Into the Darkness
Lee F. Patrick
She smiled, catching sight of her friend Major Deventry coming along toward her. He always wore his scarlet Regimentals with more extravagant muttonchops than any man alive could boast of.
He extended his arm. “Well, Miss Mary, did you enjoy your caterwauling this evening?”
She curtsied and took his arm. “Of course, Major. I am so glad that I can travel anywhere I wish now. Perhaps I will visit the Metropolitan in New York City during their next season. I can easily return the same night without draining myself.”
“It would be better not to travel too far in the next while, I fear,” the Major said. His mouth thinned. “Or perhaps it might be better to leave and never return. I’ve felt something odd thrice in the past week. I am unsure of its nature, but I admit to a great unease.”
She half turned to look up at him, one eyebrow raised. “What did it feel like?”
“A heaviness of spirit; a tension in the air. A chill. Nothing I can point to and say, ‘There it is, the source of my discomfort.’” He fluffed his whiskers with his free hand and relaxed his jaw with deliberate effort. “I should not frighten you with idle talk on such a fine night. May I escort you to your destination?”
She smiled. “I always enjoy your company, Major. I am returning to my eldest niece’s home tonight. She recently married and there is a spare room I haunt on occasion.”
“You still make your rounds of the younger generation? Few of us can bear to watch children growing up the way you have. Returning to England was impossible, so I never had the chance.”
“Yes, I do visit.” She sighed. “Although I could no longer endure my life, I only regretted leaving them behind.”
“You will change more than they do,” he promised as they walked across the street. A nearby cab horse shied as it felt their presence.
She reached her destination and rose to the second floor. Her nephew Peter still lived with his parents while he attended university to study law. He was at his desk, pencil poised to make notes as he pored over a thick legal tome.
She placed her hand over his and started to write. Once she had finished her note she tapped on the desk. Peter jumped and half stood in surprise. Another tap on the desk drew his attention to the note.
Dearest Peter:
There is something not quite right in this neighborhood. Have there been any odd occurrences recently?
“Not really, Aunt Mary,” he said, taking his seat. “Can you explain just what is wrong?” He picked up the pencil and closed his eyes again, hand waiting.
I fear not. An acquaintance of mine has felt a similar unease. I wonder if I should inquire of the others I know and determine if there is danger.
He shook his head. “I haven’t heard of anything lately. Elizabeth’s betrothal party is on Saturday night. I can ask everyone there if you like. We’re scattered all over the city, so might learn more.”
Dearest Liz. I knew that she and Samuel seemed to be found together a great deal of the time.
Your idea is best, Peter. I shall seek out my acquaintances and perhaps we can glean some coherent information.
Tell the others that I love them all and think of them often.
Peter glanced down at the paper. “I will, Aunt Mary. Perhaps you should come to the party as well. That way you could hear our discussion, even if we are whispering in the corners.”
In the council chambers, the glossy oak panelling and carved oak chairs with red velvet cushions were lit only by the dimmed gaslights. To Mary’s ghostly senses, the room was as bright as it would be during the council’s normal sessions.
“We’ve all felt a presence,” the Major began. “Does anyone have any details on what or who it is? Has anyone been close to it?”
“It wants something,” said Mr. Hadrens, a constable in life as well as death. “I’ve gone looking for it, but just when I think that I’ve cornered it: poof and it’s gone.” Others nodded in agreement. “I don’t think it’s very dangerous. A nuisance, certainly, but nothing more. However, I plan to keep my eyes and ears open in case I’ve mistaken its intent.”
A woman Mary did not know spoke up. “It is evil. It bides its time now, Constable, but soon it will strike and that will bring more evil after it.”
“But at what, that is one question we must ask,” Mary said loudly. “If we can learn what it wants, then we may understand why it is here and how to deal with it.”
Nevertheless, Mary was unable to keep her thoughts entirely with their pleasant recollections. Not for the first time, there was a gain to be had in spending time with them unheard and unseen.
At the return gathering of what Peter would insist on calling “the spooks” two weeks later, the mood was much subdued. “Hadrens has vanished,” the Major said quietly. “So have three others who hadn’t come before. At least, those are all I know of. All were powerful spirits, and there is no indication that they have finally passed over.”
