by Kelley York
“If he notices the box is missing, or us, for that matter,” Benji whispers.
Yes. We’re running out of time to plan. I shove the box back into his hands and hurry forward to begin unhitching the horse. Benji follows and stops me with a hand to my arm.
“Wait. Let’s take the carriage, too.”
“What? Why? We can travel faster without it.”
“Because with the carriage, they need only replace the horse to give chase. Five of them won’t be following with a single horse. We can abandon the carriage outside of the city, if necessary.”
I pause, glancing back at the building. Fine. We don’t have time to debate. Benji begins to climb up onto the bench while I stow our things in the carriage. He hands over the reins as I join him, and I think about how this is going to be a bit different than our wagon back home.
Different, but not impossible. A well-trained horse will know what to do. I give the reins a flick and click my tongue, and Rogue starts at a leisurely walk down the street. At the next intersection, I give the reins another flick and she picks up her pace, just quick enough that the cab rattles precariously beneath us as its wheels roll across the cobblestone.
I’m unfamiliar with this city and we have no map to go by. For now, I focus on getting as far from the empty building as possible, turning only when necessary. The streets are dark and as foggy as a London morning, thick swaths of mist pushed in from the bay. Even as the sun begins to rise, it does little to chase it away.
We stop only when we spot a general store opening. I remain with the cart while Benji goes inside for directions. He returns with a satchel of food and, better than just directions, a map. He re-joins me on the driver’s bench, studying it a moment before he says, “Straight up ahead. Make a left on Main.”
Having a direction to go is a relief. I coax the horse back into motion. “Where are we headed?”
He purses his lips, eyes still locked upon the map. “There’s a city just a bit north-east of San Francisco. I figured we’d head there, try to find somewhere quiet and see about communicating with the woman’s spirit again for guidance.”
Good enough for me. We could be headed back to Boston on horseback for all I care.
So long as it puts us at a safe distance from Nathaniel Crane.
CHAPTER 18 – BENJAMIN
Heading north from San Francisco would require a ferry ride across the bay. Preston does not know that, and I have no intention of enlightening him just yet. If he notices we’re headed South toward San Mateo, he doesn’t comment. I ought to feel guilty about deceiving him—and I do, after a fashion—but were I to tell him where I intend to go, his ensuing arguments would waste precious time we cannot spare.
Now and again, I see the ghost of Ellie on the sides of the street, her drawn face and dead eyes watching us every step of the way.
I knew something was amiss the moment I woke. It was not just the specks of blood on my shirt, or the look Sid had given me in the carriage on the way back from Carlton’s. It was Ellie herself, for once present and silent. She has not spoken a word, but I know she wants me to follow her…and the further we go, the more I realise she’s leading us back to Mr. Carlton’s home.
Besides all of that, Preston is not a good liar.
When I grabbed hold of Nathaniel Crane last night to stop him from killing Mr. Carlton, I’m positive we did something terribly wrong. Something had clicked in the alcoves of my mind, a door swung open, a darkness pouring out of Crane that I could not control. Preston has dodged any of my questions regarding it and so I can only assume Crane and I left some sort of chaos behind us when we were taken from that place.
An hour or so away, Preston begins to glimpse around, frowning. Everything looks different in the daylight, but surely he’s begun to notice this place feels familiar. It isn’t until I instruct him to pull over, however, that it dawns on him what I’ve done. He draws the cab off to the side of the road and then to an immediate halt, twisting in his seat to take in the surrounding area. “Benji…”
I climb down from the bench, wordless.
“What in the hell?” Preston drops down on the other side, circling round as I’m opening the carriage door to dig for Esher’s notebook inside my bag. “Are we where I think we are?”
What I wouldn’t give for some holy water. But as I rummage around, I come across a glint of silver and close my fingers around it. The necklace little Alice gave me, the one she got from Miss Bennett. I slide my thumb over the crucifix, straighten up, and slip the chain about my neck. It’s as good a form of protection as we’ve got. Only then do I work up the nerve to look at Preston, prepared for a fight even if my stomach hurts at the thought.
