Darker Still

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  I stared at the open door and the dark corridor beyond that was no longer a New York alley or a threshold for the dead but a dim hollow place of uncertainty that awaited something to light it up. Denbury gazed out into that murky fog, and his hand reached out to cup my elbow in a gentle press.

  “You’re a very nice girl. A very pretty girl, Miss Stewart. Why in the world is your mind so haunted?”

  I looked at him for a moment, wanting to tell him something meaningful. When he and I were alone in this place where time stood still, I spoke with such ease that it broke my heart to think that my ability to speak would be gone upon waking.

  “Because my nightmares are clues. Perhaps they always have been. I am meant to see what I see.” I took a step toward him. “And those who have stared into the darkness can empathize with those who have it thrust upon them, can’t they?”

  “Yes, indeed. I am grateful to have you as my only friend in the darkness.” He smiled. “I realize I’ve often called you by your first name. This place does breed familiarity. Do you mind?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Then please call me Jonathon. The world calls me Denbury: friends, colleagues, acquaintances. But you…you’re something different from a colleague. You’re…”

  I held my breath. What was I?

  “Very special,” he declared. “You are…closer to me. I’d rather you call me something more…personal.”

  I smiled, thrilled at this, at our special, personal relationship. “Of course, Jonathon…” I thrilled at saying his name. “You’re the angel to guide me through my nightmares.” Our warm closeness was tempered by the urgency of omens. “But if my previous dream was anything like this one, we need to do something, or some poor girl named Cecilia will die.”

  He shuddered. “I’ll try to demand information from the demon, should he come here again. I’ll try to fight him, Natalie, however I can.”

  “As will I,” I said, and that pledge shot me straight into consciousness, as if it were rousing me to action. I had no pleasant embrace or near-kiss to slip me into waking hours, only dread urgency and the name “Jonathon” upon my lips.

  Later…

  The first thing I did after waking, going to breakfast, and kissing my father on the head as he read the paper was to snatch it out of his hands for a moment, scanning the headlines anxiously. He patiently waited for me to be done with it.

  “Looking for something exciting?” he asked with a touch of affectionate amusement, as he always did when I was passionately focused on something.

  I plucked a pencil from the breakfast table (we always have plenty lying around for communication purposes) and wrote “gossip” on the margin and smiled at him. He chuckled and thankfully left it at that.

  After darting down to the newsstand on a nearby street corner, I continued to scan the papers with shaking hands, waiting with a leaden heart to see news of a dead “Cecilia” somewhere off a dim and dirty alley in some dim and dirty room.

  But such a demise was nowhere to be seen. I hoped that my mind had played only a cruel coincidence in having named Barbara before her death and that my dreams were not portents but nightmares alone. Still, I couldn’t sit idly by.

  The last time the demon went on a rampage, he’d inflicted a terrible scar on Denbury. And a woman named Barbara had indeed been beheaded downtown. Might another murderous rampage do Lord Denbury’s soul irreparable damage? My dear Jonathon.

  Mrs. Northe had said that more women should not die for the sake of evidence, and I agree with her. Today I’ve begun making preparations. I will indeed turn and face my nightmares and go from the pursued to the pursuing.

  We need information to reverse the curse. The police can’t be trusted to understand supernatural subtleties. If anything happens to the body in question—Jonathon’s double—all is lost. His body can’t be caught, not yet.

  So I will follow the beast myself.

  If it happens like last time, the devil will likely visit the portrait before his crime. But since the demon quite liked the look—and the vulnerability—of me, I’ll have to not be me to observe him.

  I’ll become a night watchman. Using Father’s seal, I’ll forge an assignment on the lower level of the Metropolitan and wait for the fiend to appear. Then I’ll follow the abomination…into the mouth of Hell, if that’s what it takes.

