by Darcy Coates
A flash of something pale caught in her light. She swung towards it, but it wasn’t the cat. Instead, a small white rectangle lay on the floor.
That struck Adrienne as odd. Everything else in the basement, including the ground, was coated in a century of dust. But the flat shape was perfectly white and clean, as though it had been placed there the week before.
Did Edith put it here? She took a step nearer and craned her neck as she strained to see more clearly. She thought it was a piece of paper.
“Wolf?” she said a final time, turning in a full circle as the word created a plume of vapour in front of her face. She couldn’t see anything, human or feline. She tightened her muscles against the shivers running through her and turned back to the paper.
As she neared it, she saw it was an envelope and not perfectly fresh as she’d thought. Small flecks of dust had developed on the surface, suggesting it had been there for several months. She bent and picked it up. A single word was written on the front: Adrienne
Prickles of uneasiness writhed over her skin. She held still a moment, listening and waiting for the telltale clicking that accompanied Edith’s movements, but the space remained quiet.
The letter was unsealed. She couldn’t help herself; she turned it over and took the sheets out. The careful, immaculate penmanship was familiar. It had been on the small note in her bedroom, too. Edith wrote this. Adrienne frowned. What’s it doing down here? Did she really expect me to find it… or… no, surely not…
She pointed the torch towards the ceiling. The basement’s rough wooden boards were nearly an arm’s length above her. They had gaps in them—not large, but a hundred years of aging and carrying feet had gradually widened them. She traced one of the slits. This would be under the lounge room, wouldn’t it? I remember noticing how the boards had spaces between them on my first night here.
Adrienne pictured how it might have played out: the note would have been left on the little table beside the fireside chair, waiting for her eventual arrival. But some disturbance—possibly a gust of wind from an open window, a draft from the doorway, or even a bump from Edith’s elbow—had sent it plunging towards the floor. The envelope was flat. It could have slipped between the floorboards with the grace of a tumbling leaf, its absence never noticed.
It’s improbable but not impossible. I remember thinking how odd it was that the bedroom note was the only missive Edith left.
Adrienne shook the paper open with trembling fingers. The words were small and daintily formed, and she had to hold the paper close to her face to read it in the torch’s light.
40
Missive
My dear Adrienne,
I suspect I am a stranger to you, though I have had a keen interest in you since you were young. You did, in fact, visit me once when you were a small child. I regret that the meeting was not long; your mother did not approve of me or my intentions, I fear.
There is a very particular reason why I left you my home. As my only remaining relative, I believe you will be both willing and well-suited to perform a particular task that accompanies ownership of this house. What I ask is no small feat; I pray you will one day forgive me for passing this burden on to you.
To explain this task, I must first tell you about our family. My parents were honest, kind people. When I was very young, our home saw the addition of my uncle and his wife. She was a sweet woman; my uncle, a well-regarded painter, was not fully sound of mind, though he was attempting to rehabilitate himself through solitude and work. Together, we were happy more often than not and fortunate enough to be respected by our neighbours.
But there is one more member of my family, the architect of every painful moment in my life: my twin sister, Eleanor.
Eleanor and I were identical in appearance only. I believe doctors in modern times call her condition sociopathy. She had a wilful disregard for the health and happiness of others. From as young as four, she was killing the chicks in our garden and pricking me with pins. There are very few people I consider heartless, but she is one of them.
Eleanor had another disturbing trait in addition to her callousness. It is something that I fear you will find difficult to believe. My dear Adrienne, as hard as it is for you to consider what I am about to tell you, I pray you will read the full measure of my story before passing judgement.
My sister Eleanor had a supernatural aptitude. It manifested as small talents when she was young but grew as she aged. She was so guarded with her secrets that I never fully understood her limits or how her ability worked, but a lifetime of research has caused me to believe she holds the reincarnated soul of a magic user. This soul is reborn again and again, in different bodies and with different minds but always with the same talent. She may have passed through many eons as a biblical seer, an Egyptian priestess, a Salem witch—and finally, that talent found itself born into Eleanor Ashburn.
From my experience with her, it seems that her abilities were based largely on what she believed. If she convinced herself something was the truth—no matter how unnatural—her body would obey that rule. For example, she held the Victorian-era superstition that a person’s soul could be trapped inside a photograph. And because she believed it, it held true for her. She never allowed us to photograph her and never gave Uncle Charles permission to create her portrait, though he obsessively painted the rest of the family.
These are some of the gifts and weaknesses that I witnessed manifest in my sister:
She is strengthened by moonlight
She is debilitated by candlelight
She does not sleep
A part of her soul can be trapped in photographs
If she kills another human using her hands, her lifespan is extended by the number of years they had remaining
Her body ages like that of a mortal
You may have noticed that each gift is balanced by a curse. She abhorred unbalance or inequality in all things and was rigid regarding those rules. At night she would stand by her open window and allow moonlight to bathe her but would scream and fight if you brought a candle or lamp too close to her skin.
As I’m sure you can imagine, those gifts were toxic when combined with her callousness. I don’t know how much you have heard about our family, but my parents, aunt, and uncle were murdered when I was eight. The deaths were never officially solved. I alone knew the truth, and it has been a weight around my neck for my entire life.
