LeRoux Manor

by Liz Butcher

  “I have to pop into town for a few things, but I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can. Your father’s working on the study, and Mr McAllister is in the rear gardens, though I think it’s more that he wants to keep an eye on the investigation in the woods...”

  “What more is there to look at? Didn’t they remove the body yesterday?”

  Allysha nodded. “Yes, but I guess they’re looking for evidence. I have no idea, to be honest. I just know they told your father yesterday they’d be back again today. I think he feels somehow responsible, which is ridiculous, but you know how stubborn your father gets.”

  Camille could only nod as she picked up the orange juice to wash down the toast. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was, though she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast the day before. Breakfast with her friends felt like an eternity ago.

  “I already see some colour returning to your face.” Allysha stated as she peered closely at her daughter.

  “Must be the vegemite.”

  “Regardless, you are to stay in bed today. I think there’s been a little too much excitement on top of adjusting to the colder weather. I don’t want you to make yourself sicker by not resting, thank you.” Camille nodded. “And I will ask Miss McAllister to check in on you while I’m gone.”

  Camille groaned. “Please don’t...”

  “It will make me feel better knowing someone’s here if you need anything.” Allysha patted her daughter’s lap again before standing and placing a kiss on Camille’s head. “Get some rest, and I’ll try not to be too long.”

  Camille watched her mother leave the room. Finishing the last of her toast, she pushed the tray over to the other side of the bed and sank down into her pillows. Just before she fell asleep, the floorboards creaked, and she opened her eyes to find Miss McAllister hovering in the doorway.

  “I’ve come for the tray,” she said, walking into the room without invitation. With a sigh, Camille sat up and reached for the tray to pass it to her. As Miss McAllister took a hold of it, she stared intently at Camille. “You shouldn’t wander through the woods on your own.”

  “It wasn’t exactly by choice. And how did you know, anyway? Are you spying on me?” Camille’s eyes narrowed.

  “Your mother told me you came running out of the woods, hysterical,” Miss McAllister stated, completely without emotion. “I underestimated how much this place wants you...”

  “What are you talking about?” Camille demanded.

  The older woman looked her squarely in the eyes. “The manor has a will of its own. It always has and always will. If you’d listened to me, you may have been able to stop it from happening again, but now we’ll never know.” She turned and walked away.

  “Stop what from happening?” Camille called after her, but Miss McAllister left the room; only the sound of the empty teacup rattling on the saucer followed her. Camille stared at the empty doorway, her unease intensifying, and she questioned if it had been such a smart idea to eat her breakfast so quickly. Unsure if it was Miss McAllister’s creepy warning or her own illness, Camille felt the heat rising back into her face. Dizziness swept over her again, and she lay against the pillows. Within a matter of seconds, she was asleep again.

  What do you want from me? Tell me. Show me. Why am I here?

  Camille tossed and turned, not quite awake and not quite asleep as the fever kicked in. Throwing off the blankets, she rolled onto her stomach, but that only seemed to make her feel worse. It took a few attempts to roll onto her back again as her arms shook.

  Why am I here? She couldn’t tell if she had asked the question out aloud or if it was only in her head. Either way, it seemed the house had heard her; a dragging, scratching sound came from above her. A surge of energy coursed through her as she sat up and stared at the ceiling, wondering if she’d just imagined it. The sound came again, and Camille pushed herself out of the bed. Still tangled in the sheets, she fell to the floor and didn’t even register the pain of her knees hitting the wood. The she scrambled to her feet and rushed out of her room toward the attic. She swayed from one side of the hallway to the other, her head spinning, and she focused on trying to walk straight. Her pounding head and blurred vision distorted everything.

  Camille paused at the staircase and leaned over the balustrade, listening for Miss McAllister lurking around. She was so dizzy that she lost her footing when she leaned too far over and only just managed to right herself. But her balance deceived her, and she tumbled backward onto the floor instead. Not trusting herself to move, she lay there for a moment, hoping the commotion hadn’t alerted Miss McAllister to the fact that she was out of bed. When no one came, Camille shakily got to her feet and continued unsteadily across the landing.

