Mists of Midnight

by Pillow Michelle M.

  She waited, breathless. Still, he did not come.

  I hate you. I curse you. I curse the day I saw you. Damn you, Dougal. Damn you to hell! Imogen stiffened, hearing her own words clearly. Had she really said all that? She had been so confused and angry. Her body had ached so badly.

  “Oh, no,” she muttered to herself. “I cursed him to hell. What have I done?”

  Imogen fell to the floor, shaking her head. Frantically, she yelled, “Dougal! Dougal! Please, come back. I didn’t mean it!”

  Imogen’s breath caught. She waited, time suspended. When nothing changed, she tried to reason over the grief flowing throughout her heart. Tears swam in her eyes—wet and moist and real. Taking deep breaths, she looked helplessly around. She could see no one.

  “Margaret?” she gasped weakly. “Reverend Stillwell? Are you there? I need you. Come to me!”

  Imogen gasped as the vicar materialized in front of her. Leaning over, he reached his hand down to her cheek. She stared up in wonderment.

  “You,” she began weakly.

  “Yes, I am dead like you. We are ghosts. And I heard your call, Miss Imogen.”

  “You did? How?”

  “When you have been dead as long as I, you hear such things,” he answered. “I know when I am needed.”

  “B—but?” she stammered.

  “I died nigh seventy years ago,” he confirmed.

  “The knight?” she wondered aloud.

  “No,” he chuckled. “Roasted mutton. I choked.”

  “I think I sent Dougal’s soul to hell,” she admitted, without warning. Her eyes widened. The vicar lowered his gaze from her pain. His hand fell to his side. Imogen stood. “I cannot find him.”

  “What happened?” asked the vicar, concerned.

  “I cursed him to hell, reverend. I told him to leave. He is gone. Margaret is gone. Tell me, do you know if they are damned?” Imogen took a sharp breath. “Do I have the power to do that?”

  “No,” the vicar smiled kindly.

  “Then, did the knight get them?”

  “I cannot say. I have not seen them.” The vicar frowned.

  “Do you think Dougal finally listened to me and left here?” she asked. Hope warred with disappointment. “Do you think they moved on?”

  “If they did, they would be safe,” he answered. “Dougal is a fine man. He is not marked for hell, merely sought by it.”

  “I must believe that they are safe.”

  “And you child?” asked the vicar. “Why do you stay?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I never had the chance to leave.”

  “Then there is a reason for it,” he answered. “What are you holding on to? What do you regret? Your death was an accident. You should not be here.”

  “I,” she began weakly. Tears came to her eyes as she studied the kindly man. With a sniff, she said, “I still feel as if I belong here. I am not ready to be dead. I want to live. I want my life. I want to be who I was the morning of the accident—never knowing about all of this. It was so simple.”

  Imogen waved her hand through the air. Catching her likeness in the hall mirror, she sighed. She could see the opposite wall through the reflection of her face.

  “And your feelings for Dougal?” questioned the vicar. “Would you forget them?”

  “I…” She didn’t know how to answer, so instead threw out her hands. Helplessly, she continued, “I would that he was a real man from my time, so that I could meet him. That is the secret wish of my heart. If anything, that is what I cling to the most. And I would send the demon back into the hell from whence it came.”

  “What you wish for is not possible, Miss Imogen.” Reverend Stillwell took her by the arm, leading her to the door.

  “Which part?”

  “You and Dougal cannot be corporeal again.” The vicar opened the door, walking her through. She was surprised by such an act. He smiled and explained simply, “We that remain try, for the most part, to live the semblance of a normal, living life. There is sanity is such real things as opening doors.”

  Imogen nodded. Had she not clung readily to her past? Had not her own mind deceived her into believing she was amongst the living?

  “Then what about the demon? I must focus on that,” she replied. “I will have an eternity to dream about the other.”

  “I will discover what I can.” The vicar shimmered, drifted down the stairs, and out over the countryside. Imogen sighed in exhaustion. She followed close behind him, turning toward the garden when he would go straight.

