by John Shirley
Now and then, however, in this workaday world, things do happen in the delightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is when they do. Half an hour after everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one drop more, that drop came. Laurie had bid them all a goodnight and, wrapped in jacket and scarf, had left by the parlor door. But he was gone for no more than a minute when there came a heavy knocking on the door. Without being invited, he popped his head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault and uttered an Indian war whoop, for his face was so full of excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, “Here’s another Christmas present for the March family.”
Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away somehow, and in his place stood a tall man, muffled to the eyes, who tried to say something but couldn’t. His face was gaunt and gray beneath the scarf, and his eyes held a surprising glint of gold, even in the dimly lit room. Hannah, in the kitchen cleaning up after the festivities, uttered a loud gasp of surprise.
Of course, there was a general stampede, and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a word.
Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of three pairs of loving arms. Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting and had to be doctored by Laurie in the hallway. Meg clasped her hands and let out a whoop of joy that was more befitting Jo, while Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool and, never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father’s snow-covered boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself. She held up her hand with a warning and said, “Hush, children! Remember Beth.”
But it was too late.
The figure by the fireplace loomed closer, but then, upon making eye contact with the bundled figure, suddenly shrank back, an expression not of joy but of stark terror on her face. She uttered a low, lonely wail that mingled with the wind in the flue.
“That’s not Father,” she whispered, but in the ensuing chaos of Father’s arrival, not one of them heard her, or, if they did, no one deigned to listen to, much less believe her.
It was not at all romantic, for Hannah was discovered standing in the kitchen doorway, her eyes wide and glistening, her face also a mask of fright that matched Beth’s, which had dissolved into the darkness next to the fireplace.
“Why, what is it, dear Hannah?” asked Meg, who was the first to notice the shocked expression on their loving maid’s face.
But Hannah found she could say nothing, her tongue was tied into a knot as she regarded Mr. March, all the while shaking her head from side to side and buzzing so loudly Jo was reminded of the sounds hornets might make in their hive. Her eyes narrowed with what could only have been doubt and a rising concern.
Marmee suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest and sustenance after what must have been a terribly grueling ordeal through the teeth of the storm, but she paused when she removed her husband’s glove and took hold of his hands, squeezing them between her own.
“My Goodness, how cold you are,” she said, feeling her own share of concern because she realized that her husband had not spoken a word of greeting. “Come,” she said. “Sit by the fire and warm yourself.”
Father looked at her with a vague, uncomprehending glance and said nothing as he walked with halting steps over to the nearest chair.
“Aren’t you going to sit in your customary chair, Father?” asked Amy, indicating the old wooden rocker with the padded cushions that was placed front and center of the blazing fireplace.
Father stood in the middle of the room, looking mutely at her as though he had no understanding whatsoever of what she had just said. His gaze then wandered around the small parlor with the most mystified expression painted upon his gaunt and pale features. Mrs. March could only shudder at the thought of the ordeals he must have endured since last she had seen him. She noted now that his eyes remained clouded and uncomprehending, as though he were dazed.
All the while, Mr. March spoke not, but he forced a crooked smile when he looked at his wife, exposing wide, white teeth that, in the firelight, looked much larger than anyone remembered. After a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, he looked at his wife again with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows. Mrs. March gently nodded and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn’t like to have something to eat and drink. Jo saw and understood the look, and she stalked away to get a bottle of wine and some beef tea, muttering to herself as she closed the kitchen door behind her. There, she locked eyes with Hannah, whose expression of shock had abated not at all.
“Why, what ever is the matter, Hannah?” she asked.
Hannah did not respond. She stood immobile and shook her head from side to side and whispered softly, “Beth is right.”
Meanwhile, back in the parlor, Amy, who now sat on her father’s knee, whispered, “I’m glad it’s over because now we’ve got you back.”
“That’s not Father,” Beth repeated, unseen from the darkness in the corner. Her voice was as soft as the hush of falling snow outside.
“Rather a rough road for you to travel,” Mrs. March said to her husband. “Especially the latter part of it in such weather. But you have got on bravely, and your burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon.” She looked with motherly satisfaction at the young faces gathered around her husband and thought how the worst of their trials, too, must now be close to an end.
“Our troubles are just beginning,” said Hannah, who entered from the kitchen a step ahead of Jo, who was carrying a bottle of wine and a steaming cup of beef tea.
“What do you mean?” inquired Marmee, casting a furtive glance at the maid who was moving forward, inching her way as if traversing a pit filled with snakes.
Hannah did not answer her as she cast a long, meaningful glance at Laurie, who throughout the reunion had graciously remained silent and watchful by the door.
“You see it, too, do you not, young Master Laurence?” Hannah asked, turning her full attention on the boy whose first impulse was to fade back into the darkness even if it meant going back out into the fury of the blizzard without his coat and scarf snuggly wrapped around him.
“Tell me. You see it. Don’t you?” Hannah said as she took several strides toward him.
