Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (71 page)

My first instinct is to scream, or to otherwise wake Edward. But to do so would be to fall into the behavior of a weak woman. I want to be stronger, and I want to confront my fears. The truth is that there is almost certainly no-one outside in the corridor. This is all taking place in my head. If I tell Edward about the noises that I have heard, he will begin to doubt my sanity, and there is a danger that one day he will decide that I can only be saved by having me placed in an asylum. My own mother ended up in such a place, after my father deemed her to be insane. The truth is, my mother lost her mind and descended into lunacy. I have long feared that I might inherit her madness, and these noises I am hearing might be the first symptoms that I am indeed following in my mother's footsteps.

I will not succumb.

I will not become insane like my mother.

I will face my fear.

Slowly, I climb out of bed. Careful not to wake Edward, I creep to the door. Although I am filled with fear, it is this very fear that I am determined to conquer. If I am destined to spend much of my life in this house from now on, I simply cannot do so in the grip of an irrational terror. I must confront head on whatever spirit is out in the corridor. If I do not, I risk a lifetime of mental frailty and horror. I will not be a weak, timid little woman; nor shall I be a lunatic like my mother.

I carefully open the bedroom door and step out into the corridor.

Chapter Three

The corridor is dark, quiet and empty. There is no-one here, nor is there any sign that there ever was. Stepping out and pulling the door shut, I look first in one direction, and then the other. Although I am quite sure that I have been imagining a great deal lately, I nevertheless believe that something came along this corridor and caused my fright. Perhaps it was something as innocent as a mouse, dragging some prize from the kitchen, but I must find out for certain. I cannot allow myself to live in fear of ghosts and goblins. The truth is often basic and simple, but it can be the foundation upon which an excited mind builds unseemly fantasies. I must get to this truth and see it for what it really is. I simply cannot allow my fancies to persist.

Ghosts and goblins and nightmares are not real. I keep telling myself that: Such things are
not
real.

I walk along the corridor, hoping to come across whatever creature caused me to wake up. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), there is still no sign of anything having passed this way. Feeling that I should perhaps return to the bedroom, I nevertheless force myself to keep looking. After all, if I am to break my fear of this house, I must do so absolutely and without caution. If I am brave, I can have this fear beaten by the morning, and I shall then be able to enjoy the house as it was meant to be enjoyed. A thousand times a second, my fear urges me to go back; but I simply cannot be a coward. I am as brave as any man, and I shall prove it.

Reaching another corridor, I find a set of stairs leading down to the ground floor. This must be how the servants ascend and descend. What a world there is, hidden away in the depths of our houses. Perhaps the noise I heard was a servant after all; I have no idea what they would be doing awake at such an ungodly hour, but one must never try to second guess the minds of inferior people. Taking a deep breath, I cautiously start to walk down the stairs, convinced that at any moment I might run into Lively, Margaret or one of the others who are traveling with us. It must be one of them; it simply must. Yet the house seems curiously still, as if the air has not been disturbed recently. As if I am the only living creature out of bed.

Reaching the ground floor, I find myself in a dark corridor illuminated only by the light of the moon as it streams in through a window at one end.

Suddenly I hear a noise in a nearby room. This time there can be no doubt: I'm not alone down here. It's as if someone is shuffling about, moving slowly through the darkness. My first instinct is to turn and run, but I must fight this desire. I step toward the next room. Although I confess that I am scared, I feel that I must confront my fear, and although it would probably be wise to go and fetch Edward or Lively, I do not want to be one of those awful women who goes running to a man every time she is slightly upset. No, if this is a ghost or a ghoul then I shall confront it, and I shall look it in the eyes, and I shall make it see that it cannot scare me.

The next room, though, is empty. I almost feel disappointed, having built myself up to confront this phantom. I must admit, there is a part of me that expects Sophie and Patrick to come running into the scene at any moment. But this is not a dream: I can feel the cold against my skin, and I distinctly recall waking up. This is real, and I must ensure that I confront the intruder. And if he - or it - will not come willingly to me, then I must call it into the open.