  * * * *

  The sun’s warm globe set behind the earth, leaving the land to those who would dwell in the moonlight. Imogen could not find Dougal or his daughter. She called out to him with her heart. He did not answer.

  Choosing to walk, instead of shimmer, she crossed over the familiar garden paths. Her body ached for one last touch of Dougal’s hand, one last kiss to sustain her. Dougal and Margaret had existed fifty years at Rothfield, the reverend seventy. How long would she have to roam here alone?

  Coming to the stone bench, she sat. A sad melancholy came over her senses as she stopped to look at the moon.

  What now? she wondered. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Fight.”

  Imogen turned. Her gaze instantly found Josiah. His features were pulled tightly, his eyes haunted as if he were chased by hell-fire. Imogen felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach.

  “Josiah.” She rushed to him. He looked weak, sick. Touching his pale face, she ushered him to the bench. Wearily, he sat. Imogen joined him. Taking his hand in hers, she urged, “What happened?”

  “My brother,” he muttered. “He took Margaret from me.”

  “Margaret?” Imogen repeated numbly. “No.”

  “I couldn’t stop him,” he said mournfully. “I tried to fight, but he is too strong.”

  “Is she—?” Imogen couldn’t finish the words.

  “Not yet,” Josiah said. “We have ‘til the full moon hits the edge of the earth.”

  “Tonight?” Imogen demanded in horror. “But what can we do tonight?”

  “That you must discover, m’lady,” he whispered. “We lose time.”

  “Does he have the Marquis?” Imogen pressed her eyes shut.

  “I don’t believe so,” answered Josiah. “Why? Is he missing?”

  “Yes,” Imogen whispered. “What do you need me to do?”

  “You know, don’t you?” he asked with a pointed look over her. “You know you are dead?”

  “Yes, I know,” she whispered.

  “And you know how?”

  “Yes, an accident.” Imogen swallowed, mildly embarrassed by the incident. Josiah was too heartsick to notice.

  “‘Tis a good thing,” he muttered. “Methinks that you are the one to stop my brother.”

  “What?” Imogen gasped. She shook her head frantically. “Why me? I am no one.”

  “You faced him and lived. You resisted his pull. You fought him. ‘Tis more than anyone else has ever done. But you know that, don’t you?”

  Imogen nodded. Uncertain, she whispered, “But it almost consumed me. There was so much hate and despair in him. I could not face it again.”

  “You might not have to,” Josiah admitted.

  “But why me?” she repeated. “You are much stronger than I. Surely—”

  “‘Tis not with physical strength that you fight him. ‘Tis with your mind, your heart. I have never been strong enough to control him. He knows too well my weaknesses.” Josiah rubbed the back of his neck, sinking lower into the seat. “Methinks you can banish him. You are not one of his victims and because of it he does not know your deepest fears. He won’t know, unless you tell him. You died of your own recklessness in the mist and not by evil’s doing. You faced him and survived.”

  “And if I don’t?” she asked under her breath.

  “Then he will continue to kill whoever comes to live at Rothfield,” Josiah said. “And we will be able to do
nothing.”

  “Jane,” muttered Imogen in terror.

  The knight nodded. “Yea, m’lady, your sister. Methinks he might go after her next. She is a noblewoman and has a good, pure heart. With her marriage to a rich Colonel, she will do many great things. Hers is the type of spirit the demon likes most to condemn. For if they pluck her in her youth they will prevent her kindness from being. ‘Tis the same reason they took Dougal. Ten years from the time of his death, in the year of our lord seventeen hundred and seventy three, he was to enter parliament in London. His influence over the crown would have saved many lives. The Revolutionary War of the Colonies would have seen fewer tragedies.”

  “How do you know?” she whispered in awe, paling at the revelation.

  “‘Tis my brother’s gift to see the future. And ‘tis my curse that I should see the things he prevents. That is how I know where he will strike.”

  “What is your brother?” Imogen asked, growing determined. She must fight. Too many of those she loved depended on her. The beast already had Margaret and possibly Dougal. Imogen swallowed. Her heart broke. And he might even take Jane.

  “Evil,” he answered.

