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Tonight, after our last dinner guest had gone home, Callum took me on the dining room table.
These were words never meant for anyone but their writer to see. I stopped, sucking in a breath. I should close the journal. This wasn’t meant for me, but the words were heady, and my carnal interest instant and powerful.
There’s a stain on my dress from the wine we knocked over. I have no idea what the staff thinks, but we’ve never once been interrupted, so I hope they know never to come knocking on closed doors.
We’d had an argument. The wife of one of his dearest friends, who is always so sweet to me, brought up seances during the meal, and I was fascinated. Spiritualism is experiencing a revival, and I’ve always been interested in the showmanship of it, even though I’m not a believer. Or, at least, hadn’t been. Recent events are changing my mind. With everything going on in the house, in my head, I was eager for a chance to make sense of it, even if it meant indulging in something Callum finds ridiculous.
He openly opposed the idea of hosting a seance, and for the first time in front of our friends, we were at odds with each other. The remainder of the affair had gone on warmly enough, though I was aware of Callum’s irritation. When we were alone at last, I demanded he explain his reasoning.
My inquiry had landed me on my back, my skirts hiked to my waist, and Callum saying only, “This is all there is, my love. There is nothing more.”
I love him so dearly, but I believe he’s wrong.
The last line carried an acute agitation along with the dark yearning unfolding in my lower belly. My breath came uneven, shallow, my head heavy with images of passion painted on the page in the hand of a woman who had gone to her grave afraid of Willowfield. I stood quickly, shaky, either from the sudden movement or the intensity of my unexpected desire. Hot-faced, I attempted to reject the unwanted barrage of sensual ideas by finally going to sleep. My body grew heavy as I crawled beneath the covers, more tired than I’d known, but for a moment, I allowed myself to stare into the dark, thinking terrible, beautiful thoughts.
I dreamed of golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight and strong hands in my hair, then sometime in the dead of night, a low moan of feminine ecstasy jolted me awake. It sounded so close, as if the impassioned woman were lying next to me. I listened to the dark. The fire, only embers, offered a gentle crackle, but there was something else: a whispering that grew as I focused on it, hissing like a kettle preparing to scream. The scent of honeysuckle filled my nose as if the brambling weed had grown wild in the room while I slept. The smell and the incessant noise became too much, overwhelming me, and I covered my face, crying against my hands to break it apart.
Silence fell, and the scent of summer abated. I raised my head.
My bedroom door was open. Near the floor, on hands and knees, a human body, face peeking in, obscured by tangles of pale hair.
A frightened scream assaulted my vocal cords, and the thing retreated backward, spiderlike, knocking the door wide in its haste. This could not be explained away. This was aperson.Made of flesh and blood and tormenting me for reasons beyond my understanding. Recklessly, I lunged out of the bed to follow with no self-doubt addling me. I tried to imagine the meek Felicity or the proper Ms. Dillard crawling into my room, but the picture was too absurd. There was no one else unless…
The front door. The doctor mentioned it was always unlocked.
Someone was in this house.
I was dimly aware that my courage was abnormally elevated, but my urgency suffocated my doubt, and I pursued the intruder. They turned a corner, the white hem of a skirt visible in the moonlight.
“Stop! I’ve seen you already! I’ll call the police!”
For the first time, it dawned on me I had no idea where to find a phone. I didn’t even know if Willowfield had a working one. I’d never seen it. I lost sight of them, with so many doors to disappear into I thought the chase was over. Yet there, at the far end of the hallway barely visible, a figure crouched, trying to hide in the murk beyond the last window.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, causing them to scuttle on hands and feet like an animal down another hallway with a speed I found disturbing, as though moving this way was natural. I had no way of knowing if this invader was dangerous, and surely I had reason to believe they might be. No sane person scrabbled on all fours. Still I pursued, intoxicated by my own adrenaline. The floor felt insubstantial, as though it were made of unset clay, and my awareness undulated from inside my body to above it. My rising panic began to demand proof that I wasn’t pursuing another nightmare, and I slowed, light-headed and heavy bodied. Was I still asleep? A quick gasp of ecstasy turned my head, and I found the woman several doors behind me, hands like claws on the floor and with a shiver, she slunk into a room, her movements a symphony of rustling leaves, dry and dead.
I hurried to the door she’d disappeared through, still partially open no longer sure why I was continuing to follow, only feeling profoundly compelled to. But as I crossed the threshold, the brutal determination lifted, like a spell broken, and I stumbled to a halt.
Therewassomeone in this room.
Professor Hughes stood gazing into the aggressive glow of the fireplace, looking up with a start as I entered. Discounting the hour, he was fully dressed though disheveled, unkempt hair touching the tops of his cheeks, shirt rumpled and unbuttoned halfway, revealing the hard lines of his collarbones and the undershirt beneath. A half-empty glass of amber liquid sat on the mantel where he leaned, turning a small white packet between his fingers like a magician about to enthrall an audience with sleight of hand. His initial surprise turned to something more forbidding as he took in the sight of me, breathing hard and likely looking berserk.
“Professor.” A fresh wave of horror having nothing to do with the thing that had led me here brought me back to my body abruptly, like a drunk doused in ice water. “You were meant to be away.”
“Clearly, I’ve returned.”
“Please, there’s someone…”
I couldn’t say more. I’d seen a woman crawl into this room, yet there was no one else here, unless she happened to be hiding under the bed. I glanced in that direction, regretting it as soon as I had.
“Someone,” he asked darkly, noting where my attention had gone.
I straightened myself, trying to be sure of what I had experienced, newly bewildered by the realization that I wasn’t just in any room with Professor Hughes. It was a bedroom, and it was his.
“I’ve seen someone in the house,” I said. “I followed them here. I think they came in at the front door. We need to call the police.”
Professor Hughes made a silent point by motioning around the empty room. There was only the two of us. I had no way of proving myself, no evidence to offer other than my word, which I was beginning to doubt.
“This entire thing,” I said shakily, finally voicing my experiences at Willowfield, “is very uncommon.”