“Newspaper reports chronicle many strange events,” Mary said. “Panic is spreading.”
“Our comrades panic as well.” The Major swept his hand around at the council chamber. Barely half of those who had attended the first meeting were present. “Many I spoke to refused to leave familiar ground. Some have even returned to their graves and sunk into the earth, hoping that whatever happens will not find them.”
“What can we do?” Mary asked.
“Hide or hunt,” said a foppish gentleman with a lace-edged handkerchief that he used to punctuate his sentences. His top hat lay on the table before him, along with his gloves and a walking stick. “If Hadrens has been taken, then we should travel in pairs at least. Company, not isolation, may keep us from whatever fate has overcome our fellows.”
“One of the newspaper accounts was like that of a powerful haunting,” Mary said. “There was knocking, and small pieces of furniture wafting about the house. Several people were injured by flying glass from a broken window, as I understand. One of my nephews lives nearby and heard the noises.”
“I’ve been past that house,” the foppish man said, flicking his handkerchief to and fro. Mary had seen him occasionally at the theatre, and at the last meeting. Smythe, she thought his name was. “Felt cold to me, but there was nothing about with the ability to do a serious amount of damage. Not at the moment, mind you.”
After the meeting ended, with no clear consensus on the level of danger, Mary went back to Peter’s house thoughtfully. At the house where the flying glass incident had happened, she started to shiver. Her hand went to the watch brooch on her breast and her gaze darted all over the house, trying to isolate the source of the cold.
The house was dark, not only because everyone had gone to bed and turned down the gas lamps, but dark in a way she didn’t understand.
Then a noise began, a low sporadic thumping at first, growing louder and faster.
Lights came on in the neighbouring houses, but none shone from the house in front of her. There was a final crescendo of thumping, and the night was still again— and the darkness was gone from the chill house.
A dog several streets away barked angrily, then yipped. Silence reigned again.
She approached the building hesitantly. She attempted to walk through the door, but could not. She tried pushing her hand through, but as it neared the door, she found she needed even more energy to move another quarter inch. Too much.
Mary stepped away and tried to reach through the wall beside it, then circled the house quickly, testing for an entrance. There were none. With distaste, she even tried sinking into the ground to enter through the cellar walls. It reminded her of her grave. She kept trying, pushing against the barrier, unconcerned at how much effort it took. She finally had to admit defeat.
The barrier encompassed the entire structure.
She continued slowly down the street, eyes blinking in exhaustion. She fixed her mind on the light in Peter’s room and willed herself directly there. The warm glow of his lamp was the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness.
Peter knew she was there, of course. “Aunt Mary, it’s very strange at that house. I met the family before all this happened, so I’ve been able to find out things I wouldn’t otherwise. I hadn’t known about the noises or I would have mentioned them to you.
“The inhabitants are Mr. Alfred Hastens and his wife Carrie, their children Laura, Betsy, and Timothy. Some nights, they can’t get a wink of sleep, other nights everyone else on the street but them is disturbed. Laura said that none of them woke that night when you heard the knockings. She sleeps with her sister since this started.”
He looked at his notepad. “As for servants, there’s a cook, a butler and two housemaids. Laura told me that none of the servants have ever heard a thing.”
Mary rapped gently on the side table where a pencil and paper lay waiting. Peter came over and took up the pencil, closing his eyes.
That is strange that the servants heard nothing. What are the ages of the various people?
Peter read her note and looked thoughtful. “Mr. and Mrs. Hastens are in their early forties, I think. Laura is the oldest at seventeen. Betsy is twelve, and Timothy is fourteen. The cook is past fifty if you believe her grey hair. The butler the same. Both housemaids are over twenty. Does that make a difference?”
I am unsure. I must consult others. Do not go into that house lightly, Peter. There is something very wrong there. Is Mr. Hastens thinking of leaving the house because of the disturbances?
“They only moved in five months ago, so I doubt they would. Some elderly gentleman lived there before: an uncle of Mr. Hastens, I think. I’ll try to discover more of the house’s history. Take care, Aunt Mary.”
She rose slowly to her feet and headed out into the evening to find the Major.