  “Does he come only with the mist and the dog? Is there any warning as to where he goes when he leaves?”

  “I cannot say. I only feel it. Evil can take many shapes—animals, human, even statues in the garden. Who knows where he goes when he hides?”

  “Paintings?” asked Imogen with an intense sense of foreboding.

  “Assuredly, m’lady,” he answered with a curt nod. He seemed reluctant to speculate. Imogen wondered if he still felt loyalty to his brother. Josiah had failed to stop him before. Would he be inclined to protect him now?

  Imogen sighed. She knew where the demon was hiding. She thought of all the times that she roamed the hall. There was one place she was drawn to go, to look—the portrait of a man and his dog. Once, she had even thought to have seen those within the portrait move. It was worth a closer look. Jumping to her feet, Imogen said, “I think I know. I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait,” Josiah exclaimed. His tortured gaze pleaded with her. Imogen pulled back from him when he would have touched her. She shivered in foreboding. “You must promise me something. Whatever happens—whatever it is you see—you must save Margaret. And you must kill my brother. Send him to hell.”

  Imogen wondered at his hard words. She knew there was more he wasn’t telling her, but she didn’t think it necessary to pry. She nodded solemnly at his tormented expression. It was as if his heart was being ripped from his chest.

  “Yes,” she promised.

  “I will help you in whatever way I can, though it will not be much,” he vowed. Imogen nodded, turning to go to the house. His words stopped her. “And, when I am gone, tell Margaret I love her.”

  Imogen spun. Her gaze scanned the pathways, but Josiah had disappeared.

  * * * *

  Imogen crept through the halls, careful not to make a sound. Her eyes scanned the numerous portraits, the many cold faces staring out from the canvases, their clothing ranging over many decades of generations past. Suddenly, she stopped. Seeing a familiar frame in the distance, she raced forward.

  Standing before the medium-sized painting, she studied it. At a glance, it was nothing special, not a work that would stick in one’s mind. The brush strokes were merely adequate, the frame of no spectacular quality. However, when she studied the figures, she saw that they looked different than she remembered. The dog had moved from one side of the man to the other and the man’s weight had shifted. The beast, she recognized immediately.

  Carefully studying the man’s small features, Imogen noticed his dark eyes. However, the hallway was too dim to make out much else. Coming close to the frame, she kept her gaze fixed upon his face. The eyes did not move. Slowly, she reached out with trembling hands to grab the portrait from the wall. With a stiff yank, she pulled it down.

  She slowly stalked through the hallway, trying not to jiggle the painting lest she awaken the figures within it. She watched them carefully, making it to the front hall without incident. Gingerly, she brought the painting to the light.

  Imogen gasped. The frame plummeted to the ground, landing with a hard smack against the marble floor. Shaking, she shook her head. She knew the man’s face—the dark hair, black eyes, and strong cheekbones. It was Josiah. It had to be. The face was too much his—the wrinkles about the eyes, the crease beside the firm set of his mouth. This was no brother.

  Unexpectedly, a rush of cold air came over her. Imogen froze. The foyer faded until she was standing before a memory, listening to Josiah as he spoke to her. She saw herself in the garden. She watched herself answering him in kind. The words were fuzzy, growing louder as the memory became more real. The fog was around them, fading the distance to all but the cloud of her remembrance.

  “He hunts,” said Josiah cryptically. “You should begone.”

  “Who?” she heard herself respond. Imogen ignored her own words, listening to the knight. Walking around the two figures, she studied him. At first what he said was harmless, just as she remembered. There was tenderness and concern in his words. And, as she watched his eyes, she knew she saw kindness in them. He couldn’t be the man who had tried to trap her soul with a deadly gaze.

  “You’re a murderer,” she had hissed.

  Imogen watched the pain cross the knight’s face at the accusation.

  “Not me. My brother.”

  “What did you do with Margaret? I’m taking her with me,” voiced the past Imogen. “Hand her over.”

  “She is my ward, not yours.”