  The plan laid out in my mind as if it was divinely inspired. Perhaps it was. Because the moment I thought it up, I knew it was right and I knew there was no turning back. And I hoped, for my sake, that I’d have a host of guardian angels on my side. I’ll need them among the dark places the demon’s kind has created, where poor creatures lose their moral compass and where others fall victim to their own poverty and weakness. Dark places where some women are set upon because they were unfortunate enough to have been born girls.

  Father has been talking of cleaning his closet for some time. In the guise of good housekeeping, I today alleviated him of an old suit. Our local tailor down the street thankfully knows my condition and is always prepared to greet my note and instructions without so much as a second glance.

  Mr. Tabb thankfully did not raise an eyebrow when my note said to alter the suit for a “smaller-sized cousin.” (That “cousin” being me.) There’s no going into the belly of a beast as a woman. As a mute man, I was still at a disadvantage, but in men’s clothing the world is more accessible. Remaining unrecognizable to my target was imperative.

  I’ve learned a thing or two from Shakespeare’s roles where women dress as men for protection and information. There’s plenty of artifice and espionage in great literature, so this adventure of mine will merely carry on a familiar legacy. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Truth be told, I’m terrified.

  Yet the truth remains that the moment I stepped through that canvas, my life changed irrevocably. I will never be the same because of Denbury. Fantastical, difficult, and dangerous possibilities follow in his wake. And I’m helplessly wrapped up in them. In him.

  Before I undertake what may be life-threatening, I need to spend more time with Denbury, to truly befriend him and get to know him, because what I’ll attempt is too much to risk for a mere stranger—though I feel I know him closely…intimately (an unsettling notion in and of itself). I need to truly know what sort of man I may be risking my life for. Madness, portents, runes, and spells aside, we need a moment to be friends. Mrs. Northe also insists that I “tend his soul.”

  I’m off to the museum and I’ll write anon.

  Later…

  I wore my prettiest dress, feminine and appealing, a light green the color of my eyes, to the museum in the afternoon. I found Father, indicated I’d be sketching somewhere downstairs, and went promptly to the exhibition room. Staring up at Jonathon, I could see that his striking face looked exhausted. Truly, we did not have much time.

  I dipped my hand into the canvas and tumbled, per usual, into the arms of the prince of this dark tale. I let him hold me and did not ease away. He took in my appearance, and from his expression, he was pleased.

  “Your real self is brighter than your dream self,” he said. “More solid and sure.”

  “Would that that were the case out there as well.” I indicated my body on the other side.

  “Your beauty would remain the same.”

  I smiled widely, and the whole room seemed somehow charged with hope, possibility, and passion.

  “I do not want you to be some trapped secret,” I breathed, twirling about his space as if it were an open field. “I want to stroll proudly arm in arm with you along the East and Hudson Rivers and show you the wonders of my great city. I want to use my newfound voice to laugh, to giggle, to make blessed, normal noise, for us to enjoy the fruits of the world as a normal boy and girl might do. No dread silence, no souls split from bodies, curses, or demons to spoil it…”

  “All of that sounds wonderful. We must cling to that hope.”

  “Yes. I’ll need it for what I’m about to do.”
/>
  His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I have an idea,” I said nonchalantly, not wishing to arouse his worry. “About how to help you. But not until nightfall. In the meantime, I was hoping we could talk—a normal conversation having nothing to do with demons, black magic, or curses. If I wouldn’t be bothering you.”

  He shifted my weight against himself, reaching down for my hand. He brought it to his mouth and kissed it. I shivered with delight. “Nothing about you could ever be a bother. But don’t you dare risk anything for me—”

  I placed a finger to his lips, and we both shuddered at the touch. “I’m not sure I have any choice.”

  My voice had grown soft. Danger was replaced with a different kind of tension as we drifted closer, inexorably pulled together.

  But despite all the custom that we’d abandoned, I was nervous. And in this reality, nerves meant I was chatty. An opposite of the outside world, where nerves made me silent.