  At the bottom of the attic staircase, she opened the door and looked over her shoulder one last time. Then she pulled the cord for the stairwell light and crawled more than walked up the stairs; their numbers felt twice as many as she remembered. More than once, she wanted to lower her head onto her arms and rest, but the thought of staying on the staircase any longer than she had to was enough to spur her on.

  When she finally crawled onto the attic floor, she looked up to see the ghostly forms of draped sheets lurking ominously around the room. She rested a moment, her legs folded beneath her, and stared at the drapes. She told herself it was only her mind playing tricks on her. Then she thought she saw the edge of a sheet move, as though disturbed by a passing breeze. Camille blinked rapidly through her blurred vision. That only stoked the dizziness, and the attic spun. The dusty sheets looked like they were moving, swaying to and froe, taunting her. Camille closed her eyes, and both the dizziness and her headache intensified. She clutched her temples, and just as she thought she’d pass out, a young girl’s giggle echoed through the attic.

  Camille froze. She hardly breathed as she waited for another giggle. Instead came the sound of tiny feet running across the floor toward the right side of the attic.

  “Come on, Catherine! Over here!”

  Catherine. Catherine.

  A wave of recognition swept over Camille as the child called her name. The fog of her mind lifted. She tried to reply but found her mouth unable to form the words. Her only answer was silent. I’m here...

  The footsteps continued past her, weaving through the ghostly figures covering the furniture.

  “Hurry! Before Mother comes and finds us!”

  Camille tried to stand but didn’t have the strength. Instead, she crawled on her hands and knees, trying to find the source of the voice. A flash of white curls bounced around a little head as the girlish giggle weaved around her. Camille did her best to keep up, half wondering if this was all a dream.

  “Over here!” the child called, and Camille finally broke free to the other side of the attic and found little Mena LeRoux—or Alice—trying to move a small shelf away from the wall. Camille crawled toward her and did her best to help, though in her current state, she wasn’t much stronger than the child beside her.

  “It’s behind here. I followed my Daddy up here once, a long time ago. My first Daddy.” Mena shot Camille a knowing, mischievous smile. “I know you know my secret, Catherine. But that’s okay, because you can’t speak, so no one else will ever hear it.” Mena squeezed through the small gap they’d made between the shelf and the wall and placed her hands on either side of panelling.

  Intrigued, Camille watched Mena give a gentle push. Something clicked, and the panel popped inward about a centimetre. Camille crept closer, her curiosity taking over, but she was too big to fit all the way in the small gap. Mena gently shifted the panel sideways, where it slid effortlessly into the wall to reveal a secret hiding place.

  Be careful... Camille couldn’t stop the warning from forming in her mind, frustrated again by her inability to speak aloud.

  Mena slipped her tiny arms into the hole and withdrew a wooden box. It looked huge in her hands, and she gently lowered it to the ground before sliding it across the floor toward Camille. “You
should open it.”

  Camille looked down at the box before her, her vision now perfectly clear. Engravings of strange symbols covered the lid, most of which she had never seen before—except the one in the middle, the symbol that seemed intrinsically tied to the manor. The minute she touched that symbol, she immediately felt an energy run through her hands and up her arms like a small electrical current. Her hands tingled slightly, yet she didn’t let go. Despite the odd sensation, she felt her strength slowly returning to her with each passing second.

  “Are you going to hurry up and open it?” Mena asked, scooting impatiently across the floor for a closer look.

