birds.

  The ceaseless flow of plotting continued without pause or even a breath as we spread the blankets, dove into the confections brought from a basket, and poured tea from a latched decanter into small teacups. The three of them were perfect princesses, and I found myself glancing at Mrs. Ford, the designated chaperone, who was watching from afar by the parked carriage. Her hard gaze softened after watching me for a while.

  Perhaps I looked like I belonged better with the help. Not, clearly, one of the princesses. I wasn’t in the right costume, and I could not talk, let alone speak their language, so how could I ever have held court? They all spoke so swiftly that even if I did have something to add, they wouldn’t have waited for me to write it.

  I do have to give Maggie credit for attempting to include me. At one point, the unending tide of gossip turned to what possibly could have happened to the real Lord Denbury: if he’d had any lady friends, what would happen to his fortune, and if he was really and truly dead or if it was all a ruse.

  Despite my flare of jealousy and my keen desire to offer up this diary as an account of what had really happened to Denbury and to scandalize the living daylights out of each of them, I smiled at Maggie when she turned to me and said: “Natalie sees it too. It’s truly like the painting is alive, isn’t it, Natalie?”

  I nodded in agreement. Oh, if only they knew.

  And just as soon as I’d been included, I was forgotten again. I couldn’t blame them, really. It was hard to know how to include me. People were often awkward about it. Even Father, and he loved me. But all that awkwardness? That’s one of the reasons it felt impossible for me to open my mouth. I didn’t want a strained conversation made worse by my fumbling attempts. Silence was simply a less stressful existence. But oh, such a lonely one.

  And at that, speak of the devil, I saw the very demon impostor walking along the park path. We were not far from the Metropolitan; thus, this area might be one of his haunts if he indeed strove to check in on his “other half.” It was good the girls weren’t paying attention to me, so they didn’t notice how my teacup suddenly began rattling on my saucer and how the color surely fled from my face as I felt my blood ice over and my heart lodge in my throat.

  I couldn’t look away from him. Inside the portrait, Denbury was utterly magnetic. Here in the real world, he remained all-consuming. And while he was still handsome in these dimensions, my shortness of breath upon seeing this Denbury was far less pleasant.

  In a suit so fine it was nearly gaudy, pinstriped and sveltely tailored, Denbury strolled with a crystal-topped walking stick, a fine hat, and a sprig of something on his lapel. He was every ounce a tall, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, neatly trimmed, and perfect dandy. And ungodly beautiful. Save for the shimmering of his eyes when he looked from one way to another with an odd swiveling of his head and a strange reflection in his gaze that reminded me he’d become inhuman.

  And because it seems I’ve been crowned the queen of all things uncomfortable, of course the devil turned to stare right at me.

  He waved. Jauntily swinging his walking stick, he looked me up and down, just as he’d done at the Art Association. A glimmer of recognition flickered over his face, and he put his finger to his lips and winked at me, very amused with himself. The lascivious look made me want to retch.

  Unfortunately, his dashing figure would not go unnoticed. But while the real Denbury was engaging, charming, and indeed a bit of a flirt, this creature was a pale and paltry imitation. Even if he looked the same outwardly, he was a disquieting mockery of the man who’d held me in his arms. My strange entwined reality with Denbury felt more real to me in that moment than did the sun warming my cheek through the leaves.

  “Why, doesn’t that look like Denbury? Just like!” Maggie breathed, catching where I’d fixed my stare.

  “Oh, Mags, you see him everywhere we go, silly,” Elsie scoffed.

  “I don’t care who he is, just that he’s gorgeous,” Fanny breathed with a bit of a purr. She lifted a hand to wave, causing Elsie to giggle and bat her friend’s hand down. “And wealthy. Look at that suit!”

  “No, truly—” Maggie insisted.

  “Well, whoever he is, he seems to have eyes only for Natalie.” Fanny scowled, staring not at me but still at Denbury’s body. None of the girls could take her eyes off him, and certainly neither could I. And that oddly reflective gaze would not release me.

  “Honestly, he’s drinking her in like she’s some catch,” Elsie gasped in shock, still not looking at me. Gazing at me to the last, Denbury’s devil half turned down another path and disappeared behind a flowering shrub before Maggie could determine his identity for certain.

  “To some, a deaf and dumb girl has her advantages,” Fanny offered. “I bet my father would give his eyeteeth to strike me mute.” Maggie’s face colored, and she admonished Fanny softly.

  I could no longer bear it. I clutched my notebook, the charcoal snapping into a stub in my hand with the furious pressure I exerted in writing: “I am not deaf and most certainly not dumb!”

  I stood up, leaving the shawl and the parasol with Maggie, and strode away, nodding curtly to Mrs. Ford as I passed her. She nodded back with a bit of concerned confusion. Clearly I did not belong with these girls. I was perfectly capable of removing myself to somewhere where I would be more wanted.

  I longed to run to the Metropolitan and throw myself into the painting and i
nto Denbury’s arms, but I had to remember what had been real and what had been a dream and maintain some sense of propriety. All of it was made of madness, though, so what could I believe? I had known Denbury for only a few days—and part of that only in dreams. But even those brief moments had been enough for me to recognize that he was the one person who made me feel alive, beautiful, whole, and good for something. Funny how extraordinary circumstances breed close kinship.

  But rather than darting up to the Metropolitan, I continued downtown, ignoring the glances of those who wondered what a girl in a relatively nice evening dress was doing walking unaccompanied down Fifth Avenue. Surely they thought I was either a dress lodger looking for a gentleman to pay for my services or a neighborhood eccentric. I hoped that the burning frustration knitting my brow and narrowing my eyes betrayed the latter.

  I didn’t realize where I was going until I was at the door and facing its hefty bronze knocker. I lifted it and let it fall, anxiously hoping I wouldn’t regret my intrusion. I waited for a servant to appear, but instead I was greeted by the very woman I’d come to see, dressed smartly neck to toe in charcoal gray, hardly a summer day dress. Mrs. Northe didn’t seem influenced by what was or wasn’t proper fashion. She was always elegant, ever beautiful. She was everything I wanted to be someday.

  “Hello, Natalie, I’m so glad to see you!” Mrs. Northe exclaimed, bringing me in the door and directly to her parlor. I almost sagged with relief at her warm welcome. But before I could get too comfortable, she surprised me with a wary question: “I don’t suppose you saw the papers today, did you? The Herald?”

  I shook my head and signed: “I was preoccupied. The girls…”

  “Ah, yes,” Mrs. Northe said brightly. “Margaret had you over for tea. Did you have a nice time?”

  I hoped to convey everything in a look. Explaining was too difficult. Mrs. Northe’s elegant, stoic face curved into an amused expression, her hazel eyes sparkling. “Oh, Natalie, I’m sorry to seem amused. It’s just that girls can be so terrible.”