Eleanor killed them.
When she was six years old, my father happened upon her attempting to drown one of the neighbour’s children in a water trough. From that day forward he kept her locked in the house. As she had never ventured far from home before, and because she and I looked alike, her existence became something of a legend; people in town would debate whether she was real or not and whether she was still alive.
It was not so bad during the day, but because she did not sleep, we were vulnerable at night. My parents would lock her bedroom door every evening an hour before bedtime and unlock it in the morning for breakfast. This system kept us safe for years until one night, when my sister and I were eight, my mother forgot to lock the door.
My family was slaughtered. I will not distress you with the details, but the crimes were so violent that I, the only survivor, was cleared on account of my young age. No one could believe a child was capable of such atrocities.
I was supposed to be my sister’s final victim that night. Instead, I managed to kill her. That day is my single greatest regret. Had I been more prepared—had I not underestimated her powers—I might have saved my family. Still, it is what it is. We must accept our failings, my dear, and respect ourselves in spite of them.
The remainder of my teenage years were spent living with my grandparents. When I became old enough to inherit Ashburn, I decided to renovate the building and sell it. I moved in to oversee the improvements, but as you must know, what was supposed to be a few weeks turned into a lifetime of occupancy.
I had thought my sister conq
uered and vanquished. I was wrong; by killing our family, she had gained an unnatural lifespan that transcended even death. She dug her way out of her grave within a fortnight of my moving into Ashburn. She came to kill me, to take my remaining years and replace me in the home. We looked similar enough that I expect she could have worn my clothes and adopted my identity.
Once more, I was able to defeat her, though this fight was nearly my undoing. I buried her in a little grave within the woods. That was when I realised my stay at Ashburn would need to be one of permanent occupancy and vigilance lest Eleanor rise once again. I did not expect to survive a third encounter with her. She had grown cautious, and her patience could outlast mine.
But through vigilance, I have succeeded in keeping her dead for these last eighty years. Do you remember the rules above? She believes candlelight will weaken her, and she believes a part of her can be trapped in a photo. When we were children, I took a single picture of her. For my whole life, I have been using it to keep her locked in her grave. Once a week I light a candle so that the glow falls across her photo for an hour or two. It is enough that, with no moonlight to strengthen her again, she has been incapable of escaping her tomb.
This is what I ask of you, Adrienne. As little as you may believe my story, and as insane as this letter must sound, I pray you will do this for me—if nothing more than as an old lady’s final request. Please live in this home. Please enjoy it. And once a week, please light a candle in the attic so that my sister cannot hurt you.
— § —
“Ooh.” There was a second page, but Adrienne felt too sick to read it. Her fingers, numb from the cold, shook as she tucked the papers into her pocket. Everything made sense. Everything was explained.
The photograph in the attic wasn't of Edith, as Adrienne had first assumed. Instead, it was of the camera-reticent sister. Adrienne pictured the child's face, eyes slightly widened and lips quirked as the flash surprised her, and could very easily imagine the cherubic expression morphing into anger as she realised what had happened.
She had grown into the deformed, furious creature that had dug its way out of its grave and stalked her back to Ashburn. Even after a hundred years of being contorted by a too-small grave, she had the same strong cheekbones and sharp eyes as her twin.
Then Adrienne remembered how, during the scuffle on the lawn, the corpse had loosened its hold on Adrienne’s leg at the sound of Edith’s name. At the time, Adrienne had thought it was the shock of being addressed, but now she realised it was conditioned caution. Eleanor had learned to fear her sister. And the phrase whispered into her ear, Weep for Edith, had not been a request but a taunt. Weep for Edith, for she is dead.
Adrienne tried to remember every time she’d encountered the corpse, both before and after she’d realised what it was. Initially, when she’d thought children were pranking her, she’d used the lamp to explore outside the house. If Eleanor truly feared fire, that little flame might have been the only thing that kept her alive. Both times Eleanor had attacked and hurt her, Adrienne had been using the torch instead of the lamp.
She thought of the shadowed figure that appeared in the mirrors, and fresh unease washed over her. The corpse and the reflection weren’t one and the same, as she’d thought; both sisters—the animalistic, contorted corpse and the impeccably tidy spectre—had lingered past their deaths.
Adrienne’s mind was racing with questions and ramifications, but she was also conscious that she’d spent a dangerous amount of time in the basement while she read the first half of the note. Knowing that her stalker was Eleanor rather than Edith would make little difference if the cadaver tore Adrienne’s heart out.
“Wolf!” Adrienne twisted to flick her beam around the icy room. A cold sweat had broken out across her skin, and it stuck her shirt to her back. She glanced towards the open trapdoor again and prayed her cat hadn’t slipped through it.
The basement seemed to dampen sound. Every breath, footstep, and heartbeat came out muffled. It’s the dust, Adrienne thought as she bumped a broken chair and sent a small shower of the musty grey powder pouring to the floor. It’s so thick.
