The Haunting

by Lindsey Duga

  Miss Evanshire marched through the crowd of girls and seized Emily by the wrist roughly. “Foolish, ungrateful child—” She seethed, shaking Emily so hard she felt her insides rattle.

  “Miss Evanshire, please!” Mr. Thornton barked, storming forward and steering Emily away from the grasp of the older woman. “Perhaps we should speak to the child alone for a moment.”

  Red-faced, from either anger or embarrassment, Miss Evanshire shooed the rest of the girls out of the parlor, snarling at them and batting the backs of their calves with her cane.

  Once she was alone with the Thorntons, Emily had a hard time keeping from bursting into tears. Somehow she kept them back, though her chin trembled. Mr. Thornton sighed, crossing to the door, grumbling under his breath, making his large mustache quiver, while Mrs. Thornton knelt before Emily, a small, gentle smile on her pink lips.

  “Why do you not want to come with us, Emily?” Mrs. Thornton’s voice was soothing and sweet, and ever so tempting. “We could give you a great big house to play in and pretty dresses to wear.”

  “M-my friend can’t come.” Emily swallowed, her words growing steadier with her resolve. She was not leaving Archie.

  Mrs. Thornton frowned. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Archie.”

  She frowned deeper, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “But … there are only girls here.”

  Emily bit her lip, about to spill her biggest secret. But she could trust Mrs. Thornton, couldn’t she? After all, the woman was asking to become her new mother. Didn’t that mean Emily should trust her?

  She took a deep breath and said in a rush, “Archie is my dog. He lives outside the fence. And if I leave, Agatha will tell Miss Evanshire, and he will be sent to the pound!”

  “A dog!” Mrs. Thornton cried, her gloved hand flying to her chest, then clumsily grasping the metal pendant about her neck. After a moment, she smiled, relieved. “Well, perhaps something can be arranged. Dear?”

  She looked over her shoulder at her husband, who stood behind her, watching Emily with an unreadable expression.

  “A dog, hmm?” he said, his fingers stroking the tips of his mustache and clean-shaven jaw. “Charlotte, darling, are you sure …” His words trailed off at his wife’s pleading look. He sighed again and, to Emily’s utmost surprise, gave her a gentle pat on the head. “All right, where is this dog of yours?”

  The carriage ride out of London was all a blur. The entire time, Emily could scarcely believe her fortune. She kept wondering which bump in the road would be painful enough to jar her out of this beautiful dream, but the horses trotted on, and the smokestacks and brick apartments of sprawling London fell away to reveal a rolling countryside that Emily had seen only a few times in her life.

  She found herself leaning out the window, smelling the fresh air, feeling the breeze on her cheeks, and hearing Archie’s panting in the back of the carriage, where the Thorntons’ footman had boarded him in a crate for the journey.

  Mr. Thornton wouldn’t allow the dog inside the carriage, and Emily had nothing to bring with her except Archie, so he took the place of where her luggage would’ve been. When Emily had tried packing the two meager dresses she owned, Mrs. Thornton had tsked and handed them back to Miss Evanshire, saying, “We’ll find you something much more … suitable, my dear.” Emily was sure she’d never forget the look of offense on the old woman’s face.

  Getting Archie to come hadn’t been hard at all. She had whistled and he had bounded toward her, tongue hanging out. Licking and placing his paws on her chest, whining with happiness, the English pointer mix had been overjoyed to see his friend without bars in the way, while the Thorntons leaned away in distaste at his dirty coat. But the Thorntons stayed true to their word and brought the dog along.

  And now here was Emily, riding out with her new family, to a new home, a new life.

  It was still so hard to believe.

  As the sun dipped low in the sky, cresting the English hills and spilling orange and gold light across the fields, Emily couldn’t remember ever seeing a more lovely sight. Nothing can be more beautiful than this, she thought. And then she was almost immediately proven wrong.

  Coming around a bend in the road with tall, wild woods on either side, Emily could just catch a glimpse of something other than nature. As they got nearer, the structure morphed into a majestic stone manor. It extended great, dark silver wings with windows upon windows in neat rows, each one surrounded by thick, curling vines of ivy.