“Something happened here last night, didn’t it?”
Preston pauses, opens his mouth, hesitates. “Nothing that we’re capable of fixing.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that! Benji, if you had seen what I saw…”
I cut him off. “Were there other people in the house?”
He stills. “I… What?”
“You and the others were looking for staff in the rest of Carlton’s house. Did you find anyone?” The look of shame that passes over his face is answer enough. I frown. “And you just left them there.”
Preston’s jaw clenches. He lifts his hands, shoving them through his hair. “What was I to do, hm? Drop you on the floor to evacuate the house? Tell the ghosts to hold a moment so I could tend to other matters? Would you have rather I left you at the mercy of Hugo and the others while I went back inside alone?”
No. None of those things would have been an option; I can hardly fault him for any of that, can I? “But you thought it appropriate to lie to me about it after the fact.”
Preston’s shoulders slump as his gaze darts away. “I was in shock from the whole thing. I didn’t know if you were dying or injured or… All I could think about was getting you out of there. The ghosts were everywhere! It wasn’t that I wanted to lie to you, I just wanted to protect you from the truth. You’d have only blamed yourself.”
Some of my anger ebbs just a bit, edged out by a feeling of guilt. Can I fault him entirely, I wonder, when I have my share of secrets that I’ve kept because I felt I was protecting him by doing so? I think of the bruises that have almost entirely healed upon my arm. I think of Edwin Davies, of the ghost of Oscar Frances, and the weight of that secret I shouldered for the remainder of my time at Whisperwood and beyond. All because I knew that Preston—Spencer, too—would only be hurt by such a revelation with no balm to soothe it.
“I cannot say I wouldn’t have done something similar in your shoes.” I touch a hand to his arm. “Preston, you are the one person in my life I trust to always be honest with me. If I can’t rely on you, then who’s left?”
His mouth drops open, but anything he might think to say does not form on his lips. I let my hand fall away as I turn to head down the road for Carlton’s.
It takes a moment, but Preston follows on my heels. He doesn’t speak, and perhaps that’s better. Any apology he might make right now would be insincere. Guilt he may feel, but he also certainly believes he did the right thing in trying to protect me. I won’t concern myself with our issues right now. I want to get into Carlton’s house and find out what happened.
“Who was left behind?” I ask.
Preston says, “A maid. Dark hair, freckles. Feisty thing. Philip had her tied up in the kitchen.”
Tied up… Lord almighty. I pray she managed to free herself and flee the house.
“Were you able to find out if he has any other members of staff that might be on the premises?”
“She said a gardener comes every Friday and Wednesday, and a cook who comes around six in the morning.”
One dead man, one maid, and possibly one cook. Assuming one of the latter two has not already summoned the police to the premises.
It’s for that reason I tread carefully as we near Mr. Carlton’s property. Yet stand
ing there on the side of the road, looking across the grass and driveway leading to his home, I see nothing out of the ordinary. No police wagons, no men milling about, no nothing. It looks as still and quiet as it did last night. I’m uncertain as to whether that is a good thing or a bad thing. The presence of others would at least suggest the ghostly force we unleashed last night had dissipated on its own.
But I sense it, even if I cannot immediately see or hear it. A weight bears down on my chest as we begin our trek up the gravel driveway. In an upper-storey window, a figure passes by the glass, curtains fluttering in its wake. A second figure passes in another window, just as shadowy as the first.
My heart lurches into my throat. I stop and clutch at my chest, the heaviness in the air stifling. It’s so cold my lungs burn. Even Preston seems to feel the wrongness of it, because he touches the door and jerks his hand back as though burned. He rubs the pads of his fingers together and looks askance at me. “All right?” he asks.
That is a very good question. “Stay close to me.”
“That ought to be my line.” He cuts a thin smile, grasps the doorknob, and pushes the door open to step inside.
The sun is up and yet the moment we enter Mr. Carlton’s home, it may as well be midnight. Every inch of light seems to be swallowed whole. And the shadows…
Oh, the shadows.
