by Kate Danley
Clara knew better, though.
6
Mr. Willard placed the plate before her, a light breakfast of poached eggs and toast. Clara fought to keep her eyes open. The remaining night had been spent wide awake, and she was feeling the effects of it today.
"I apologize for waking you, Mr. Willard," she said.
He gave her a bow and said in his gruff voice, "No need to apologize. A new home oftentimes can create strange dreams. I must confess, I was glad it was nothing more. My ability to chase off ruffians with a poker has, I am afraid, decreased with my age."
Clara picked up her tea cup and took a sip. "We shall have to get you a pistol then."
"And my eyesight is even worse."
Clara imagined Mr. Willard firing blindly in his dressing gown and chuckled.
"It is good to see a smile on your face, ma'am," he said.
She nodded, suddenly aware that the corners of her mouth had turned up for a moment. It was a strange feeling. It was no more than a polite chuckle, but even that was something she had not done for awhile. "I owe you my thanks again, it seems," she replied.
Mr. Willard did not say any more. Instead he changed the subject. "Do you have plans for the day, ma'am?"
She shook her head. "Not really. I will most likely need to have a lie down this afternoon."
"Well, we shall have to have a talk with your dreams and tell them not to wake you this time."
"Mr. Willard?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Have you ever seen a ghost?"
He became very still and lowered his tray upon the sideboard. He did not look at her as he spoke, as if hiding something he did not feel someone should see. "I cannot say, ma'am."
"You have, haven't you...?" she pressed, not letting him disappear into the falsehood he was trying to spin.
"Like I said, my eyesight is not as it once was, and the mind often plays tricks."
"Tell me what you saw, Mr. Willard," Clara asked as she spooned her egg.
He stood stiffly with his hands clasped behind his back. He stared straight ahead. "Once I thought I saw a girl with brown hair, almost a child-like creature, in the hallway. I was hanging a mirror and thought I saw her out of the corner of my eye. I looked in the mirror, though, and saw nothing. I looked again to where I thought she had been standing and she was gone. It was probably only a shadow."
"How strange," said Clara. "Nothing else?"
"No, ma'am. She disappeared and I went about my business."
"Thank you for confiding in me, Mr. Willard."
Her gratitude seemed to put him at ease, this shared moment of secrets opening a door of friendship which perhaps had not been opened before. He smiled at her. "Do not worry about your midnight visitor. I shall look into the matter and make sure that it never happens again."
"How can you swear that I shall never dream of her again, Mr. Willard? You are a most excellent butler, but I do not believe anyone is that good."
"Perhaps it was the dinner which you ate so close to bedtime. A bit too much salt or the wrong combination of dishes. I shall talk to Mrs. Nan about adjusting the menu so that only sweet dreams fill your head."
Clara finished her egg and dabbed her lips with her napkin. "A most excellent suggestion, Mr. Willard. Will you see to it for me?"
"Of course, ma'am."
"You must call me Clara," she said boldly.
"Of course... Mistress Clara, ma'am."
She smiled and rose from the table. "Now, I believe I shall get outside for my stroll before the day gets before me."
"That sounds like a most excellent idea, ma'am."
He made to follow her to the door, but she stopped him. "I shall have Mrs. Nan fetch my things. You have quite enough to do tidying up after my breakfast."
"Very good, ma'am."
She found herself giving him another smile. It seemed rude not to return the goodwill that he bore towards her. She stepped into the foyer and called, "Mrs. Nan! Could you bring me my hat and gloves?"
The housekeeper did not respond, so Clara decided to go upstairs and get them herself.
But as she walked down the hallway, she was struck with a wash of cold. It was as if someone had taken a bucket of ice water and poured it over her head. It reminded her of that cold she felt the night before and instinctively, she looked for the girl in purple. Fear clenched her heart and filled her with foreboding. She could feel its beat pounding in her chest. Her mind screamed at her to fly, to run as far and as fast as she could, but all she could manage was a single step. And suddenly the cold was gone. Her pulse returned to normal. The impending doom melted like sugar in water. She turned back and held out her hand into the space where she just stood and could feel the biting cold of that one spot. Clara walked swiftly to her room to fetch her things and when she came back, edged her way around the area.
Mr. Willard was carrying out the breakfast tray when she reached the ground floor once again.
"Mr. Willard? Have you ever found particularly cold places here in this house?"
He nodded knowingly. "Indeed, ma'am. There are some spots that are quite drafty. It seems as if it is winter in one or two corners. Nothing to worry yourself about, ma'am."
"There was one spot in the middle of the hallway," said Clara, pointing at where she had just been. She thought she saw a look of mild irritation cross Mr. Willard's face, not towards her, but almost towards the location of the cold, the way one might look upon finding a broken shingle on a roof or peeling paint upon a board.
"This house," he muttered. "I shall make sure she moves."
"I am sorry, Mr. Willard. Did you say 'she'?"
The faraway look in his eyes disappeared and he shook his head. "Apologies. I was thinking of your midnight visitor. I meant that I shall make sure we see to the draft."