“I am better, I thank you, sirs. The house I mentioned is the source of this thing, I am sure of it. I went there the night of our meeting and could not enter. There is a darkness around it while the noises emanate, and a barrier prevented my entrance even after silence reigned.”
“We were quite worried when you didn’t come to the meeting last night,” the Major said. “Mr. Smythe and I were looking for you.”
She managed a smile and a curtsey. “I apologise, gentlemen. After our meeting I attempted to enter that house, but was repulsed and left utterly exhausted. I am glad that my nephew lives only a few doors away so that I had a safe place to rest.” She relayed the information that Peter had gathered after they took seats in a deserted park.
“I’ve heard of such barriers,” the Major said, smoothing his whiskers. “It would take more energy than the three of us possess to break through. Not knowing what is on the other side makes me less eager to attack immediately.”
“You should rest, Miss Cavanaugh,” Mr. Smythe said. “You look quite transparent still.” He slipped a small box from his coat sleeve and took snuff.
Mary looked at her arm and could see the park bench faintly beneath it. “Do you think that the others were drained of nearly all their energy by the darkness?”
The Major nodded. “It could be. We know very little about this manifestation. I think a short reconnoitre is in order. I’ll go near the house, while Mr. Smythe and you stand well back.”
“If you think it wise,” Mary said. “I tried several times to gain entrance. That may have been what exhausted me. Just try once and see how you feel.”
“It looks normal,” Mr. Smythe said as they approached the house. Evening came early now that September was past. Mary shook her head slightly. It felt wrong to her.
“I’ll try the door,” Major Deventry said. “If you would wait here.”
“Even if you can gain access, I would not recommend a long sortie,” Mr. Smythe said. His handkerchief was now tucked in his coat sleeve and he held his walking stick between his hands. A twist of his wrists unlocked the blade within. “A common defence against footpads in my time, Miss Cavanaugh,” he said at her shocked look. “I have also found it of use against some manifestations that have troubled me since.”
Major Deventry mounted the stairs and paused at the edge of the porch. “I do feel something odd,” he called back to them, his eyes never leaving the house. “A coldness.” He took a step forward and reached out toward the door.
Mary stifled a shriek as he took another step forward. The door seemed to move toward him and become as dark as she had sensed that other night. A loud booming sound came from the upstairs and the Major threw himself backward to sprawl in the pathway, then the door returned to its original position and colour.
Mr. Smythe stood guard with his sword while the Major regained his feet. The door remained quiescent as they moved back to the flagway next to the road.
“I should try and see if the same thing happens,” Mr. Smythe said. “At least I’ll know to be ready to move quickly.”
“I think we should have some others with us before making another attempt,” Mary said. “How do you feel, Major?”
“It tried to drain me,” he admitted, whiskers bristling. “I think that Miss Mary is right. This is beyond anything I have ever encountered.”
He turned several pages in his pad. “Mr. Hastens inherited the house from his maternal uncle, Mr. Martin Devine. He inherited it from his father, who bought it from another family, the Packards, who had purchased it from someone named Ekman. He must have built the house. I found nothing out of the ordinary with the wills, the transfers of title, or the tax rolls.
“I did find something that might have a bearing in the newspaper files. About a hundred years ago there was a similar spate of noises from that house. It stopped as suddenly as it started. But around that time, one of the daughters of the house died. A twelve year old named Amalie Ekman. She fell down the stairs while playing with a ball on the upper landing. Her neck was broken.”
Mary looked at the Major and Mr. Symthe. “Do you know of anyone who might have been here, either alive or as a ghost, when this took place?”
“Possibly,” Mr. Symthe said. “I shall inquire. This was a much smaller city then, and the possibility that a ghost from that time remains here is unlikely. For myself, I do not recall hearing or reading of such an incident.”
Mary rapped gently on the table and Peter sat down with a pencil.
Thank you Peter. We shall try to find Amalie and any other ghosts who may remember that time. Have there been any further noises?
“No, it has become quiet of late, Laura said. They are all very relieved.”
Two days later they met in the council chambers again. Only five ghosts attended this time. The Major strode back and forth, hands clenching and unclenching behind him.
