Now I am not so sure.
I should get to Mister Parker now.
Mister Parker was the owner of a lumber company that met with success during the building boom. He was to stay with us for an extended time over last summer, and to enjoy the seasons changing before returning to his winter home in Covet Stream in the Southeast Territory. Compared to that palatial home, our bucolic bed-and-breakfast was quaint and rustic to him.
The first week he was with us was non-eventful. He mentioned that his bed was uncomfortable, and we offered to change rooms or change mattresses, but he refused, saying he believed it was just a matter of getting accustomed to sleeping in a new place. What’s funny is that he also refused a partial refund. Mister Parker said he didn’t need it and apologized for mentioning it.
“Surely it’s my imagination. Have you ever slept on these mattresses?” He asked, tone mild as he cracked into his poached egg.
“Yes, but I’m well-accustomed to the newer innersprings,” I said, refilling his coffee cup for him. “There should be a way to make it up to you, Mister Parker. Perhaps a twenty percent refund would help?”
He waved his hand. “No need, dear Miss Kellogg. I’m hearty enough. I wanted to let you know, in case others complained.”
No one refuses a partial refund. Not anyone I’ve ever met, anyway. The man was honorable, and a gentleman. Why he complained? That could be to make conversation—not everyone is capable of proper social behavior. The rest of the time, he was agreeable and pleasant. Even complimenting the staff on their orderliness and the chef on his cooking skills. Most people of Parker’s ilk don’t bother with recognizing the staff as people, let alone paying compliments.
After the first week, however, he changed. He became irrational, making strange demands of the staff, complaining that there were rats in the walls, and telling Mary to stop wandering into his room at night with an ax.
At that accusation, Mary balked.
“Mister Parker, if I were to enter your room with an ax, you’d not be around to discuss it over breakfast,” she made a huffing noise.
I held up a hand before Mister Parker could respond. Mary turned away. “If you’ll excuse me.”
She left the room, skirt sweeping out behind her.
“Mister Parker, I assure you Mary sleeps sound during the night, and only the gardener uses an ax to chop firewood. If you’d like, we could add a deadbolt lock to your door for added security—no charge, of course.”
Parker frowned and looked as if he were having some kind of internal debate. “Yes, I suppose that would be acceptable.”
We added the deadbolt to his door. For two or three weeks, we had few complaints from him, but his eccentricities increased. Singing was his favorite pastime, but his songs were becoming stranger, and he spoke in a foreign language that neither of us could identify. Mary asked him, but he wouldn’t identify the language. He said it was an ancient, dead language, and that few knew it.
Mister Parker spent more and more time in solitude. Sometimes, the maid would hear him singing, or chanting, in that ancient language. He wouldn’t let her in to clean his room.
Mary and I were at a loss. We couldn’t evict him from the premises as he had paid in full, and we had no policy on making it mandatory to let staff into the room to clean it. As long as he wasn’t burning the place down or being a nuisance to the other guests, there was little we could do. In the Northeast Territory, a person has to be a ‘pervasive nuisance’ to be evicted from a place of boarding. Since none of our guests complained (they stayed away from him), we had to tolerate his change in demeanor.
One night, just after the solstice, he came to dinner with the other guests. Mary and I often took dinner with our guests to hear stories of their adventures in the woods or exploring the landmarks in the small township. Sometimes the occasional tale of local color proved amusing. But when Mister Parker joined us, my entrée formed a pit in my stomach, and I had difficulty finishing my meal. Instead, I wound up drinking more of the wine.
At first there was no need to feel ill at ease. Mister Parker was back to his jovial self. That’s when I saw it.
The smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The way he looked at everyone as if he were trying to figure out a rousing whodunit. Forced chatter and laughter, strained to the point of breaking.
It broke.
Mister Parker got into a heated debate with a gentleman over a trivial matter, and the knot in my stomach grew tighter.
“Gentlemen, please—civility at the table—we can discuss this later,” I said, using my motherly tone.
That was when he drew a pistol.
Several people scattered, trying to duck under the table and scurry away, while others sat, gape-mouthed and clutching pearls. I gripped the table, my hand inches away from my steak knife.
The gentleman with the pistol in his face, a fine guest by the name of Eustace Kirchner, spoke in mellow tones to him and agreed with Mister Parker’s points. Kirchner was a psychiatrist, and skilled at his job. When he spoke it transfixed us, and my hand slid away from the steak knife.
With his hypnotic tone, Kirchner persuaded Nicholas Parker to put the gun away, and Kirchner helped him back to his room with a sedative.
We finished dinner then and left the table in silence. Slipping out of the room, I went to the office and called the constable, clicking the lock and ensuring there were no eavesdroppers.
The constable was unwavering in his insistence that since Dr. Kirchner got the situation under control, there was nothing they could do about it. The noise of spitting chaw made me glad he couldn’t see my face twist with disgust. Filthy habit.
“What do you expect from me, ma’am—I don’t know,” he said, voice tinny and distant over the telephone. “Fact is, he didn’t use his weapon, and there are no laws in the Northeast Territory that state a person can’t carry a weapon with them. Sounds like people should be sure not to rile this man up.”