He stepped down the hallway to take the tray into the kitchen. Clara watched him as he went, wondering if there was perhaps more to her dream than met the eye, and that Mr. Willard meant that 'she' more than he was letting on.
7
Clara settled into her bed, exhausted from so many nights of so little sleep.
The day had passed quietly with no great excitement. She strolled the neighborhood in the morning, pausing to look into shop windows and admire the small garden in front of her house. Curiously, she found herself wandering past the vaudeville house and checking the marquee for the medium. She hated that she had not spoken up during his show and hoped for another chance. Mr. Lowenherz's name was not on the program, though, so she continued on. She returned indoors in the afternoon to explore her new home and rearranged the few things that she brought from her old place. She attempted to nap and failed. And then she sat and waited for the hours to pass.
Dinner was another lovely meal. Chicken glazed with a sweet orange sauce, dessert a small cake with fresh cream. She saw that Mr. Willard meant it quite literally when he said he would ensure her dreams were sweet tonight.
And then the blessed hour of bedtime arrived and once again, she surrendered to the embrace of her pillows. She swaddled herself in her blankets and nestled in. Her eyes closed as the clock struck ten.
"Clara..." whispered a voice.
She was aware of the chimes ringing out midnight. Slowly, sleepily, she lifted her lids. The bedroom was bathed in that same blue light and the girl stood in the corner reaching out to her. The cold returned, causing Clara's teeth to chatter, and perhaps it was more fear than cold that caused her to shake. But this time, she did not scream. Instead, she asked, "What do you want from me?"
The girl waved at her to follow as she passed through the door of the bedroom. There was a part of Clara's mind which wanted to pretend that this was a dream. Or if her mind accepted that it was real, that same part wanted to pretend it was a thief, an intruder of some sort, perhaps a child who lived in the attic and came down to scare her at midnight. But watching the specter pass through the door without opening it would allow her to deny it no longer.
Upon the ghost's exit, the room's temperature immediately returned to normal. Clara half hoped she could just stay in bed and pretend that nothing had happened. But then the ghost's hand came through the door, and she curled one delicate, glowing finger and Clara knew she must follow.
Clara wrapped herself in her robe and slid her feet into her slippers. She crept to the door and opened it. The hallway was dark, except for the ghost's unearthly glow at the far end. Clara steeled her courage and stepped forward.
How funny that she would long so much for the afterlife, and here in this moment, she would do anything to escape from it, she thought. She wondered if perhaps her Thomas walked the halls of their old home and felt a pang of regret for leaving. She would do anything in her power to see his face again, living or dead.
She wondered how this young girl had passed, who it was that mourned her loss. Certainly it could not have happened from peaceful means. Though she knew nothing about ghosts besides the stories told in the dark as a child, the fact this one seemed so persistent in her desire to show Clara something, she had to believe there was unfinished business to attend to.
Clara rested her hand upon the wall of her home and was suddenly filled with a sense of such peace. She thought back upon that original sense of kinship with this place and knew that no harm would come to her within its walls.
The ghost continued its journey down the steps and turned into the study. The foyer plunged into darkness as the ghost's light disappeared and Clara was forced to find her way in the pitch black.
She finally stepped into the room and the ghost was pointing at a piece of art upon the wall. It was a hunting painting left by the previous owner. It was hinged on one side and hid the house's wall safe where Clara put her important documents.
The ghost continued to point at it.
"Is it something with the painting?" Clara asked.
The ghost shook her head and pointed again.
"Something in the safe?"
The ghost nodded, a look of relief upon her face.
"I heard you say my name and say that you needed my help. Can you not tell me what it is that you want?"
The ghost's lips moved, but they made no sound. Frustration crossed her face and she became more and more agitated.
Clara held up her hands to calm her. "Please do not fret. I shall open the safe and then you may show me what you need."
But when Clara placed her hand upon the picture, the clock in the hallway struck a quarter past the hour. As the last chime rang, the ghost disappeared.
Clara stood in the darkness in confusion and silence before fumbling her way to a candlestick and lighting it in the banked embers in the fireplace. She did not know what to make of what just happened. She called out, "I do not know if you are still here, but I can no longer see you. I shall look inside the safe and see if I can hazard out your clues. I promise I shall help you rest."
Clara placed the candlestick on a nearby table as she returned to the picture. She swung the frame from the wall and slowly spun the dial of the safe. It took a few attempts, for it was still new and the numbers were not yet familiar. The door finally opened and Clara removed the papers.
They were merely legal documents which would be a shame to lose if someone were to break into her house. Her marriage certificate. Thomas's death certificate. Her accounting records. The deed to the house.
Clara's hand paused upon this document. The home was purchased through a broker and she, herself, had never spoken to the previous owner. She looked at the name --- Lord Horace Oroberg. If strange things were going on, perhaps those who lived here before had experienced it, too.
Clara looked up from the paper. She wondered about the girl who was found dead in this home. She wondered if she was the ghost that Clara saw. Or if the reason she died was because this ghost led her to her doom.