  Camille gently lifted the lid and carefully turned it over, placing it on the floor beside them as she inspected the contents. She withdrew a small dagger first, no longer than her forearm. It was silver, the hilt covered in what looked like tiny crystals and what she now thought of as the LeRoux symbol engraved in silver at the top. She placed the dagger beside the lid and reached back inside the box. There was also a small silver chalice, again with the symbol engraved on it, and what looked like a wooden wand with a large, clear quartz attached to one end. A smaller piece of what might have been amethyst was attached to the other end. Remaining in the box were four jars of herbs or seeds, but she wasn’t game to open them for further investigation.

  “Look.” Mena pointed at the upturned lid.

  Camille bent over it, looking at the inscription she’d not noticed. Picking it up, she held it close, trying to read the script carved into the wood. Of course, when she tried to utter the words aloud, no sound came from her mouth. But reading the words had a hypnotic effect on her; she felt as though she were being carried along to some unknown destination. Feeling dizzy, she closed her eyes and thought she heard a woman singing. The minute that thought occurred, the woman’s voice disappeared, lost to the darkness, taunting her. Her body tingled, the sensation of moving intensified, and at the same time, she was certain she could still feel the hardness of the wooden floor beneath her. It was entirely confusing to feel both present in the attic and floating away from the attic, light and untethered, unable to see anything but darkness.

  When the feeling of drifting away ceased, Camille heard a soft, whispering voice. She strained to hear what it said and turned her head from side to side, desperately wanting to know even as it faded away. Instead, she picked up other sounds and smells, and she knew she wasn’t in the attic. The scent of damp leaves rejuvenated by recent rain was only too strong. Listening intently, she heard the drops of water rolling off one leaf and onto the next. She thought she felt a cold droplet fall onto her shoulder and shivered. A bird called, the song a pretty one both foreign and familiar. She forgot about the bird the second she heard that whispered voice again, so quiet and just out of range, as if the words themselves were too precious for her to hear.

  The darkness cleared from Camille’s vision. Her mouth fell open. She stood amongst the trees, hidden from view. A couple metres ahead, the trees gave way to a large clearing with the cottage at its centre. Camille crept forward for a better look, careful to remain hidden, unsure of what or who was responsible for the whispering. She reached the tree line and looked up; the branches stretched toward the full moon hanging directly above her like a giant, ethereal spotlight. She thought she could see faces peering through the trees on the other side of the clearing, but the more she tried to focus, the more elusive they became, leaving her to doubt herself.

  A wind rushed not through the trees but down from the sky, sweeping up the leaves and circling around the cottage. Then an eerie silence fell over the clearing as the wind died down, and Camille slowly broke through the trees and out into the open space. As she stepped through a ring of stones, she could have sworn they hadn’t been there before. She studied the cottage and wondered if it was the same one to which the tunnel had led her; when she’d run back to the manor, she hadn’t given the outside of that cottage a second glance.

  By the time she made it halfway across the clearing, the front door opened. Camille froze, completely exposed. She didn’t even have time to consider running back into the woods before a woman stepped out of the house. She wore a simple dress of white cotton that fell to her ankles, brushing against the grass below her feet. Camille tried to take a step backward, but she found herself unable to move. Gasping for breath, she tried to move her other foot, her arms, anything, all to no avail. The woman turned to face her, and Camille was startled to find Mena staring at her. She was older, late teens or early twenties, but there was no mistaking those eyes. They twinkled mischievously at Camille just before Mena’s head turned a full one hundred and eighty degrees on her shoulders to reveal another face on the back of her head.

  Camille’s own face stared back at her, and she screamed. The last thing she saw was the woman reaching out for her as she fell to the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  C

  AMILLE OPENED HER eyes and rubbed her aching head. She was more angry than surprised to find herself alone and lying on the floor of the attic. Scrambling to her feet, she looked around for the box, but it was gone. Rubbing her forehead with her eyes squeezed shut, she wondered if there was something wrong with her—that she’d imagined the whole thing. It seemed the only explanation that made any sense. Yet when she opened her eyes, she noticed the shelf against the wall, the end closest to her not quite flush. She hurried toward it and this time had no trouble pulling it away from the wall.