I recall an afternoon that feels a lifetime ago, seated before Miss Bennett for the first time, her hands clasping mine and Preston’s. The swarm of darkness that had blanketed my vision as she showed us what she sees every day. I had never seen so many ghosts in one place…until now.
They flicker in and out of view in my periphery. Some are faceless blots of ink, scarcely human-shaped. Some move like smoke. Some look more solid and humanoid. Or, well, like corpses that once were human, sometimes with limbs that look too thin or too long, curved, gnarled fingers and gaunt, hollowed-out faces and dark pits where their eyes used to be. A woman, skeletal and naked, crawls across the ceiling. A man stands facing the wall at the base of the stairs, head bowed. He whispers to himself, hurried and desperate, edging on angry.
My hands are clammy and shaky, but I dare not release my hold on Preston. He squeezes my fingers tighter.
We head for the kitchens, stopping in the doorway. I spy the chair the maid must have been tied to, with the rope cut and coiled on the floor. No living person in sight. Perhaps she freed herself and fled. Perhaps someone else showed up and set her loose. Whatever the case may be, I pray they made it out safely.
Bang.
We whirl toward the sound, heads lifted.
It came from upstairs, I think.
Bang.
Again. Nothing more than a sharp thud.
Bang, bang, bang.
My heart is three seconds away from leaping from my chest. Preston does not try to stop me as I lead him for the stairs. We skirt around the angry dead man muttering, watching him cautiously, just in case he diverts his attention to us. A woman shambles down the stairs as we ascend, her dress as torn as her throat. She pays us no mind, but her arm brushes mine and I cannot help but gasp at how the cold burns through my coat.
Upstairs looks no different. Dark. Even through the open doors, very little light shines through. The gas lamps upon the walls are lit, but even their flicker seems to have trouble penetrating the shadows.
Preston stops me. I’m uncertain if it’s fear I hear in his voice, but it’s certainly nerves. “Benji. Are you sure? The girl isn’t here…”
“We don’t know that yet,” I insist. “A bit further. Please.”
He relents. Nods. Begins to walk away, insisting on taking the lead with me just behind him.
Lord, please do not let me regret this decision.
My own nerves notch up and up as we approach the door leading into Carlton’s study. I was unconscious during his death; I don’t even know how he died, though I can make an educated guess—a guess whose name is Hugo. Some part of me wishes to avert my eyes and not look at what remains of him, and yet, it would be selfish. Unfair. His fate is partly my own fault. I deserve to see the consequences of my choices and actions.
Bang.
Preston and I stop just outside the ajar door. Is it coming from here? He lifts his free hand, hesitates, peers through the crack, and then pushes his way inside.
He swears. I budge in beside him to see what he sees.
Or rather, what he doesn’t see.
Mr. Carlton’s body is not there. Only a dark stain upon the rug remains with the scent of blood and death permeating the air.
“Oh,” I gasp. “That’s not good.”
“Bit not good,” Preston agrees. He tries to laugh, but the sound comes out high and uncertain.
Bang.
It hasn’t stopped. It isn’t coming from the study, but further down the hall.
I almost tell Preston to nevermind, that we ought to leave. I open my mouth to do just that as we exit, but I cut myself off when I see the ghost of Ellie in the hallway, lingering outside another door at the end. She watches us, one skinny arm lifting and pointing.
For half a second, I’m standing outside of Whisperwood, watching William Esher shamble his way toward the cemetery, pointing at the cemetery. As unresponsive as a ghost himself.
I shake off the memory and drag in a breath. Steady on.
Ellie vanishes into the shadows as we approach.
Bang.
The door stands wide open, giving us an easy view inside the bedroom. Everything is a mess. It appears to be Mr. Carlton’s room—likely the bed Crane dragged him from in the dead of night.
Bang.
And, standing before a towering wardrobe, is Carlton himself.
He’s still in his dressing gown, one shoulder and sleeve darkened with blood. He’s slumped forward against the armoire doors, slamming the heel of his hand against the door.
Bang.
I cannot breathe.
