Sophia considered that they were comfortably provided for. Her wants and her sister’s were very few, and even the niece, although a young girl, had small expenses, since her wardrobe was supplied for years to come from that of the deceased aunt. There were stored away in the garret of the Ackley house enough voluminous black silks and satins and bombazines to keep her clad in somber richness for years to come.
Flora was a very gentle girl, with large, serious blue eyes, a seldom-smiling, pretty mouth, and smooth flaxen hair. She was delicate and very young – sixteen on her next birthday.
She came home soon now with her parcels of sugar and tea from the grocer’s. She entered the kitchen gravely and deposited them on the table by which her Aunt Amanda was seated stringing beans. Flora wore an obsolete turban-shaped hat of black straw which had belonged to the dead aunt; it set high like a crown, revealing her forehead. Her dress was an ancient purple-and-white print, too long and too large except over the chest, where it held her like a straight waistcoat.
“You had better take off your hat, Flora,” said Sophia. She turned suddenly to Amanda. “Did you fill the water-pitcher in that chamber for the schoolteacher?” she asked severely. She was quite sure that Amanda had not filled the water-pitcher.
Amanda blushed and started guiltily. “I declare, I don’t believe I did,” said she.
“I didn’t think you had,” said her sister with sarcastic emphasis.
“Flora, you go up to the room that was your Great-aunt Harriet’s, and take the water-pitcher off the wash-stand and fill it with water. Be real careful, and don’t break the pitcher, and don’t spill the water.”
“In that chamber?” asked Flora. She spoke very quietly, but her face changed a little.
“Yes, in that chamber,” returned her Aunt Sophia sharply. “Go right along.”
Flora went, and her light footstep was heard on the stairs. Very soon she returned with the blue-and-white water-pitcher and filled it carefully at the kitchen sink.
“Now be careful and not spill it,” said Sophia as she went out of the room carrying it gingerly.
Amanda gave a timidly curious glance at her; she wondered if she had seen the purple gown.
Then she started, for the village stagecoach was seen driving around to the front of the house. The house stood on a corner.
“Here, Amanda, you look better than I do; you go and meet her,” said Sophia. “I’ll just put the cake in the pan and get it in the oven and I’ll come. Show her right up to her room.”
Amanda removed her apron hastily and obeyed. Sophia hurried with her cake, pouring it into the baking-tins. She had just put it in the oven, when the door opened and Flora entered carrying the blue water-pitcher.
“What are you bringing down that pitcher again for?” asked Sophia.
“She wants some water, and Aunt Amanda sent me,” replied Flora.
Her pretty pale face had a bewildered expression.
“For the land sake, she hasn’t used all that great pitcherful of water so quick?”
“There wasn’t any water in it,” replied Flora.
Her high, childish forehead was contracted slightly with a puzzled frown as she looked at her aunt.
“Wasn’t any water in it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Didn’t I see you filling the pitcher with water not ten minutes ago, I want to know?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What did you do with that water?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you carry that pitcherful of water up to that room and set it on the washstand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Didn’t you spill it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Now, Flora Scott, I want the truth! Did you fill that pitcher with water and carry it up there, and wasn’t there any there when she came to use it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let me see that pitcher.” Sophia examined the pitcher. It was not only perfectly dry from top to bottom, but even a little dusty. She turned severely on the young girl. “That shows,” said she, “you did not fill the pitcher at all. You let the water run at the side because you didn’t want to carry it upstairs. I am ashamed of you. It’s bad enough to be so lazy, but when it comes to not telling the truth –”
The young girl’s face broke up suddenly into piteous confusion, and her blue eyes became filmy with tears.
“I did fill the pitcher, honest,” she faltered, “I did, Aunt Sophia. You ask Aunt Amanda.”
“I’ll ask nobody. This pitcher is proof enough. Water don’t go off and leave the pitcher dusty on the inside if it was put in ten minutes ago. Now you fill that pitcher full quick, and you carry it upstairs, and if you spill a drop there’ll be something besides talk.”