She bent to look inside a crumpled metal barrel then froze as a low, quiet rumble became audible. Is it an earthquake? No, surely not; I’d feel the ground move. She strained to make out the sound and inhaled as the pitch, though distorted and muffled, resolved itself into a motor. Adrienne shot upright and turned towards the trapdoor, where the rumble floated in on the cool night air. A car. Peggy’s brother? Doesn’t matter. It’s rescue.
“Hey, Wolf!” she hissed, becoming reckless in her urgency as she dug through the detritus. “Get over here! We’ve got to go!”
A sharp bang made her startle. She twisted towards the source of the noise. The trapdoor, which had been open, was firmly closed.
Adrienne licked at dry and fear-numbed lips as she moved the torchlight over the room. The beam jittered across cloth sacks, rusted wash basins, and a cobwebbed armchair missing its seat, sending distorted shadows racing over the walls.
Maybe it was the wind.
Her heart ached from the rising stress. She held her breath, listening to the basement’s oppressive silence and the distant car engine, hunting for any hint that she might not be alone.
Then a sound broke through the quiet: a single click. Adrienne’s heart lurched unpleasantly, and she took a step back. Silence resumed for a beat, then the clicking came again, louder and repeating, becoming a cruel tempo that matched her throbbing pulse.
She’s here.
41
Rescue
Adrienne drew the knife out of her jacket pocket. She moved slowly, careful not to rustle her clothing or cause any noise that might attract the dead woman, as she backed towards the door leading into Ashburn.
The basement’s acoustics made it impossible to tell the direction or distance of the clicking. Adrienne raised the knife ahead of her and continued to turn, shuffling in a circle and passing the torch’s small beam over the myriad of shapes surrounding her. The temperature, already frigid, was dropping with every passing second, and the cold was drawing into her core and making her feel as though she would never be warm again.
Edith’s letter said her sister couldn’t be reasoned with. But perhaps, after all this time… “Eleanor?”
The clicking stopped. Adrienne took a quick breath and continued as clearly as her shaking voice would allow. “I don’t want to be your enemy, Eleanor. I can’t imagine how… horrific… these last eighty years must have been. I’d like to help you, if you’ll let me.”
There was no answer. After a second, the clicking resumed. Adrienne kept swivelling and squinting through the dust for signs of life as she backed towards the doorway. The sound of bones bumping together steadily grew louder, but as far as she could see, she was still alone.
A sudden, awful, crawling premonition came over Adrienne. She raised her light towards the ceiling. There wasn’t much space between her and the wooden boards—two feet, at most—but that was plenty of room for Eleanor.
The first things she saw were the bony, twisted feet jammed between two supports; the toes had been splayed against the wood to keep her body wedged in place. Adrienne felt a heavy, horror-filled nausea rise as she traced the form, her light dancing over the thighs, buttocks, and the dirt-creased back, before the beam finally illuminated the two globe-like white eyes poised inches above her head.
She didn’t even have time to part her lips for a scream before the corpse released its grip and dropped onto her. They collided with a horrible crunching sound as the desiccated woman’s bones knocked against Adrienne and jarred the wind from her. The world became a blur of motion as they crumpled to the ground, tangled together in a flurry of kicking, clawing limbs. Adrienne tried to stab the knife into the corpse, but Eleanor was pressed too near for her to put enough force into the slashes.
Teeth fixed around the tender skin of her lower throat. Adrienne threw her head back to avoid the bite, and lig
hts flashed through her vision as her head cracked against the basement floor. Bony fingers dug into her cheeks, her jaw, and her neck as Eleanor strained to find purchase for her teeth.
Then the pressure was abruptly released, and the dead woman jerked back. A screeching, hysterical yowl filled the basement. Adrienne tried to crawl backwards, and her hand bumped the torch she’d dropped. It spiralled away and came to rest against a crate, its light diffusing over the corpse.
Wolfgang clung to the back of Eleanor’s head. His fur had fluffed out, making him look twice as large as normal as he clawed Eleanor’s face and darted sharp bites into it.
Putrid, congealed blood squirted from the cuts as Eleanor stretched her grasping fingers towards her assailant. She snagged a handful of Wolfgang’s fur and threw him away. Adrienne shrieked as the grey cat flew out of the light’s circle.
Eleanor dropped into a crouch. The torch illuminated her torso and face, and Adrienne smothered a moan. Wolf’s claws had shredded the fragile skin. One eye had burst, and a clear liquid dribbled over the scraps of her cheek, which billowed in and out with every rasping breath.
“Wolf?” Adrienne squeaked.
Eleanor took a step forward, her lips peeling back from the rotting gums and teeth, then howled. A streak of grey shot up to her then darted away before she could turn on it. Spots of blood welled on her leg where Wolfgang had bitten her.
I’ve got to help him. I lost my knife—I lost my torch—but—
Adrienne didn’t risk hesitating any longer. She turned and scrambled towards the small door leading back into the house. Eleanor made to follow, but again, Wolf darted out of the shadows to plant a bite and then frisked away with a throaty hiss. Eleanor, prepared this time, swiped at him. Her fingernails barely brushed his tail.