What did Esher’s book say about this? About dealing with a dead man. No—he and Spencer dealt with the living possessed by spirits. Not reanimated corpses, right?
Preston doesn’t give me a chance to think of what to do, and for once, I am grateful because my mind has blanked. He steps back, drawing me with him, slow and easy.
Then a floorboard beneath our feet creaks. Carlton stills. We freeze, breaths held in silent prayer. The dead man turns. His eyes are milky white, his jaw slack. He surveys us for no more than a second—nowhere near enough time for us to decide on whether we ought to run or remain still and quiet.
The dead man lets out an ear-piercing, unholy shriek. He lunges across the room, closing the distance between us before I can process what’s happening. Preston’s reflexes are better; he shoves me back, putting himself between the corpse and me. My back slams into the door frame while Preston grabs for Carlton’s outstretched arms. They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. It doesn’t matter that Carlton is half Preston’s size. Preston is having difficulty keeping him at bay; Carlton is all gnashing teeth and grasping, twisted fingers.
I cannot think.
What do I do?
What would Spencer do? Esher?
Miss Bennett?
Preston.
I promised his sisters I would keep him safe.
Alice…
My hand flies to the crucifix around my neck. I yank it from around my head and throw myself at Carlton’s side, shoving the metal to his cheek. There’s a rite of exorcism I ought to be reciting, but I wouldn’t begin to know the words. In my panic, I fumble helplessly for any prayer that comes to mind, something I can hear in Mother’s voice.
“O, my Lord and Saviour, in your arms I am safe. Keep me and I have nothing to fear. Give me up and I have nothing to hope for. I do not know what will come upon me before I die. I know nothing about the future, but I rely upon you—”
From the moment the cross touches his skin and I begin to speak, Carlton jerks his head to the side, trying to distance himself from me. He slams Pres
ton to the ground and then scrambles off him. Concern overtakes me and I make the mistake of halting my prayer. Carlton swipes out in that moment, knocking the crucifix from my grasp. It clatters to the floor several feet away, lost to the darkness beneath the bed.
He’s on me a second later, a bony hand locked around my throat. I choke in as deep a breath as I can before his grip tightens and blocks my airways. Preston is on him, trying to drag him off me. I grab at his wrist, attempting to pry his fingers loose. I may as well be trying to bend iron.
I try to cry out. The sound does not make it past my lips. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut.
Even behind my closed eyelids, I cannot seem to escape the dead. Instead of Carlton looming over me, I see the ravaged face of a spirit, angry and…frightened?
Are you afraid? I want to ask.
The emotions are all-encompassing, difficult to place into words. It is nothing and yet everything at once. Fluctuating emotions from one second to the next. The only word that comes to mind is wrong. It’s all so very, very wrong.
Whatever is inside of Carlton, it does not belong there. It needs to leave.
The fingers around my neck twitch and then slacken just a bit. Just enough that I can gasp in a lungful of air. My eyes snap open. Carlton has gone still, face twisted into fury and frustration. Preston meets my gaze from over Carlton’s shoulder and seems to sense what I mean with only a look: wait. He releases Carlton slowly, but does not venture far.
I uncurl my fingers from Carlton’s wrist, lift a hand, and touch his face. My voice comes out hoarse. “You don’t have to be afraid, but you can’t stay here. It’s time to go.”
The dead man’s eyes roll into his head. He rocks back, releasing me completely, and his mouth drops open. A shadow slides across him, away from him, with a sound not unlike a sigh.
Then his corpse slumps gracelessly to the floor and stills.
I cough, dragging in a few deep breaths. Did I do it? Did I truly drive the spirit away?
Preston stares at Carlton’s body, his mouth agape in uncertainty. “What… What was that? What did you do?”
I push myself up to sitting. I’m shaking like a leaf. Am I afraid? Oddly enough, I’m not certain. I ought to be, but it’s…something else I cannot pinpoint. Maybe it’s shock. “I don’t know. I just… I told whatever was inside of him that it needed to go and…and it did. It listened to me.”