I held back a sigh, and a growl of irritation. “Well, I suppose then we’ll call you when he shoots someone.”
He chuckled. “Ma’am, in my experience, men like that are made of talk, you see. Those types carry guns and wave them around, but when it comes to it, they don’t act on their threats. I’m sure you’re safe, no need to get hysteric—”
The receiver hit the cradle so hard when I hung up on him that the bell rang.
Either he didn’t believe me because I’m an outsider to his little town, or because I’m a woman. Had I been a man, or had a husband to verify the information, I’m sure he would have listened. But no, not being a hysterical woman—even though I was calm and lucid over the phone—he didn’t trust me. Or he thought I was doing it for attention. He started to call me hysterical, so I’m inclined to believe my womanhood stood in my way of being believed.
For the record, that wasn’t Constable Max Callfield. It was one of his idiot lackeys. Max would have believed me, but I’m sure no one told him.
With my head in my hands, I sat there, trembling from fear and anger. If we were lucky, Mister Parker would take his leave from us in the morning. That he might commit suicide with that gun gripped my heart, but not out of pity for the man. For self-interest, I admit. I didn’t want this man ruining the dream that Mary and I had spent so much time and effort building.
Yet it was not a gunshot that took Nicholas Parker from this world.
We don’t know what happened to him—we couldn’t be sure. Mary called it “his accident,” or “the accident.”
He vanished and took no belongings if he left, and he must have gone through the window, because we had to cut our way into his room after he didn’t come downstairs for two days. He even left his pistol behind.
The staff, Mary, and I expected a gory scene as we opened the door.
Instead, we had a scene of a closed window, clothes folded and waiting for after a bath, with everything in place as it would be common for someone staying in a hotel or bed-and-breakfast. The room was spot
less though there’d been no maid service in the room for cleaning. He changed his bedding and left them and his used food trays outside his door every other day, but there wasn’t even a hint of dust in the room.
The suitcase in the closet was empty and the drawers were full with two seasons worth of garments. Cologne, shaving items, everything in place. Reflecting on it now still makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
It was as if the house ate him. That sounds humorous. Yet I’m not laughing at the notion.
Mary called his family, business colleagues, and others that might know his whereabouts, but to no avail. We turned the matter over to the constable, and they took his things. As far as local gossip, there wasn’t any—we attempted to be discreet about it. I’m certain Mary ensured that money kept lips shut tight.
With careful inventions, we could even hide it from the other guests, telling them that Mister Parker was called away on urgent business and we would send him his belongings. Since the guests who’d encountered him that night with the gun were eager to see him go, they didn’t query further.
I suppose they suspected things on occasion, but they said nothing, and it didn’t get out as a splash story, because more guests came and went after that. We had several frequenters and long-stay guests. The visitors forgot Mister Parker.
After Mister Parker’s strange disappearance, Mary was not too keen on having me hold a séance, despite her skepticism. I insisted.
Looking back, she had been right. Mary was often right, damn it. But I am a stubborn woman who wants to follow my own path, and I often learn lessons the hard way.
This time, Mary’s instincts were correct, though she was not one to go on instincts, preferring logical arguments over emotional ones. But I thought a séance would be a good idea, and felt it needed to happen—and I was curious.
We needed to communicate with the spirits to get things to settle down in the house—not just for us, but for them. That’s what I believed. Mary thought it was nonsense and would invite trouble. After a fortnight of chasing after Mary, I cornered her while she was doing the laundry.
I sat in the clothing basket, bottom getting soaked by wet clothing, and I wouldn’t let her finish her chore until she acquiesced.
“Do I ask for too much?” I looked up from my station in the basket.
Mary frowned at me, sighing with exasperation.
“No, you don’t. But why is this so important to you?”
I squished around in the basket for a moment before answering. “If it’s all nonsense, like you say, Mary, then what trouble could it cause?”
“Séances don’t attract a desirable element, Elizabeth.”
“Don’t be such a snob,” I said, wagging my finger at her. “What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid you won’t let me get these chores done.” Mary said, one hand on her hip, and the other waving me off. I didn’t move.
“No, I won’t until you let me do this,” I said, crossing my arms across my chest.
“Fine, you can have your séance.” She gave in with a laugh, then pushed me from the basket to get back to work.
The night of the séance brought high winds, a cloudless sky, and a glittering, fat full moon. Storm clouds, far away, rumbled in the distance. An ideal All Hallows Eve night. It would be perfect for communicating with the beyond, and whatever forces were alive within the house.
Only a couple remained as guests at our bed-and-breakfast once I’d told them about the séance. The rest had gone elsewhere for the upcoming winter. We didn’t tell everyone about it—I wasn’t that careless, but Thomas Lind and his wife, Diana Schuster-Lind, expressed interest in spiritualism. After several dinners together filled with discussions of the supernatural, I couldn’t resist.
The only other couple I invited were locals, the lovely Mister And Missus Callfield. They were a dear pair of people with two beautiful children and had been the only people who were kind enough to welcome Mary and me to the town. With those four, and the medium, there were only seven of us—a lucky number for me.