  It was magnificent.

  Emily was even more shocked to find that the carriage turned down the path toward the building.

  “Welcome to Blackthorn Manor, Emily,” Mr. Thornton said with a kind smile, patting her knee. “Your new home.”

  This? This was to be her new home?

  Blackthorn Manor wasn’t a home; it was practically a castle. But in size alone. Unlike the princesses’ homes from fairy tales, this seemed to be a home for the characters who lived in the horror novels that Mr. Duford liked to read, like Dr. Frankenstein or Mr. Hyde. A place of history and secrets. Grand, yes, but mysterious. Beautiful, but terrifying.

  “It’s so … big,” Emily said, not sure if she could express all that she was feeling other than stating the obvious.

  Across the carriage compartment, Mrs. Thornton sighed, looking out the window, her face impossibly sad.

  But why?

  Emily thought taking home a child that she wanted was supposed to be a happy, good thing, and yet Mrs. Thornton stared out at Blackthorn Manor like it was a prison. A place of grief and loneliness.

  Her gloved hand clenched the strange pendant around her neck a little tighter, then fiddled with the chain between her fingertips.

  Mrs. Thornton caught Emily staring at her and gave Emily a comforting smile.

  Emily returned the smile and quickly looked away, remembering that it was rude to stare at people. But was it rude when it was one’s own mother? She had no idea.

  Soon the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the great estate and Emily felt her nerves get the better of her. Now that she was here and it was so close—her home and her future—another worry crept into her mind like a spider.

  What if they decided they didn’t want her?

  What if, a week later, they thought Emily wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, or talented enough to call their daughter? Surely the Thorntons would send her back.

  Well, Emily decided then and there that she wouldn’t return to Evanshire’s. She’d go straight to a workhouse. She wasn’t going back to the orphanage.

  “Emily? Out you get, dear,” Mr. Thornton called from outside the carriage, holding out his large hand.

  Swallowing, Emily grasped his hand and stepped down from the carriage, hopping the final step. As soon as her old shoes touched the pebbles, she felt a tremor under her feet, the sensation making its way up her knees and to the base of her spine.

  Emily’s gaze shot up, at first looking to see if Mr. Thornton felt it, too, but seeing instead the manor looming above her—so different than it had appeared mere seconds before. Shadows seemed to slide down the stone walls as the ivy withered and died before her eyes. Every crack and crevice in the stones of the manor looked as if it were bleeding black ink, dripping down to the ground and soaking the grass with darkness and decay. In a second-story window there was a shadowy figure, painted inky black against the glass.

  Then Emily blinked, and it was all gone.

  The house wasn’t dark at all. It was illuminated in the fading light of the setting sun. It made the ivy leaves gleam gold and the stone, somewhat wet from the afternoon rain, shine silver. The windows were clear, and the manor looked every bit like the castle she’d seen through the carriage windows.

  So what had she just witnessed?

  Too confused to put her thoughts into words, Emily let Mrs. Thornton lead her up the steps while Mr. Thornton and the footman got Archie’s crate down from the carriage and opened it.

  “W
e’ll let Mr. Frederickson wash up Archie,” Mrs. Thornton said as they reached the large door with an ornate iron knocker.

  Before Emily’s very eyes, the knocker’s metal details morphed into a face like that of a gargoyle, complete with horns and fangs and soulless eyes.

  Emily froze, too scared to even breathe.

  But it was gone in the next instant. Faster than a blink. Like a flash, it had never been there at all.

  “Emily?”

  “Yes?” Emily squeaked, tearing her eyes away from the knocker. It was nothing. Just your nerves, she thought.

  “Did you hear me? I said, are you hungry?”

  Having missed teatime and been given only a loaf of bread on the ride in, Emily’s mouth watered at the mere mention of food. She nodded vigorously and Mrs. Thornton gave her a light, airy laugh. “I’m a bit peckish myself. I do hope Miss Greer has fixed us up something tasty.”

  Just then the door opened, revealing a woman with a round face framed by curly gray hair. She narrowed her eyes at Mrs. Thornton, then smiled, winking good-naturedly. “Now, Mrs. Thornton, you say something like that and it implies that not all my food is tasty.”