Flora filled the pitcher, with the tears falling over her cheeks. She sniveled softly as she went out, balancing it carefully against her slender hip. Sophia followed her.
“Stop crying,” said she sharply; “you ought to be ashamed of yourself. What do you suppose Miss Louisa Stark will think. No water in her pitcher in the first place, and then you come back crying as if you didn’t want to get it.”
In spite of herself, Sophia’s voice was soothing. She was very fond of the girl. She followed her up the stairs to the chamber where Miss Louisa Stark was waiting for the water to remove the soil of travel. She had removed her bonnet, and its tuft of red geraniums lightened the obscurity of the mahogany dresser. She had placed her little beaded cape carefully on the bed. She was replying to a tremulous remark of Amanda’s, who was nearly fainting from the new mystery of the water-pitcher, that it was warm and she suffered a good deal in warm weather.
Louisa Stark was stout and solidly built. She was much larger than either of the Gill sisters. She was a masterly woman inured to command from years of school-teaching. She carried her swelling bulk with majesty; even her face, moist and red with the heat, lost nothing of its dignity of expression.
She was standing in the middle of the floor with an air which gave the effect of her standing upon an elevation. She turned when Sophia and Flora, carrying the water-pitcher, entered.
“This is my sister Sophia,” said Amanda tremulously.
Sophia advanced, shook hands with Miss Louisa Stark and bade her welcome and hoped she would like her room. Then she moved toward the closet. “There is a nice large closet in this room – the best closet in the house. You might have your trunk –” she said, then she stopped short.
The closet door was ajar, and a purple garment seemed suddenly to swing into view as if impelled by some wind.
“Why, here is something left in this closet,” Sophia said in a mortified tone. “I thought all those things had been taken away.”
She pulled down the garment with a jerk, and as she did so Amanda passed her in a weak rush for the door.
“I am afraid your sister is not well,” said the schoolteacher from Acton. “She looked very pale when you took that dress down. I noticed it at once. Hadn’t you better go and see what the matter is? She may be going to faint.”
“She is not subject to fainting spells,” replied Sophia, but she followed Amanda.
She found her in the room which they occupied together, lying on the bed, very pale and gasping. She leaned over her.
“Amanda, what is the matter; don’t you feel well?” she asked.
“I feel a little faint.”
Sophia got a camphor bottle and began rubbing her sister’s forehead.
“Do you feel better?” she said.
Amanda nodded.
“I guess it was that green apple pie you ate this noon,” said Sophia. “I declare, what did I do with that dress of Aunt Harriet’s? I guess if you feel better I’ll just run and get it and take it up garret. I’ll stop in here again when I come down. You’d better lay st
ill. Flora can bring you up a cup of tea. I wouldn’t try to eat any supper.”
Sophia’s tone as she left the room was full of loving concern. Presently she returned; she looked disturbed, but angrily so. There was not the slightest hint of any fear in her expression.
“I want to know,” said she, looking sharply and quickly around, “if I brought that purple dress in here, after all?”
“I didn’t see you,” replied Amanda.
“I must have. It isn’t in that chamber, nor the closet. You aren’t lying on it, are you?”
“I lay down before you came in,” replied Amanda.
“So you did. Well, I’ll go and look again.”
Presently Amanda heard her sister’s heavy step on the garret stairs. Then she returned with a queer defiant expression on her face.
“I carried it up garret, after all, and put it in the trunk,” said, she. “I declare, I forgot it. I suppose your being faint sort of put it out of my head. There it was, folded up just as nice, right where I put it.”
Sophia’s mouth was set; her eyes upon her sister’s scared, agitated face were full of hard challenge.
“Yes,” murmured Amanda.
“I must go right down and see to that cake,” said Sophia, going out of the room. “If you don’t feel well, you pound on the floor with the umbrella.”