"Hello?" I call out, hoping to encourage this cowardly phantom to show its face. "If you're there, you must reveal yourself."

Silence.

And then, after a short pause, I hear movement off in another room. Hurrying along, I find that the next room is empty, as is the next. Am I doomed to spend the entire night chasing, but never seeing, a phantom? If so, I shall feel a little let down, although I feel that even the act of seeking out the creature is itself helping to make me feel stronger and braver.

I walk through to the next room and find myself in the entrance hallway, next to the main stairs. It's darker in here, because the moon is on the other side of the house and therefore the only light is coming from a single candle that has been left flickering. Edward always likes one light to be left on in the house, even if it might seem to be a fire hazard. I walk over to the candle, drawn to the light. Perhaps the noises I have been following have been imagined after all, and there really are no creatures stalking the corridors of the house. Staring at the flame, I am a little relieved: it seems to be a friend, a kindred spirit in all the darkness and gloom.

Suddenly there is a noise behind me. I turn, but I see nothing. Still, I
hear
something, dropping down the stairs. Hurrying over, I see a single black pebble rolling down the steps one by one, stopping at my feet. I kneel down and pick it up, but immediately drop it again when I find that it is wet. Looking at my hand, I see a dark stain, and by the time I get back over to the candle I have already guessed that my hand is covered in blood.

Indeed, it is.

Another small black stone, covered in blood just like the last one. What does this mean? I did not mention the first stone to anyone, not even to Edward, but now I fear that this is becoming a pattern. What kind of madman is responsible for these objects, and whose blood is this?

I walk back over to the stone. It is small, about the size of a peach stone, and it is as black as night. Yet it did not simply materialize in the house of its own accord. It fell down the stairs, which means that someone must have been at the top to drop it. There is no-one there now, but quite clearly the phantom I have been following is far more than just an apparition. Kneeling, I pick up the pebble once again. It is strange indeed to find such a thing, stranger still that it is covered in blood.

Is someone trying to drive me to the brink of madness?

"What are you doing, Evangeline?" calls out a voice. I look up to find Edward is standing at the top of the stairs. He looks utterly surprised to see me down here, as well he might: it is not usual for a lady to be found wandering alone in a house at such an hour. Then again, it is not usual for strange noises to disturb the silence, or for bloodied stones to be found resting on the floor. There is much that is happening in this house that is not usual.

"I heard a noise," I say, preferring not to bother Edward with the details. He knows about my mother's descent into madness, and I do not want to give him cause to consider whether I might be succumbing to the same fate.

"And you came down alone?" he asks, sounding shocked. He hurries down to me. "Where's Lively? You should have woken me if you were concerned about something."

"No," I say, "it's quite alright. I just thought I heard a noise, and..." I pause. "I thought perhaps it was your uncle, returning from wherever he has been. But there's no-one here. No-one at all."

Edward looks down at my hand. "What's that?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say, but Edward is too quick and plucks the pebble from my hand.

"A rock?" he says, sounding a little contemptuous, but then he sees that it is bloodied. "Is this
your
blood, Evangeline?"

"It is not," I reply. "The blood was there when I found it."

Edward stares at me. It pains me to see the expression on his face, but it is clear that he is concerned about my sanity. "You should rest," he says finally. "It has been a long day, and you have seemed strained of late."

I nod. "I'm sorry to have worried you," I say. I feel stupid. I got out of bed, determined to be brave and strong, yet here I am, reduced once again to the status of a weak and feeble woman. It is as if, in my attempt to prove myself sane, I have done quite the opposite. "I felt sure I heard someone."

Edward walks over to the drawing room and stares into the darkness. "There's no-one here now," he says.

"I know," I say, feeling utterly deflated. "You're right. I should go to bed."

Edward turns back to me, but then something in the drawing room seems to catch his eye. "Did you do this?" he asks.

I pause. "What?" I ask, hurrying over to join him. Entering the room, I turn and see nothing but a portrait hanging on the wall. "What's wrong?" I say.