“We know of no one from the relevant time,” Mr. Smythe said with a flick of his handkerchief. “And with this small a group, I would hesitate to begin any attack. We have no notion of what is inside.”
Mrs. Royston, the woman who had said it was evil at their first meeting, stood. “I died many years after that sensation, but I have spent my entire life in this city. I refuse to let anything drive me from my home.”
“Have any others disappeared?” Mary asked.
“It is almost impossible to tell,” the Major said. “Some refuse to come out to speak, others seem to refuse to even acknowledge our presence, so we do not know if they were taken or not.” He stopped his pacing and looked at the small audience. Do you have any suggestions for our course of action, Mrs. Royston? We are, I think, open to all suggestions.”
““We must attack,” Mrs. Royston said with a shrug. “Attack or hide until it gets what it wants and leaves.”
“Last time a young girl died,” Mary said. “Shall we let another innocent be taken by this evil, as you termed it?”
“Can we cause the family to leave the house?” Mr. Smythe asked. “If it is destroyed, perhaps by fire, so might be the focus the thing has to enter this world.”
“We cannot enter the house,” said the fifth ghost into the silence, a thin man with a pointed chin and nose. “How could we destroy the house without entering it?”
“Perhaps if one of us had a focus in the house, we might be able to pass the barrier,” Mary said.
The Major’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“When I was exhausted after my encounter with the barriers, I willed myself directly to my nephew’s room, by linking to him. If Peter was in the house, I may be able to do the same: go directly to him. Could you all then come to me?”
The others were silent for several moments, thinking through the idea. “It might work,” the thin man said, rocking his head from side to side. “If we have something of yours to use as our link.”
“Something of hers?” asked Mr. Smythe. “How does that help? She doesn’t have anything. None of us really do.”
“But my nephew does,” Mary said, her spirits rising. She touched the watch brooch on her dress. “He has my watch, the real watch. He can leave it just outside the house so that all of you may be nearby when I attempt to enter. I can use my link to Peter to reach him, and you all can use the watch to link to me to join me inside. As many ghosts as we can summon could be helpful.”
“It seems we have our plan, then,” the Major said. “I think that you should rest for a few more days, Miss Mary. Yours will still be the hardest task, and you have not fully recovered from your previous encounter. Mr. Smythe and I will escort you to your nephew’s and you may show us the brooch. I would like to seek out others and ask if any more will come and aid us, now that we have a plan.”
“An excellent idea,” Mr. Smythe said. “Perhaps some of the gentlemen will be more amenable to assist us when they know that a lady will be entering the fray at our head.”
“I am unsure this plan will work,” the Major said. They were standing outside the house, watching Peter make his way up the stairs to the door. He had insisted on joining the foray, and Mary was filled with apprehension for her nephew. It was early evening, the sun giving a brilliant display in the western clouds.
“We have reinforcements,” Mrs. Royston said. Four more ghosts had joined them after two days of cajoling and appealing to their better natures.
Peter rang the bell and the butler answered. He went inside and the door closed behind him. The Major turned to speak to Mary, but she had vanished.
“Where did she go?” he asked.
Mr. Smythe looked at the house. “I believe she is inside. Shall we join her?”
The Major reached down and touched the watch brooch, which Peter had tucked behind the gate. It was familiar to him, as Mary always wore its ghostly equivalent no matter what else she changed in her attire. He concentrated on her image and willed himself to join her… then he sagged against Mr. Smythe, his smart military regalia fading into an old undershirt and house trousers, beloved whispers reduced to a shadow of their former extravagance.
“The barrier,” he whispered. “It’s too strong.”
“It’s drained him,” Mr. Smythe said. “Let’s try as a group to get one of us through. I volunteer.”
“All right,” Mrs. Royston said. “One try.”
As the Major drifted away from the house, the others gathered around the watch and touched it. Mr. Smythe took drew his sword stick and tucked the handkerchief in his sleeve. He felt their combined power growing behind him and fixed Mary’s face in his mind. “Now!”
He launched himself toward her, feeling the barrier in his way. It was alive in some way he did not understand. He thrust the sword before him to puncture the dark envelope that surrounded the house—
—and he was in.