Pragmatic Mary didn’t believe in lucky or unlucky numbers unless they were plus or minus in the ledger.
My love still held to the notion that Mister Parker went mad and disappeared into the forest. But a body was never recovered, and there was no evidence that wild animals carried him off, and she had no answer for that. Plus, the windows were closed in that room. The dogs called in by a hunter in town, found no scent of him out of doors. Parker went into his room that night and never returned, as if he’d evaporated like mist in the mid-morning sun. Mary refused to see it, saying he must have gotten out another way.
But I knew, deep inside, that the house had claimed Mister Parker. I was determined to get him back, and any others the house may have claimed. There had to be others, and this séance would reveal them—I was certain.
The Gypsy woman I hired for the evening had not wanted to step over the threshold.
“The grounds are cursed,” she said in her deep voice and exotic accent. I nodded, trying not to bubble up with giddy enthusiasm.
“An ancient evil lives under the soil. Its poison has seeped into the walls,” Madam Lesko said, still standing on the porch. “The house has a mind—a hateful, vile, and wretched mind.”
I love Gypsy theatrics. Fascinating people.
“Perhaps you can help us get rid of the evil then,” I said with my best party smile.
“You don’t understand. This isn’t something that one chases out—it’s something that gets inside of you, and changes you.”
“Would an additional payment change your mind?” I asked. “Fifty dollars extra.”
She shook her head. “No, you still don’t understand.”
“One hundred more,” I said, hearing my voice straining with desperation. This wasn’t the best position to be in with the woman. I took a deep breath and tried to wash away the strain of unease in my stomach.
“No.”
“Two hundred. Please. We need your help. I promised an authentic medium to my guests.”
The authentic Gypsy medium bit her lower lip and looked up at the house. She grew pale, but I could see in her eyes she wanted that money. The old woman looked like she was having a tennis match in her head. I started to sweat in my evening dress.
“Fine. I’ll do it,” she said.
Lesko was from a poor family. Her children and grandchildren moved about looking for work and they needed that money. Theatrics or no, it seemed a brave attempt to get as much money from me as possible. It worked well.
“I’ll pay you once we’re finished,” I said. Mary, who had heard the end of the exchange, gave me a look that told me I would get a stern lecture about money matters later. I looked back at her and shrugged, caving to the Gypsy’s wishes. I couldn’t back out of the agreement now.
I never got a lecture from Mary, and the Gypsy woman told me she would not collect her two hundred dollars after that night. “It is tainted money,” she said.
Instead, she took food: a roast, vegetables, and bread to ensure her family received a decent meal for the night.
“Please, take the money, I insist,” I said. Lesko held up her hand and shook her head so hard I thought she might snap her neck.
“I won’t take it.” Her charm bracelet rattled as she shook her hand to keep the money out of it. “If you’re worried about word getting out, I assure you I’ll be silent.”
She left after that, and I went back inside. I didn’t understand what she meant by ‘tainted money,’ but I thought she was all about getting as much from me as possible. She disproved me into shame.
Mary tells me I shouldn’t tell a story out of order. Let me start at the beginning of that evening.
The séance started as expected, after the party gathered and ate from the spread provided by our chefs—who left after service, as did the staff. I didn’t invite them to stay and they were eager to leave. They weren’t all residents of Silver Hollow—some
lived in the next town over. No doubt they were eager to get home (half of them acted disgruntled at a séance going on where they worked).
The séance began at midnight. The lot of us gathered in the intimate sitting room where I had a round table set up and the Gypsy was waiting.
I need not expound upon how a séance goes—what’s important was how much it differed from those I attended in the past.
We joined hands, and some closed their eyes while others watched for signs of tricks or a setup. Though the knocking method had proved to be a hoax (Mary gloated for several weeks over that), some tricks weren’t so simple.
This evening was different. No tricks. No hoax. The Gypsy woman, Lika Lesko (not her Romani name, more like a stage name), channeled something. A wretched thing took over and refused to depart. Her eyes opened wide, and she made a sound that no human had any right making—a guttural growl that sounded like there was more than one voice coming out of her. None of the voices sounded human.
The noise was in a language that none of us recognized and sounded similar to the gibberish that Parker had chanted once. I tried to break contact from Mary on my left and Lika on my right, but I couldn’t loosen my grip from theirs.
When I was young, we were among the first people in our neighborhood to get electricity, and I saw a man working on the wiring get electrocuted. He couldn’t let go of the live wire, and when he collapsed, the wire was still stuck to his hands. I don’t know how awful it must have felt, but the jolt that was causing me to cling to both Mary and Lika burned through my body.
A crash from the basement resonated through the house, and that broke the spell that was holding us together. I rose to my feet to get away from the circle. To break it so that whatever was taking over Lika’s body.
That’s when the electricity went out, and I heard a woman scream. I wasn’t sure if it was Diana or Lisette. I knew it wasn’t Mary (being familiar with her voice).
The candle was the last light left in the room, and that blew out, plunging us into near darkness. The only savior was the full moon overhead, casting a silvery shine on the room and on the six figures frozen in place.
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