  “Mrs. Northe told Father that she is coming for me. Which means she has ideas to share,” I said quietly, wanting nothing more than to give in to the spell of this peculiar world and to Jonathon’s magnetism, but awkwardness overtook me. “So we’d best…take care. At any moment our unlikely chaperone might arrive.” I glanced out past the frame into the museum room, staring at that odd statue of myself on the other side.

  He reluctantly slid away from me, but not far.

  “Tell me tales of tending the ill,” I said, flouncing my skirts around me in a dainty circle on the Persian rug, preening as I’d seen Maggie do and wanting to pose for him as if I were his artist model. “Bide the time with me until Mrs. Northe comes.”

  His eyes lit, the sunken circles lessening, as if his life was rekindled. A soul without purpose withers. Recalled to his purpose, Jonathon was magnificent.

  He began by telling me how he had watched many friends and extended family die of disease. Ours were both hearts that had been steeled by loss. Frightened that death was somehow a curse, he had sought refuge in science and medicine. From the age of twelve, he had studied anatomy books to learn whatever he could. He was told by professionals that he was gifted, and this encouraged him to think what he might be able to do in the world. The passion and zeal with which he spoke of medicine nearly took the weariness out of him and almost healed the scar on his face.

  I could have listened to him for hours.

  But I noticed Mrs. Northe, a hazy figure, standing patiently beside my body. I could not keep her waiting, as much as I wanted Denbury to keep sharing his passions and interests with me. His enthusiasm reminded me that I was helping a noble soul. He was indeed an angel in my dreams, and he embodied that in my waking hours. I needed to believe in him. It was good to be reminded why I should pin my heart on him before I undertook risk on his behalf.

  “I’ll come again. I promise—”

  He bent down and lifted me to my feet. “You, Natalie, I want more of you. I want to know everything about you, my partner in magic and madness, absolutely everything.”

  No one had taken such an interest in me, and whether it was only because he hoped I was his savior I couldn’t know, but I didn’t care. I was important to him. I was his link to the world. I was all he had. And as for me, I’d never had something to fight for. As odd as my life had become with him, it was impossible to imagine life—waking or sleeping—without him.

  He snatched my hand again and kissed it. “I want to know everything…”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by those words, but the look in his eyes had my body on fire. My experience within the painting went beyond fancy, intrigue, or schoolgirl obsession. This was undoubtedly much deeper. I couldn’t understand all the magic. But I did understand desire. If I wasn’t careful, it would distract me from my purpose. Once a girl had been kissed, everything changed. It was a matter of time…

  But this wasn’t the right moment.

  “Indeed,” I replied, wondering what sorts of promises my eyes were giving him. “And so you shall.”

  I sank back with that uneasy drop into myself, not sure I would ever get used to such an odd feeling. Mrs. Northe steadied me, now accustomed to the dizzy wave that followed.

  She didn’t ask about our chat but likely made assumptions about my blush. Instead she had turned to stare intently at Denbury’s nameplate, which read:

  Jonathon Whitby III, Lord Denbury, 1880

  “What’s odd about this, Natalie?” Mrs. Northe asked.

  After staring at the nameplate for a while, I gestured to how the plate did not match the frame, and I ran my finger below Lord Denbury’s name, searching for another plate where I would expect the artist’s name to be engraved.

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Northe said, undoing her cameo brooch from around her throat. “The artist’s name is missing, and the plate doesn’t quite go, does it? I’d be willing to bet that the body that crumpled in the Denbury estate was that of the artist used for this work, discarded when it was no longer useful. I’ll corral my contacts in England, and perhaps I can find out the painter’s identity.”

  “Without a manhunt?” I countered in sign. Surely none of this could be left to the average police operation, not the New York police, nor Scotland Yard; no average detective’s methods were suited for this.

  “My contacts are always discreet,” Mrs. Northe replied. “In no way do I want to jeopardize this painting or the sanctity of the body that’s been overtaken.”

  She suddenly knelt, brooch in hand. Using the dainty edge to unwind the screws holding in the nameplate, she had it off in a moment. As she removed the thin brass strip, I saw that something was painted below. Another set of runes. No, not runes. Hieroglyphs.