Amanda looked after her. She knew that Sophia had not put that purple dress of her dead Aunt Harriet in the trunk in the garret.
Meantime Miss Louisa Stark was settling herself in the southwest chamber. She unpacked her trunk and hung her dresses carefully in the closet. She filled the bureau drawers with nicely folded linen and small articles of dress. She was a very punctilious woman. She put on a black India silk dress with purple flowers. She combed her grayish-blond hair in smooth ridges back from her broad forehead. She pinned her lace at her throat with a brooch, very handsome, although somewhat obsolete – a bunch of pearl grapes on black onyx, set in gold filagree. She had purchased it several years ago with a considerable portion of the stipend from her spring term of school-teaching.
As she surveyed herself in the little swing mirror surmounting the old-fashioned mahogany bureau she suddenly bent forward and looked closely at the brooch. It seemed to her that something was wrong with it. As she looked she became sure. Instead of the familiar bunch of pearl grapes on the black onyx, she saw a knot of blonde and black hair under glass surrounded by a border of twisted gold. She felt a thrill of horror, though she could not tell why. She unpinned the brooch, and it was her own familiar one, the pearl grapes and the onyx. “How very foolish I am,” she thought. She thrust the pin in the laces at her throat and again looked at herself in the glass, and there it was again – the knot of blond and black hair and the twisted gold.
Louisa Stark looked at her own large, firm face above the brooch and it was full of terror and dismay which were new to it. She straightway began to wonder if there could be anything wrong with her mind. She remembered that an aunt of her mother’s had been insane. A sort of fury with herself possessed her. She stared at the brooch in the glass with eyes at once angry and terrified. Then she removed it again and there was her own old brooch. Finally she thrust the gold pin through the lace again, fastened it and turning a defiant back on the glass, went down to supper.
At the supper table she met the other boarders – the elderly widow, the young clergyman and the middle-aged librarian. She viewed the elderly widow with reserve, the clergyman with respect, the middle-aged librarian with suspicion. The latter wore a very youthful shirt-waist, and her hair in a girlish fashion which the schoolteacher, who twisted hers severely from the straining roots at the nape of her neck to the small, smooth coil at the top, condemned as straining after effects no longer hers by right.
The librarian, who had a quick acridness of manner, addressed her, asking what room she had, and asked the second time in spite of the schoolteacher’s evident reluctance to hear her. She even, since she sat next to her, nudged her familiarly in her rigid black silk side.
“What room are you in, Miss Stark?” said she.
“I am at a loss how to designate the room,” replied Miss Stark stiffly.
“Is it the big southwest room?”
“It evidently faces in that direction,” said Miss Stark.
The librarian, whose name was Eliza Lippincott, turned abruptly to Miss Amanda Gill, over whose delicate face a curious colour compounded of flush and pallour was stealing.
“What room did your aunt die in, Miss Amanda?” asked she abruptly.
Amanda cast a terrified glance at her sister, who was serving a second plate of pudding for the minister.
“That room,” she replied feebly.
“That’s what I thought,” said the librarian with a certain triumph. “I calculated that must be the room she died in, for it’s the best room in the house, and you haven’t put anybody in it before. Somehow the room that anybody has died in lately is generally the last room that anybody is put in. I suppose you are so strong-minded you don’t object to sleeping in a room where anybody died a few weeks ago?” she inquired of Louisa Stark with sharp eyes on her face.
“No, I do not,” replied Miss stark with emphasis.
“Nor in the same bed?” persisted Eliza Lippincott with a kittenish reflection.
The young minister looked up from his pudding. He was very spiritual, but he had had poor pickings in his previous boarding place, and he could not help a certain abstract enjoyment over Miss Gill’s cooking.
“You would certainly not be afraid, Miss Lippincott?” he remarked, with his gentle, almost caressing inflection of tone. “You do not for a minute believe that a higher power would allow any manifestation on the part of a disembodied spirit – who we trust is in her heavenly home – to harm one of His servants?”