He stood in an entrance hall, sword stick held at the ready. Voices came from the drawing room to the left, and he slipped through the door. At least here in the house he could again travel through walls and the like with impunity.
“Miss Cavanaugh?” Mr. Smythe called softly.
Only the living were in the room. Mary’s nephew spoke to two young ladies and an older one, likely their mother. Mr. Smythe grimaced and returned into the hall. He searched the main floor quickly, finding nothing out of the ordinary, then returned to the outer door. The barrier had grown stronger. He found a window and tried to look out, but the barrier distorted his vision enough that he was not sure if the others were still at the front of the house. No one else had entered, so he assumed they could not.
On the second floor, he found the master of the house dressing for dinner. The third floor was deserted, as the servants were downstairs getting ready to serve the meal.
On a back stairway to the attic, he felt coldness begin halfway up the stairs.
“Miss Cavanaugh,” he called again. “Where are you?”
“I am here.” He heard her voice from above. He took a tighter grip on the sword stick and continued, his eyes not resting on any object for longer than it took to identify it.
When the stairs opened onto the attic landing, he still moved cautiously, keeping his back to the outer wall and peering over the floorboards. Mary stood in a cramped hallway of low, narrow doors, and turned to motion him up beside her.
“The source is up here,” she whispered. “Where are the others?”
“The barrier was too strong. I think that it took all their energy to get me through. We are, as they say, on our own now.”
“I suppose so.” She looked at his sword stick. “Shall we attempt to find the focus?”
“We must, or all this has been for naught.” He looked at the doors along the hallway, quiet and possibly deadly.
The first room held stacks of boxes and luggage. The coldness that permeated the hall outside was not present. The next was the repository of old furniture, not worthy of the public rooms and unneeded for the servants’ quarters. Broken wicker and ripped and faded upholstery abounded.
The room at the far end of the corridor held the darkness.
Mary shivered. The ghostly light here was muted, as if the darkness did not want anything bright near it. “We should stay near each other,” Mr. Smythe said. Mary nodded and they slowly circled the room, trying to isolate where the darkness was coming from.
They were three-quarters of the way around the room, when the darkness abruptly vanished.
Mary stared at Mr. Smythe in amazement, then a booming sound from below them shook the house.
“Take my hand, sir,” Mary said. “We shall go directly to Peter.”
He took her hand and they appeared in the drawing room a moment later. The darkness filled it, and the air was full of objects from the mantelpiece, wildly circling the room. The younger girl was crying, her head buried in her mother’s shoulder. Peter had his arm around the older girl, both staring wide-eyed at the cyclonic display.
“Make it go away, Mama!” the younger girl wailed, and immediately the darkness began to form a coherent shape.
Mr. Smythe released Mary’s hand and advanced on it with his sword point high. “Take that!” he cried as his sword flashed through the dark form, cutting it in twain.
There was another boom, deafeningly close, and he fell, grey and drained.
Mary stood in front of him while the darkness reformed. Inside, she trembled, but a glance at the cowering people stiffened her resolve. No one else would be harmed in this house. Not if there was any way she could prevent it.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you doing this?”
The darkness coalesced further, taking on a vaguely human shape that was near her own height. “She summoned me,” it said. The voice was distorted and harsh, full of menace.
“Who? That young girl?”
“Yes.” The flying objects slowly settled to the floor as the darkness concentrated on maintaining a form. “She summoned me from my sleep. I must take her before I can sleep again.”
Peter took his arm from around the older girl and the younger lifted her head and wiped her eyes clear of tears. Perhaps to them the danger seemed abated, but Mary was not so confident just yet.
“Did you drain the ghosts who have gone missing?”
“I needed energy. They had it. As do you.” The dark form moved toward her.
“You did not answer my question,” Mary said, not moving back. “Who were you?”
The form paused. “I do not remember.”
“A long time ago, a girl died in this house. Were you she, or did you kill her?”
The darkness turned to regard the people clustered at the other end of the room. An amorphous arm pointed at the youngest girl. “She is the one who summoned me. All else is forgotten.”
“How?” whispered Mr. Smythe. He was up on his knees now, his hair whitened, his face that of an old man. He leaned on his sword stick to keep from tumbling over.