  Imogen came close to his face. He did care for the girl—as a daughter, perhaps? His love as he said her name was there in his face. Imogen reached out to touch him. Her hand fell through his chest. Josiah glanced down briefly but did not see her.

  “Why did he kill Margaret?” she had asked him.

  Imogen froze, the chill over her body becoming more intense.

  “‘Twas a mistake. He was after the Marquis, Margaret’s sire,” Josiah had answered. “Lady Margaret got in the way of things. She has the same blood as the Marquis and ‘tis why my brother found her first. He never would have picked her intentionally. The innocent souls of children are harder for him to capture. They are too nimble and flighty and hard to hold.”

  And, as Josiah spoke, his true meaning became clear, a voice tumbling over his past words in her head.

  ‘Twas a mistake. I was sent after the Marquis. My master tricked me into killing the child. I would never have harmed her. My brother is a part of myself.

  Imogen stiffened. She turned around to her figure hazed in memory. The past Imogen smiled at her, ignoring her part of the conversation as she put thoughts into her future self’s own head. The past figure’s lips didn’t move, but Imogen heard the words clearly. The past Imogen nodded, motioning back to the conversation.

  “Dougal,” whispered Imogen only to be mimicked by her shadow self.

  “Why are you keeping them apart?” she had said. The past Imogen rejoined the conversation. Imogen watched in a daze.

  “‘Tis not I who keeps them apart. I found Margaret wandering the grounds searching for her sire soon after she died. I could not find the Marquis in time. His spirit is lost to me.”

  I had to keep them apart. I knew the Marquis searched for his daughter. If he found her and my brother found him, they would both die. I had to keep Margaret safe. I love her.

  “Then mayhap you are the solution betwixt them. You can see Margaret and her sire. ‘Tis you that must join them.”

  I knew father and daughter couldn’t see each other. The demon that takes over me will no longer be satisfied with only Dougal. He wants Margaret too. He knows I have her. I must reunite father and daughter. But I need to get them to the same place at the same time. That is where you must help me. If you get them together, I will lift the cloak of blindness I put on them.

  “It cannot be uttered. To say
his name is to summons him.”

  I cannot tell you ‘tis I that you seek. To say it is to call the demon forth to hunt.

  Imogen watched the conversation. The knight’s voice became a quiet murmur, drowned out by the translation of his words in her head.

  “Can’t you stop him?” her past self had asked. No longer did the past Imogen glance at her knowingly. Her attention was back fully on the knight.

  “Nay,” Josiah answered with a mournful toss of his head. “Wouldst that I could. But I did not stop him in life as was my duty. In death he is too strong for me to try. Long ago, this was my family’s holding. My brother made his pact with unholy dark wizards. They gave him power and riches beyond imagination. But as he took his seat of power, the dark ones struck him dead. As payment for that which they bestowed he has pledged his death to bringing them other souls. So long as he feeds their fire with others, they will not take him.”

  I could not control the impulse in life. The dark worshippers tricked me. They promised me riches with no lethal consequences to me, or my family, at their hands. But, in the end, it was their voices that killed me and all those I love. I was stupid and vain to believe such was to be gained without a terrible price. Now, they demand I bring them souls. But, ‘tis not me. ‘Tis a demon who uses me to kill. I cannot stop him. I have prayed for redemption. I have prayed for the death of my own soul in the place of others.

  Suddenly, Josiah turned to her. Imogen froze. The image of her past self faded until only she and the knight were left. Seeing the flash of his eyes, she tried to back away. She was stiff within the memory. There was no where to escape.

  “You fought me and won,” he said. There was a grim satisfaction and respect in the statement. “You can do it again. Destroy me to save Margaret. Kill me in my demon form and vanquish the demon within me. I give you this gift of knowledge. ‘Tis the only way I can help you. If it is discovered I have revealed this to you, all will be lost—including the souls of those you love.”

  With a flash, the image disappeared. Imogen fell to the floor, panting for breath. Her body felt weak. Looking over at the painting, she saw Josiah watching her. His eyes held infinite sadness and pain. The portrait moved. Josiah bowed his head in shame and turned his back to her. The beast remained the same.