"I took this down," Edward replies, sounding a little angry. "Don't you remember? It's that horrible painting that Dunstable like so much."

"Of course," I say, noting that the painting has indeed been re-hung after Edward removed it earlier and tucked it behind the curtain. "I suppose Lively must have put it back."

"I suppose so," Edward says. "I shall have to have a word with him." He removes the painting from the wall and this time slides it behind a bureau. "There," he says. "Now nobody shall find it." He reaches out a hand and smiles. "Come," he says. "We should go back to sleep, and you must rest tomorrow."

He leads me back to the bedroom. As I'm preparing to return to bed, however, I happen to put my hand on my shoulder, and I feel something peculiar. There is a lump under the skin. I'm quite sure it wasn't there yesterday, yet now it is quite noticeable.

"Is something wrong?" Edward asks as he climbs into bed.

"No," I say, determined not to worry him. I join him in the bed. "Everything is quite alright," I continue. "I'm so sorry for having worried you. Please try to get back to sleep."

"Good night, my dear," Edward says. Soon he's fast asleep, but I'm left to stare at the ceiling. The first rays of the morning sun are starting to appear outside the window, and I doubt I shall get much more sleep tonight. Nevertheless, the stirrings of light make the house less daunting, and I feel much safer now that the shadows are receding. Tonight was extremely peculiar, and I am absolutely certain that I am not mistaken: I heard a noise, and someone was moving about in the house. Whether it was Lively, or Margaret, or one of the other servants, I do not know. But there was someone downstairs, and that pebble must have come from somewhere.

I touch the lump on my shoulder again. It's as large as a walnut, and rather troubling. There's no discomfort, but I worry that it portends some serious health concern. How did it grow so large in such a short period of time? As I ponder such questions, I find myself becoming tired, and finally I start to slip back into a dark and dreamless sleep.

Chapter Four

When I wake up, something is very different.

The morning sun has risen and light is streaming into the room. I turn and find that Edward is no longer in the bed, and when I reach across I feel that his side is cold. He must have been up for some hours, which raises the question of how long I have slept. It is not seemly for a woman of my status to remain in bed for so long unless she is gravely ill, and I most certainly am not ill.

I listen and hear no sounds coming from the rest of the house, but when I reach out for the bell in order to summon Margaret, I find that my limbs feel tired. I pause, wondering what might be the cause of this terrible fatigue with which I am suffering. Clenching and unclenching my fist several times, I feel as if I have been drained of all resolve. Finally I take the bell and ring it, and a few minutes later Margaret enters the room.

"I trust you slept well, Madame?" she says, as usual.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"It's a quarter past eleven," she replies as she arranges my clothing for the day. "I was informed that you should be allowed to sleep in for as long as necessary, Madame."

I look over at the window. "Where is my husband?" I ask.

"I believe he is inspecting the gardens," Margaret says. "A boy should return shortly with some provisions from town. I am sure tonight's dinner will be a vast improvement upon last night's offering. I can tell you that Mr. Lively was most ashamed of the poor effort yesterday, and he is quite determined to make amends tonight."

"It is not Mr. Lively's fault that we arrived to find the house abandoned," I reply. "Tell me, is there any sign of my husband's uncle?"

"None whatsoever, Madame," Margaret says. "Nor of his servants."

"How curious," I say, getting out of bed. My whole body aches, and I cannot help but wonder if I might be coming down with some kind of illness or fever.

"Are you okay, Madame?" Margaret asks, noticing my tiredness. She has worked with me for many years, and she knows my habits better than I know them. While my husband might not always notice subtle changes in my character, Margaret is much more attuned to my needs. This is only right and proper, of course: my husband is a busy man, while Margaret is a paid employee.

"I'm very tired," I say, though in truth tiredness is not really the right way to describe this feeling. It is more as if I have absolutely no energy, and as if heavy weights have been tied all over my body.

"I was informed that you had experienced a trouble night," Margaret says, "and that you might require some extra rest today."