“Yes,” said Mary, “how did she summon you? What do you truly need to return to sleep again?”
“There is much anger in this place. Hate begets hate.”
“So you generated the barrier to keep outside hate away, but still feel the pain of anger inside.” Mary nodded. “But you have been taking energy without leave, and you must expend energy to do so. Maintaining the barrier takes still more. No wonder you are in such need. Is there a focus that keeps you here?”
The dark figure contracted, intensified, and Mary felt its chill grow stronger. “You will not find it. If it is destroyed, I am destroyed.”
“I will give you the energy you need to block the anger,” she said. “And we shall hide your focus so that no one can wake you again.”
She took several steps toward the darkness, holding out her hand. “Let me help you.”
“Miss Cavanaugh,” Mr. Smythe said in a strained whisper. “What are you doing?”
“The proper thing,” she said. She knelt beside him, taking his hand in hers, letting her energy flow into him. His hair darkened and the lines from his face erased themselves. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, then stood, still holding her hand.
“You give all to him so that you will give none to me,” the darkness said. Its voice had changed, no longer a menacing snarl but a younger voice, a sadder and more desperate voice.
“No,” Mary said. “There is always more power in love than in hate. Where is your focus, little one? All will be well.”
There was a pause, a long, considering pause, then a red wooden ball such as a child might play at catch with appeared, hanging in the air between them.
Mary placed her hand on the focus, and the figure advanced to meet her. A tendril of darkness reached forward, touching the now glowing ball, then it grew thicker and lighter as it absorbed the energy Mary fed to it, Mr. Smythe at her side, with their clasped hands forming a secondary link to aid her.
The darkness shrank to the size of a child. A young girl’s face started to form.
“I was Amalie Ekman,” she said, smiling suddenly. “I remember now. Father was always angry. He shouted at me all the time. I was too noisy when I played with my ball.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Is that why you made the noises here?” Mr. Smythe asked. “Because your father wanted you to be very quiet?”
“Yes.” The transformation continued, the darkness giving way to light, the vague shape to that of a girl, dressed in what had been usual for a child to wear perhaps a hundred years before. “He can’t make me be quiet now.”
“He died long ago, Amalie,” Mary said. “This is a different time. This family is not yours. It is time for you to go onward now. You don’t have to stay in this place if being here brings you pain.”
The ball slipped to the floor as Mary took Amalie’s hand directly.
“I’m scared,” Amalie whispered.
“Don’t worry,” Mary said. “I’ll be with you.”
“If you let the outside barriers down, there are others who will help,” Mr. Smythe said. “I will explain and bring them in.”
Amalie nodded, and when he returned a few moments later, stopping just inside the entrance to the drawing room, the others were standing slightly behind him. Despite their individually reduced states, by their combined efforts a glow of golden light surrounded Mary and began to encompass the child as well.
“Mr. Smythe, can you make sure that this is taken somewhere safe?”
“I shall. There is a place I know of where it may rest in safety.”
Major Deventry smiled as he bowed. “I told you that you would change, Miss Mary. We shall miss you here, but I hope to encounter you again.”
The glow increased, slowly obscuring the features of the two within, and Mary felt something changing inside. Perhaps guiding the girl to a better place than the prison she had forged around herself would mean more of a journey than she had bargained for.
Mary looked from her friends to the huddle of living persons, where Peter—good, kind Peter—was busy reassuring the startled family, though he too wore a dishevelled air, still affected by what they had experienced of the encounter. His gaze passed across hers, and for a moment she thought it lingered, saw a tiny frown crease his brow, as though he saw something but doubted if he saw anything at all.
She looked down at the trusting face of Amalie, and smiled. Then the glow was so strong, Mary Cavanaugh couldn’t see anything at all.
Mr. Smythe glanced down at the other end of the room, where those living had been unknowing witnesses to the transition. He saw the glint of tears in the young man’s eyes as he soothed the girl beside him. He was not that unknowing. He deserved an explanation. Perhaps later tonight he would visit the young man and leave him a note, so that her family would know of Miss Mary’s joy and transformation.
A novel idea, that the dead could so communicate with the living.
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