  Mrs. Northe flipped open a small pad of paper and copied down the markings. Outlined by an oval on its side, the set of markings resembled another cartouche of sorts. Mrs. Northe just as efficiently returned the shining gold nameplate to its position on the edge of the frame. “I’ll look this up tonight,” she said. “These are disparate pieces. But together they’ll make a whole.”

  And she returned me home.

  I’m left to contemplate what questionable bravery is ahead of me.

  • • •

  From the Desk of Mrs. Evelyn Northe

  June 16, 7 a.m.

  Dear Natalie,

  I do not know if I’ll be able to meet with you today, and in the interest of your father (and Maggie—dear Lord, the girl asks me too many questions) not thinking we’re up to something suspicious, I shouldn’t see you daily. But I must tell you this:

  The frame truly is a door, Natalie. The hieroglyphs found below the nameplate mean “ba.” It signifies a doorway through which the spirit may enter. The Egyptians believed that the soul had seven parts: the aakhu, the ab, the ba, the ka, the khaibut, the khat, and the ren. One of these, the “ba” part of the soul, passes through a false door set into the stone of their tombs. Ancient Egyptians were preoccupied with death almost more than life. This furthers my idea that the fiend has created and perfected the ability to split the soul (including, it would seem, the reasoned consciousness) from the body and cast it across a “ba” threshold and into a prison: a box, a painting, perhaps anything.

  The frame as a doorway explains the duality of Denbury’s body both outside and inside the frame. It also confirms that the fiend has created a veritable portal that has a certain flexibility, and it is my hope that where you have been granted the ability to travel between, so may the devil that created the threshold. The trick will be switching them out, one for the other.

  “Vessel” is writ on the cartouche around his neck, and “ba,” the spirit door, writ upon the frame. The building blocks of the spell are clearly labeled. I hope to determine yet further ingredients. Tell me if you glean anything more from Denbury.

  And I’d like to take you shopping next Sunday. A seamstress, then a milliner. What think you? You don’t seem to own any mauve, and I think you’d look charming in mauve.

  Yo
urs, Evelyn

  I received that letter first thing in the morning, and thankfully Father had left for work. I had feigned disinterest in going to the museum. (It would not do to seem predictable. Father knew me as a woman of many moods. I needed to remain consistently unpredictable so he wouldn’t question what had become of the daughter he knew.) But the daughter he knew was changed. Different. Haunted.

  In love.

  And scared.

  But there’s much to do! I’m thankful for having the day to do it unhindered. If I’d spent time with Mrs. Northe, I most likely would have confessed my plan and she’d surely have stopped me.

  This spying in disguise is not the only possible plan hatching in my feverish brain. Something else is burning at the edge of my mind, thoughts of a confrontation yet to come. The thought of it hangs like that billowing bit of white lace and the maddening Whisper of my childhood, truth just on the edge of my sight, a sound too faint to be heard.

  But first…espionage.

  I’m not sure where my bravery has come from, save for the simple knowledge of what must be done. This course is as clear to me as a mathematical equation with only one solution, an adventure plot with a single way forward. For as impossible as things have become, the choices I face are startlingly clear. My instincts feel guided by some higher force. Still, I’m stewing with nerves.

  Considering what I am about to undertake, I wonder if I’ve gone a bit mad, at last cracking under all this strain.

  10 p.m.

  (The house is asleep.)

  Staring into the mirror, I don’t look half bad.

  A pretty youth.

  Beauty, no matter its gender, has opportunities and advantages—an English lord surely knows that.

  But my inability to speak worries me most. My vocal success, thanks to the world of the painting, has not translated into my reality. All I can emit are strangled sounds unable to be connected into words. I know I need to practice, but I can’t bear the sound or the idea that my household might discover me healed and rush to entirely readjust my world as I know it. No, one upheaval at a time. And on my terms.