Mrs. March and the three girls watched in awe, their attention fixed on these two. Speaking up so forcefully was quite uncharacteristic of Hannah, but Laurie remained perfectly silent for a terribly long moment, his golden eyes flashing back and forth from Mrs. March to each of the girls, including Beth in the corner, and then finally at Father, sitting in his chair. Ever so slightly, he nodded and said, “He is not who I thought he was.”
The expression on Hannah’s face suddenly fixed with determination as she shifted her gaze again to Father and stared intently at him. Her unblinking eyes held a golden glint, like a cat’s eyes in the firelight.
“He’s not of our kind,” Hannah said.
“Whatever are you two talking about?” inquired Meg, wringing her hands together helplessly, but Hannah said not another word. Instead, with stunning agility, she moved quickly, closing the distance between herself and the gaunt figure shivering in the chair beside the fireplace.
In other circumstances, had he not been so exhausted from his travels, Meg thought, Father would have reacted in time. But his journey home had worn him past the point of exhaustion, and his only reaction was to let out a high-pitched squealing sound as the maid came up close to him and clasped him by the shoulders with both hands. Then, with a surprising display of strength, she lifted him to his feet, spun him around, and began to push him backward, moving slowly toward the blazing fireplace.
“In Heaven’s name, Hannah! What in God’s name are you doing?” Marmee cried out.
She and her daughters watched, in stunned silence, unable to comprehend and certainly unable to react quickly enough to help Father. Jo dropped the
bottle of wine and the cup of beef tea, which shattered on the hardwood floor, as she let out a wild cry. Everyone watched as Hannah, her face set with grim determination, struggled with Father. Faint, inhuman sounds issued from her throat as she forced him ever so slowly backward, closer to the fire. When the heel of his boot caught on a raised hearthstone, she pushed him away from her. Father tumbled backward and fell flat on his back onto the blazing logs. A bright shower of sparks corkscrewed up the chimney as the flames engulfed him with a roar.
What happened next would be the subject of great discussion for a long time afterward in the March household, but all agreed that something most unnatural occurred in their home for, indeed, it was evident that the figure they had assumed was Father was, indeed, not that personage at all. The flames quickly consumed the outer shell of the creature that had taken the shape of their loving husband and father, and writhing and thrashing about on the floor, it all the while emitted shrill, screeching sounds that reminded Jo of the cries a coyote makes in the forest on a full moon night. The skin of the being’s face burned away with the hissing blue flare of a gas jet, peeling back skin to expose another visage hidden beneath, one that had scaled green skin like a frog’s, large shining oval eyes the color of ebony, and three rows of needle-sharp teeth.
No one in the little parlor spoke or dared move until the figure finally stopped twitching, leaving naught but the charred bones of a most inhuman-looking skeleton. Even these soon crumbled away to a fine, gray dust. The family exchanged unspoken glances as the most noxious fumes imaginable filled the air, choking them. Marmee, in stunned stupefaction because of what she and her children had just witnessed, shook herself and commanded Laurie, who was nearest to the door, to please open the door and allow some fresh air in.
Laurie did as he was told, and in the ensuing silence, all of them could hear and not deny what Beth was saying from her dark corner by the fireplace.
“I told you that wasn’t Father at the door,” she whispered. “Doesn’t anybody ever listen to me?”
Death Stopped for Miss Dickinson
By Kristine Kathryn Rusch
January 26, 1863
Near Township Landing, Florida
The air smelled of pine trees, a scent Colonel Thomas Wentworth Higginson associated with home. Here, in the Florida, where dark, spindly trees rose around him like ghosts, Higginson never imagined he’d be thinking of Massachusetts, with its stately settled forests and its magnificent tamed land.
Nothing was tamed here. His boots had been damp for days, the earth mushy, even though his regiment, the First South Carolina Volunteer Infantry, had somehow found solid ground. He could hear the tramp, tramp, tramp of hundreds of feet, but his soldiers were quiet, well trained, alert.
Everything Washington, D.C., thought they would not be.
Even in the dark, after days of river travel, Higginson was proud of these men, the most disciplined he had ever worked with. He said so in his dispatches, although he doubted Union Command believed him. They had taken a risk creating an entire regiment of colored troops, mostly freed slaves, all of whom had been in a martial mood much of the month, ever since word of President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation reached them.
A strange clip-clop, then the whinny of a horse, and a shushing. Higginson’s breath caught. His men had no horses. They traveled mostly on steamers, and hence had no need of horses, even if the Union Army had deemed such soldiers worthy of steeds—which they did not.
He whispered a command. It was all he needed to stop his troops. They halted immediately and slapped their rifles into position.
He had a fleeting thought that made him smile—a Confederate soldier’s worst nightmare: to meet a black man with a gun—and then waited.
The silence was thick, the kind of silence that came only when men listened, trying to hear someone else move. Breathing hushed, each movement monitored. No one wanted to move first.
Then Higginson saw him, rising out of the trees as if made of smoke—a black-robed figure, face hidden by a hood, carrying a scythe.