I smile as I change into my clothes for the day. "I'm not an invalid, Margaret," I say, "nor am I a weak woman. I am a little tired, but I shall continue with my day as planned. My husband expects me to prepare this house, and that is what I shall do. There is no point dilly-dallying and avoiding the necessary tasks."

"Very good, Madame," Margaret says. "Mr. Lively has prepared a breakfast for you, but if you would prefer brunch -"

"Anything is fine," I say. "I am just anxious to look around and work out what needs to be done. Margaret, you will have to accompany me and take detailed notes. This is not going to be the job of a moment, and it must be approached with full determination."

"Of course, Madame," Margaret says as she opens the door and I head out into the corridor. Walking downstairs, I find that Lively has conjured up a magnificent breakfast. After I have eaten, I head out to the steps that lead down to the garden, and for the first time I am able to take in the wonderful view. All around the house, there is the most perfect green lawn, bordered further out by a large and thick forest. Further on, green fields spread as far as the eye can see.

"I have never seen such a wonderful location," I say, genuinely shocked and a little intimidated. Perhaps this place can be made habitable after all.

"It is a wonderful house, Madame," Margaret says.

I spot a couple of figures moving about near the edge of the forest. Squinting a little, I realize that it is my husband and one of the footmen. They are examining the grounds, probably to determine what foodstuffs can be grown. My husband has a particular interest in the methods by which a house can grow at least some of its own food, since he does not entirely trust the methods used by unfamiliar farmers. The endeavor takes up a lot of his time, but I dare say he is correct to have such worries. The modern world is bringing many changes, and it is probably very wise to retain links to the old world so that one is prepared for any eventualities that might occur.

"It feels a shame to spend all day in the house when there is such a lovely garden, and such wonderful weather," I say, sighing. "Nevertheless, we have a job to do, and there will be plenty of time to enjoy other luxuries some other time." I turn to Margaret. "We must set to work at once."

As we head back into the house, however, my attention is caught by a peculiar pattern on one of the window panes. Moving closer, I see what appears to be the image of a human face burned lightly into the glass.

"What do you make of that?" I ask Margaret.

"I don't know, to be sure," she replies.

"Oh come on, Margaret," I say, a little impatient with her politeness. "Don't you find it rather creepy?"

"Perhaps, Madame," she says. There's a pause. "It does look like a man's face, indeed."

As I stare at the image, which is faint but perceptible, I am struck by its resemblance to... No, it cannot be Patrick. He is just a figment of my imagination. Besides, the more I look at the pane, the more I realize that there is no face at all. It is merely a trick of the light, the sun's rays falling upon a few scuff marks. "We shall have to replace this pane," I say, turning to Margaret. "Make a note that it is to be removed as soon as a new pane can be found." I glance back at the image. "Treat this as a matter of urgency. I find the stain to be discomforting."

Heading inside, I lead Margaret through to the drawing room. Half expecting to find that the painting has been returned to the wall, I am instead relieved to see that it remains hidden behind the bureau. "This room will need a lot of work," I say, looking around. "The decoration is hideous. I don't know who chose these colors, but they are all wrong for a south-facing room. All wrong." It feels good to be speaking about something of which I know a great deal. I so often have to defer to my husband, but today I am the expert. He trusts me, too, to get this place fixed up in a manner that is fitting to our needs.

As we walk around the room, I notice something on the floor. It takes only a moment for me to realize that it is yet another of those bloodied pebbles. What are these things, and where in God's name are they coming from?

"Get rid of that," I say, turning away. I walk over to look at a large painting on the wall. On the bottom, there is a plaque that identifies the subject of the painting as Edward's uncle, Dunstable. He appears to be an elderly man, with heavy, bagged eyes and a jaundiced look. "What a frightful image," I say. "Tell Lively that this painting is to be removed and burnt." I turn to Margaret and watch as she picks up the pebble in a handkerchief. "Throw that thing away at once," I say. "I do not want it in the house. Take if off the grounds."