“Oh, Mr. Dunn, of course not,” replied Eliza Lippincott with a blush. “Of course not. I never meant to imply –”
“I could not believe you did,” said the minister gently. He was very young, but he already had a wrinkle of permanent anxiety between his eyes and a smile of permanent ingratiation on his lips. The lines of the smile were as deeply marked as the wrinkle.
“Of course dear Miss Harriet Gill was a professing Christian,” remarked the widow, “and I don’t suppose a professing Christian would come back and scare folks if she could. I wouldn’t be a mite afraid to sleep in that room; I’d rather have it than the one I’ve got. If I was afraid to sleep in a room where a good woman died, I wouldn’t tell of it. If I saw things or heard things I’d think the fault must be with my own guilty conscience.” Then she turned to Miss Stark. “Any time you feel timid in that room I’m ready and willing to change with you,” said she.
“Thank you; I have no desire to change. I am perfectly satisfied with my room,” replied Miss Stark with freezing dignity, which was thrown away upon the widow.
“Well,” said she, “any time, if you should feel timid, you know what to do. I’ve got a real nice room; it faces east and gets the morning sun, but it isn’t so nice as yours, according to my way of thinking. I’d rather take my chances any day in a room anybody had died in than in one that was hot in summer. I’m more afraid of a sunstroke than of spooks, for my part.”
Miss Sophia Gill, who had not spoken one word, but whose mouth had become more and more rigidly compressed, suddenly rose from the table, forcing the minister to leave a little pudding, at which he glanced regretfully.
Miss Louisa Stark did not sit down in the parlour with the other boarders. She went straight to her room. She felt tired after her journey, and meditated a loose wrapper and writing a few letters quietly before she went to bed. Then, too, she was conscious of a feeling that if she delayed, the going there at all might assume more terrifying proportions. She was full of defiance against herself and her own lurking weakness.
So she went resolu
tely and entered the southwest chamber. There was through the room a soft twilight. She could dimly discern everything, the white satin scroll-work on the wallpaper and the white counterpane on the bed being most evident. Consequently both arrested her attention first. She saw against the wallpaper directly facing the door the waist of her best black satin dress hung over a picture.
“That is very strange,” she said to herself, and again a thrill of vague horror came over her.
She knew, or thought she knew, that she had put that black satin dress waist away nicely folded between towels in her trunk. She was very choice of her black satin dress.
She took down the black waist and laid it on the bed preparatory to folding it, but when she attempted to do so she discovered that the two sleeves were firmly sewed together. Louisa Stark stared at the sewed sleeves. “What does this mean?” she asked herself. She examined the sewing carefully; the stitches were small, and even, and firm, of black silk.
She looked around the room. On the stand beside the bed was something which she had not noticed before: a little old-fashioned work-box with a picture of a little boy in a pinafore on the top. Beside this work-box lay, as if just laid down by the user, a spool of black silk, a pair of scissors, and a large steel thimble with a hole in the top, after an old style. Louisa stared at these, then at the sleeves of her dress. She moved toward the door. For a moment she thought that this was something legitimate about which she might demand information; then she became doubtful. Suppose that work-box had been there all the time; suppose she had forgotten; suppose she herself had done this absurd thing, or suppose that she had not, what was to hinder the others from thinking so; what was to hinder a doubt being cast upon her own memory and reasoning powers?
Louisa Stark had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown in spite of her iron constitution and her great will power. No woman can teach school for forty years with absolute impunity. She was more credulous as to her own possible failings than she had ever been in her whole life. She was cold with horror and terror, and yet not so much horror and terror of the supernatural as of her own self. The weakness of belief in the supernatural was nearly impossible for this strong nature. She could more easily believe in her own failing powers.
Supernatural Horror Short Stories Page 33