Higginson’s breath caught. What kind of madness was this? Some kind of farmer lurking in the woods, killing soldiers?
The figure turned toward him. In the darkness, the hood looked empty. Higginson saw no face, just a great, gaping beyond.
His heart pounded. He was forty years old, tired, overworked and overwrought; hallucinations should not have surprised him.
But they did, this did.
And then the hallucination dissolved as if it had never been. One of his men cried out, and a volley of shots lit up the night, revealing nothing where the hooded figure had stood.
All around it, however, horses, men, Confederates—white faces in the strange gunlight, looking frightened and surprised. They surrounded his men, but could not believe what they saw—for a moment anyway.
Then their weapons came out, and they returned fire, and Higginson forgot the hooded figure, forgot that moment of silence, and plunged deep into the battle, his own rifle raised, bayonet out as, around him, the air filled with the stink of gunpowder, the screams of horses, the wild cries of men.
The battle raged late into the night and when it was done, rifle smoke hung in the sky, the trees nearly invisible, the wounded crying around him. Thirteen bodies—twelve of theirs, one of his—gathered nearer each other than he would have liked.
Near the spot where he had seen the hooded figure, where he had imagined smoke, in that moment of silence, before the first shot was fired and the first smoke appeared.
Forty years old and he had never been frightened—not when he attacked Boston’s courthouse trying to rescue escaped slave Anthony Burns, not when he fought with the free-staters in Kansas, not when he met John Brown with an offer to fund the raid on Harper’s Ferry.
No, Thomas Wentworth Higginson had never been frightened, not until he saw those bodies, scattered in a discernable pattern in the ghostly wood where a spectral figure had stood hours before, and wielded a scythe, creating a clearing where Higginson would have sworn there had not been one before.
He reassured himself: every man was allowed one moment of terror in a war. Then he resolved that he would never be frightened again.
And he was not. In the war, anyway.
But he would be frightened again, and much worse than this, in a small town in Massachusetts where he met a slight poetess, seven years later.
May 23, 1886
The Homestead
Amherst, Massachusetts
Lavinia Dickinson stood in the doorway to her sister’s bedroom. It still smelled faintly of Emily—liniment and homemade lavender soap, dried leaves from the many plants she’d preserved, and of course, the sharp odor of India ink that seemed embedded in the walls.
The bed was bare, the coverings washed and to be washed again. Dr. Bigelow had initially said Emily died of apoplexy, but he had written on her death certificate that she had been a victim of Bright’s Disease, which he swore had no contagion.
Vinnie had learned, in her fifty-three years, that doctors knew less than most about death and disease, but she trusted Dr. Bigelow enough to keep the sheets and Emily’s favorite quilt, although she would launder them repeatedly before putting them away.
Vinnie had thought to burn them, but their mother had made that quilt, and it held precious memories. Still, Vinnie had time to change her mind. She would have a bonfire soon, before the summer dryness set in.
Emily had made her swear—had asked a solemn oath—that Vinnie would destroy her papers, all her papers, should Emily die first.
Vinnie had not expected Emily to die first. That bright flame seemed impossible to distinguish, even as she lay unconscious on her bed for two days, her breath coming in deep unnatural rasps.
No one expected Emily to die—least of all, Emily.
And Vinnie was uncertain how to proceed, without her stronger, smarter, older sister to guide her.
May 15, 1847
The West Street Ho
use
Amherst, Massachusetts
The moon cast an eerie silver light through Emily’s bedroom window. She set down her pen and blew out the candle on her desk. The light seemed stronger than before.
She slid her chair back, the legs scraping against the polished wood floor, and paused for a moment, hoping she had not awakened Father. He would tell her she should sleep more, but of late, sleep eluded her. She felt on the cusp of something—what, she could not tell. Something life-changing, though.
Something soul-altering.
She dared not speak these thoughts aloud. When she had uttered less controversial thoughts, her mother chided her and urged her to pull out her Bible when blasphemy threatened to overtake her. Emily’s father did not censure her thoughts, but he looked concerned, worrying that the books he bought her had weakened her girlish mind.
All except her father and her brother Austin recommended church, hoping the Lord would speak to her and she would become saved. She saw no difference between those who had become saved and those who had not, except, perhaps, a certain smugness. She was smug enough, she liked to tell her sister Lavinia. Vinnie would smile reluctantly, at both the truth of the statement and the sheer daring of it.
Everyone they knew waited to be saved; that her brother and father had not yet achieved this was seen as a failing in their family, not as something to be emulated. If she was not saved, she would not reunite with her family in Heaven. Indeed, she might not go to Heaven.
And, at times, such an idea did not terrify her. In fact, it often filled her with relief.
Eternity, she had once said to Vinnie, appears dreadful to me.
Vinnie did not understand, nor did Austin. And Emily couldn’t quite convey how often she wished Eternity did not exist. The idea of living forever, in any way—to never cease to be, as she had said to Vinnie—disturbed her in her most quiet moments.