  “Good gracious, how foolish of me! Of course it is all delectable, Miss Greer,” Mrs. Thornton replied, her gloved hand lightly feathering across her chest in mock surprise.

  “That’s better! Now”—Miss Greer swiveled toward Emily, hands on her broad hips, mirroring her equally broad stance and frame—“who do we have here?”

  “This,” Mrs. Thornton said, coming behind Emily and placing her hands on the girl’s shoulders, “is Emily. Emily, this is Miss Greer. She is our cook and housekeeper.”

  Miss Greer bent at the waist to look Emily in the eyes. Miss Greer’s eyes were as gray as her hair, accentuated by smile lines and crow’s-feet. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Emily,” she said softly, taking Emily’s hand and clasping it between her own much larger, calloused hands.

  Remembering her manners, Emily swallowed and gave her a shaky smile. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Greer.” Maybe it was this woman she saw in the window, and the creepy shadows were nothing but a trick of the clouds and the sunlight. After all, in the middle of dreary London, the world outside always looked a little paler. Yes, that had to be it.

  Behind them a shout echoed across the grounds, and Emily barely had time to turn around before Archie pounced on her. His strong, still-dirty paws dug into her smock while his tail whacked against the shins and dresses of Miss Greer and Mrs. Thornton.

  “My word!” Miss Greer exclaimed, grabbing Archie by his neck and hauling him off Emily. “Where did this beast come from?”

  “Oh, Miss Greer, he’s not a beast—he’s my friend!” Emily laughed, taking Archie’s face in her hands and smoothing down his ears. Archie immediately calmed at her touch, panting with his pink tongue rolling out and his big brown eyes jumping from Emily to the other two women.

  “And why on earth is the friendly beast here?” Miss Greer asked, her gaze shooting pointedly to Mr. Thornton, who was mounting the steps and stripping off his sharp navy coat.

  “Emily wouldn’t leave without him,” Mr. Thornton said.

  “I see.” Miss Greer pursed her lips, folding her arms over her chest.

  Archie whined, licking Emily’s fingers, his distress at this new world and the new people coming out through his nervous puppy tics.

  Finally, Miss Greer sighed and muttered, “Seems to me there must’ve been plenty of other orphan girls without the extra baggage of a dog.”

  Emily heard Miss Greer just fine despite her low voice, and Emily felt her face flush with heat. But she couldn’t say anything in defense, because it was true. There were probably hundreds of poor orphaned girls in the city of London without a dog, or who were prettier, smarter, cuter, better educated. Why did it have to be Emily?

  “Emily was the only girl who looked—”

  Mrs. Thornton stopped abruptly, her hand latching on to the silver pendant at her neck. Her face seemed to rapidly lose its color and became as white as milk. Then her other hand strayed to her forehead, and she said meekly, “Forgive me, I’ve a headache. I must … decline supper.”

  “Darling.” Mr. Thornton reached for his wife, but she waved him off, her olive silk skirts swishing as she hurried beyond the doors and disappeared into the depths of the house.

  “Oh, dear,” Miss Greer murmured. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton, I—”

  “It’s quite all right, Miss Greer. Let’s just have a nice supper. I’m sure Emily is quite hungry. But perhaps you could bring Charlotte some tea later?”

  “Of course, sir,” Miss Greer said, taking Emily’s hand and tugging her into the house.

  Mr. Thornton and the footman, Mr. Frederickson, guided Archie down the steps around the manor, the two men mentioning something about a metal tub and water for washing.

  While Emily didn’t necessarily want to leave Archie, she knew she was pushing her luck by even having him here in the first place. Silently promising herself that she would check on him later, she allowed herself to be led into Blackthorn Manor by Miss Greer.

  Stepping into the hall of Blackthorn Manor really was like entering a castle. Emily hadn’t read much about fairy tales or King Arthur and his knights, but some of the girls at the orphanage had told her stories about them.

  The castles in fairy tales had sky-high ceilings, marble floors, plush rugs, velvet drapes. They had fine pale blue china and shiny silverware and brass clocks.