  She knelt down before the wall and tried to remember the panel she’d seen Mena locate. When she thought she had the right one, she placed her hands on either side and gently pushed. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she heard the click, and the panel slid backward. This panel she slid to the side and peered into the space beyond, certain she was proving her own sanity. The cavity was there, but it was empty. There was no sign of the box, or anything else.

  With a sigh Camille sat back on the floor, leaning against the shelf with her head in her hands. Hot tears stung her eyes as frustration threatened to overcome her. Fiercely wiping them away with the back of her hand, she reminded herself that her friends had also witnessed the insanity of the manor, so it couldn’t be her imagination. She wasn’t seeing things. Still, she couldn’t continue without some answers as to why she was being targeted, why she was having strange dreams and waking up to find herself somewhere other than her bed.

  Lifting her head, she found the memories of her dream in the woods coming back to her. She definitely didn’t think it a coincidence that she’d had this dream after discovering the cottage at the end of the tunnel. Getting to her feet, Camille felt a new resolve and determination. While she wasn’t exactly keen to return to the cottage, she now believed that the answers to everything happening to her at the manor had to be there. It was the only place left to look.

  Camille left the shelf where it stood and hurried out of the attic, taking the stairs two at a time, ignoring the claustrophobia and vertigo clawing at her as she descended. She all but ran down the hall and down the stairs to the ground floor. She briefly had a look around for her parents or the McAllister’s before sneaking into the kitchen to rummage through drawers and cupboards. Once she found a torch, she then walked past the kitchen bench and grabbed a knife from the knife block, just in case. She kept it discreetly at her side as she made her way back up the stairs and to her bedroom.

  Closing the door quietly behind her, Camille went straight to the wardrobe, hesitating as she grabbed a hold of the handle. She couldn’t recall much about her journey through the tunnel, but she did recall feeling sick to her stomach. Trying to relocate the cottage through the woods was too risky without knowing where she was going; the last thing she needed was to get herself lost. Though now that she stood in front of the wardrobe, part of her really didn’t want to revisit. As she stood there, arguing with herself, her curiosity and need for answers won out. So, she opened the doors.

  Her clothes were still shoved to
either side of the rack, and the opening to the tunnel remained open, gaping at her like a demonic mouth waiting to devour her. With a deep breath, she turned on the torch and walked inside.

  Camille fought back the first waves of nausea as she started the descent into the tunnel. She willed herself to stay focused and alert, but despite her best intentions, the farther she went, the worse she felt. Only this time, Camille felt sluggish; every movement took concentration and effort, as though something were physically trying to stop her. She closed her eyes briefly, breathing through the next wave of nausea. The light from her torch momentarily flickered, but she saw the faint glow of the salt walls farther down. Using the wall as support, she put one foot in front of the other when all she really wanted to do was curl up on the cold floor.

  Whispers fluttered through the air, and Camille waved the voices away. The woman’s whispers were too soft to make out the words. Camille opened her eyes and was shocked to find that she’d stopped walking and fallen asleep—or passed out—against the wall. The thought of someone finding her remains lost in the tunnel terrified her, and she blinked furiously, forcing alertness. Then she pushed herself off the wall and stumbled forward.

  Within a few metres, she found herself surrounded by the glowing hue of the salt. Camille stumbled as the dizziness threatened to overcome her, and her heart skipped a beat with the fear that she would pass out again. She reached out in attempt to steady herself and was instantly blinded by a flash of light.

  ALLYSHA OPENED CAMILLE’S door as quietly as she could, not wanting to wake her daughter if she was asleep. Stepping into the room, she frowned at the empty bed. She left and hurried down to the kitchen, where she’d just left Miss McAllister to unpack the groceries. “Have you seen Camille?” she asked.

  Miss McAllister didn’t look up as she stacked fruit into the bowl in front of her. “No, ma’am, I haven’t. Though I have spent most of the morning in the laundry.”