"Yes, Madame," Margaret says. "I shall bury it with the rest."

"The rest?" I pause, my heart skipping a beat. I am almost afraid to ask the next question. "Have you found others?"

"Five or six," she replies. "They really are quite unnerving. They all appear to have blood on them."

"Where were they?" I ask.

"All over," she replies. "I found a few last night, and another one this morning. The funny thing is..." She pauses.

"What?" I ask.

She seems reluctant to continue. "Well... I swear there wasn't one outside my door last night, when I retired, but it was there this morning."

"Like they're moving," I say, as much to myself as to Margaret. "Or being dropped by someone. Has Lively seen any?"

"He says he hasn't," Margaret replies, "but I don't believe him. He had this look in his eyes, like he knew full well what I was talking about, even though he acted like I was speaking gibberish."

"Have you mentioned them to my husband?" I ask.

"Of course not," she says. "I wouldn't have mentioned them to you either, Madame, if it wasn't that -"

Suddenly the door bursts open and my husband storms into the room. "There's a bloody intruder down in the forest," he says, his face red with anger as he heads to the gun cabinet. "Damn it!" he says, finding it locked. "Where the hell would Dunstable keep the key?"

"What kind of intruder?" I ask, alarmed. Immediately I'm reminded of my nightmares.

"Probably a poacher," Edward says. "I need to send Lively down there to drive him out, but we don't have any guns."

"Did you see the intruder?" I ask.

"Of course I did," Edward says. "How else do you think I know he was there?"

"But did you see his face?" I continue, desperate for an answer. "Did you see what he looked like?"

"Briefly," Edward says, eying me suspiciously, as if he's surprised by my keen interest in the subject. "Funny looking fellow, dressed all in black. He was just standing and staring at us. He had the most piercing dark eyes I've ever seen. I swear, he looked rather peculiar."

I feel a chill run down my spine. "Perhaps we should leave," I say.

Edward frowns.

"If it's not safe..." I continue. I have an overwhelming, and quite desperate, urge to get out of this house and to never, ever come back. I look over at the image on the window pane. Could it be Patrick after all? Is he real? Has he stepped out of my dreams and into reality?

"Of course it's safe!" Edward bellows, clearly angry with me. "I won't be driven out of my own home by some common poacher! If the man thinks he can come and steal my livestock, I'll give him a gut full of lead shot and bury him in an unmarked grave."

Lively walks into the room, carrying an ax. "Shall I, Sir?"

"By all means," Edward says, stepping aside as Lively swings the ax at the cabinet. With one blow, he smashes the door open, revealing a row of rifles.

"Excellent work," Edward says as he and Lively grab a rifle each and start loading them with ammunition. "We'll put a few shots through this fellow and show him what happens to poachers. And then maybe we'll put a bullet through Dunstable too, if he ever shows up. I can't believe he's just abandoned the house in such a state, with poachers running amok."

"Perhaps I should go alone, Sir," Lively says. "It might be dangerous. These poachers can get awfully violent when they're challenged, and they often work in groups, with guns."

"Nonsense," Edward says. He's clearly very worked up, almost excited, and he has that blustery expression that he gets when he wants to assert his manliness. "I want to see the whites of this fellow's eyes before I blast him." He turns to me. "You must stay inside until I come back and tell you that it's safe," he says, before turning to Margaret. "You must protect my wife if needs be."

"Of course," Margaret says.

With that, Edward and Lively head out of the room and into the garden. I go to the window and watch them hurrying across the lawn. They seem so keen to take on this poacher, as if doing so will provide them with an important role in life. Looking toward the trees, I see no-one else, but could it be possible that Patrick is out there? Was it Patrick I heard in the house last night? If so, my nightmares seem to be coming true.

"Madame," says Margaret, looking concerned. "Are you quite alright?"

"I'm -" I start to say, but I'm quickly overcome by a powerful feeling of weakness. I try to turn and walk away, but everything goes black and the last thing I feel is my body hitting the floor before I pass out entirely.