  Blackthorn had it all. But the feature that reminded Emily the most of a castle was the grand staircase that led to the second floor, with its gorgeous mahogany banister and a crystal chandelier that hung overhead. The setting sun hit the ornate fixture just right to create rainbows that cascaded across the entrance hall.

  Miss Greer, however, didn’t give Emily much time at all to admire the hall. Instead, she pulled her forward past the staircase and into the west wing, muttering things about mutts, and too much work, and dog hair.

  As they passed the foot of the stairs, Emily ran her hand across the banister, her fingers coming away with a thick layer of gray dust. It was then that Emily saw past the grand beauty of the entrance hall and saw the grim details …

  The dust. The cobwebs. The stale scent in the air.

  Emily’s first impression of the manor from the outside was more accurate: This was not a castle for princesses, but a castle for monsters.

  Dust clung to every surface while cobwebs were strung across the banister and coated the chandelier. In the corners, shadows seemed to crawl along the walls and floors like spiders.

  When they reached the scullery, and Miss Greer instructed Emily to sit at an old wooden table as she hurried to tend to her cooking, Emily knew at once that she preferred the simplicity of eating in the kitchen to a fancy dining room with fine china and trying to remember which fork to use.

  All Emily wanted was a hot meal without being too nervous to enjoy the food she was eating, so she was grateful when Miss Greer set a plate in front of her with boiled potatoes, roasted chicken, fresh vegetables, and a small saucer of gravy, without any flourish or finesse. After all, even this was already fancier than what Emily was used to at Evanshire’s.

  Miss Greer was also too busy to ask Emily anything, so the girl was free to eat as unladylike as she wished, but she was careful not to eat too fast or too much. The last thing she wanted was a stomachache her first night with the Thorntons.

  When she’d eaten all she could, Emily pushed her plate away and was about to ask Miss Greer if she could help with anything, when the opposite door opened, revealing a very wet Mr. Thornton, a half-dry—but clean—Archie, and a blooming garden behind them.

  Miss Greer gaped at Mr. Thornton while Emily pressed her fist to her mouth, hoping to hide a tirade of giggles at her new adoptive father’s sopping wet, now drooping, mustache.

  “That”—he took a large breath and, for a moment, Emily was worried that he would yell like Miss Evans
hire so often did, but instead his mouth broke into a broad grin, showing white teeth—“was the most fun I’ve had in a long while. I don’t think this boy has ever had a bath before.”

  Emily shook her head, still surprised that he wasn’t furious over his ruined fancy suit. “No, sir.”

  “Hmm, well, I thought he was going to be troublesome, but he seems like a good chap,” Mr. Thornton said, patting the top of Archie’s head. “I imagine it will be nice to have him around. Don’t you think so, Miss Greer?”

  Miss Greer wrinkled her nose, showing her displeasure, but she shrugged and said, “If you say so, sir. I’m about to take up some tea to Mrs. Thornton. Supper is on the stove for you and Mr. Frederickson.”

  “Thank you, Miss Greer. I’ll show Emily to her room now.”

  “Very good, sir.” With that, Miss Greer picked up a tray laden with tea and biscuits and bustled out of the scullery, her curls bouncing as she walked.

  Archie trotted over to Emily, and she set down her plate of scraps. The hungry dog quickly gobbled up the remnants of her supper.

  “You don’t have to do that, my dear. We’ll make sure Archie is rightly fed,” Mr. Thornton said. “Now, let’s get you to your room. You must be tired.”

  Once again, he held out his hand and Emily took it, a wave of warmth washing through her like she’d never known before. It was the feeling of kindness, of acceptance. Emily wondered how she’d survived without it all these years.

  Mr. Thornton took her through the manor, up the grand staircase, and down the second-floor hallway. She noted their footprints indented into the rugs, disturbing the thin layer of dust. Are all big houses so dusty? she wondered.

  Evanshire’s was a big house—granted, not this big—but it was immaculate. Then again, the girls had to do all the cleaning. Was it just Miss Greer alone to take care of the place and do all the chores? Emily couldn’t imagine shouldering such a big job.

  The light fixtures on the walls didn’t look any better. They were rusty and layered in yet more dust, and she could see the crevices packed with what looked like mold.