There was only one way to find out. Clara took the deed over to the desk, each step filling her with more certainty. Tomorrow, she would call on Lord Oroberg and she would inquire whether he ever experienced an unwanted houseguest while he lived under this roof.
8
She stood at the front door of the home, her resolve to meet Horace Oroberg swiftly fading. The manor and its grounds were remarkably beautiful. About an hour outside of the city, she had taken the train and then the lovely weather made her decide to walk the country roads to the house. Upon arrival, she wished she had taken a cab so as to appear as if she belonged. A long gravel driveway led to the covered entry, perfect for guests arriving by carriage to step out without worrying about the elements. The gardens were immaculately tended, each hedge perfectly square, each blade of grass in its place. She looked down upon her black dress, now dusty from her travels and hoped she would not receive an immediate dismissal.
She reached to the handle of the doorbell and bravely pulled it. She waited for several minutes, knowing that the house staff most likely had an enormous distance to cross in order to open the door.
Finally, a tall, thin butler peered through the glass. The door swung open and he looked down upon her with such refined distaste, she could barely stop herself from saying she had come to the wrong home and apologize for troubling him.
But she did stand her ground. "Hello. Many apologies for calling without an appointment. I was wondering if Lord Horace Oroberg was available."
The butler sniffed. "And who may I ask is calling?"
She fumbled through her purse and then handed him her calling card. "Mrs. Clara O'Hare. I purchased a home in town from him and had a matter I needed to discuss."
"A matter?"
"Nothing unpleasant, I promise. Just a point of... interest... about the home. I was hoping I might have an opportunity to ask him about its history and something I have come across."
The butler inclined his head slightly. "Please wait and I will see if the master is available."
The door closed and Clara was left standing on the front step. She tried not to show how uncomfortable and out of place she felt. She whispered to herself. "Oh, Thomas. If you were here, you would never have let some butler leave you waiting on a stoop."
Finally, the door opened again. The butler stepped aside and said, "Please come in. Follow me."
The interior of the home was larger than any place Clara had been before. The ceiling extended two stories up. The staircase swooped and the balcony was open, overlooking the foyer. Large potted ferns stood upon marble pedestals. Paintings of ancestors gone by hung from the darkly paneled walls. The butler stopped in front of a double door and opened it.
Clara stepped inside. It was a study, but probably four times the size of the one in her own home. A desk stood at the far end. Several couches were set up around a fireplace. A man rose from his seat upon her entrance. He was an older gentleman, heavyset with the middle aged spread of a man who enjoyed liquor and fine dining. His light brown, graying hair was parted down the middle and swept into two curls on either side of his forehead. His lip sported a walrus-like mustache, which he smoothed before removing his pince-nez from his nose.
The butler announced, "Mrs. Clara O'Hare."
"Thank you, Gilbert. Please have some tea brought in straight away! I’m sure this young lady is quite in need of refreshment." The man stepped forward with his hand outstretched to her. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. O'Hare."
"Lord Oroberg?" she asked, trying not to presume.
"At your service." His large hand wrapped around hers like she was but a child. "But please, call me Horace. Jolly good to finally meet you! Lovely to put a name to a person! How is the old place? I hear from my lawyer that you are settled in."
He motioned for her to sit. She lowered herself upon a slipper chair beside the fire as the door opened once again. A tray filled with tea and cookies appeared. The maid poured for both Horace and Clara before disappearing.
"So, tell me. What can I do for you today?" he asked.
Clara picked up the tea, t
rying to keep the cup from clattering on the saucer. Her hands were trembling and she knew she would look like a fool before this man.
"Tell me, did you ever experience anything strange in that house?" she asked nonchalantly.
"Strange? How?"
She took a sip. Despite knowing that it was of the utmost importance to learn what the ghost was trying to tell her if she ever hoped for an undisturbed night, she began to doubt her reasoning in the bright light of day. "I fear you will take me for a fool."
"What could you ever say that would make me think such a lovely woman as yourself is a fool?" he laughed.
There was a glint in his eye which gave Clara courage. Something which seemed to indicate he might have some personal knowledge of the matter which brought her here.
"I awoke to see a strange figure. A girl. I at first dismissed it as a dream. But the vision returned again last night and whether my imagination or... something else... I was led to believe you might be of aid."
Horace put down his cup and leaned forward, one hand upon his thigh and his face alight in excitement. "You saw her then?"
Clara nodded. "I believe so."
Horace slapped his knee. "I knew it! I knew it. Tell me, what did she look like?"
"A young girl. Red hair. She wore a purple gown."
"That's her all right!" he exclaimed. He sat back and stared at the ceiling. "So many years, and you were the one to see her. I knew that we were not alone in that house."
Clara put down her cup. "I am sorry. Could you please elaborate?"
But he was too excited to hear her words. Instead he got up and began pacing around. "You must be very in tune to be able to actually see her. To see her! Oh, what will the others say? You must come with us this weekend! That is what you must do!"
"I am sorry...?" she questioned, not following his train of thought at all.
"Sorry? There is nothing to be sorry about! You are a sensitive and the answer to our problems! Say you will come!"