Doppelgänger by Sean Munger Page B

conversations with her. She didn’t mention a husband, but…” Her voice trailed off.
    Another death . The second servant in a month who has to be carried out of the place. It occurred to her that if word of this latest horror got around—as surely it would—the domestics of New York City would collectively brand this house as cursed. She still needed a ladies’ maid, and Julian his valet; but that, of course, was secondary. Anine felt for the old Irishwoman and her family, if she had one. As she had for Bradbury she intended to write a letter of condolence and to pay Mrs. O’Haney’s next of kin in full for her brief time of service. That was the least she could do.
    Supper that night was dreary and muted. Over roast beef, mushroom-celery soup and a rather middling claret Anine and Julian said little to one another. In the emptiness of the gigantic dining room the clank and ting of silverware against china sounded jarring and loud. It had been a warm day but a fire glowed dully between the andirons. The house felt desperately empty.
    â€œYou’re sure you heard her walking around?” said Julian, apropos of nothing.
    So he was thinking about her too. Anine took a sip from her wine glass. “Yes. Her footsteps woke me.”
    Julian grunted. “You sleep so lightly that the sound of a mouse breathing could wake you.”
    â€œI did hear her laughing.”
    He seemed bothered by this. “What reason would she have to be laughing outside our bedroom door in the middle of the night?”
    â€œI have no idea, Julian. We knew nothing about the woman.”
    â€œWell, it’s certainly queer.”
    That it was. Anine did not eat much more. Soon Mrs. Hennessey came to take away the plates and it seemed only minutes later that she was announcing she was leaving for the evening. In the drawing room with Julian, who sat reading a volume of Sherman’s Civil War memoirs, Anine tried to pass the time with the Walter Scott novel that Lucretia had let her keep, but the time stretched curiously long and the feeling of the house’s emptiness was almost suffocating.
    â€œWell, let’s turn in,” said Julian after snapping shut the book. Anine’s stomach sank. How can he expect to sleep after all of this? After yet another body was carried out of here today? But she gave no protest and soon joined him.
    Tick…tick…tick…tick… Each stroke of the mantel clock seemed in the inky stillness of the bedroom like the crash of a cymbal. In strange contrast to its monstrous ticking the clock’s chime on the hour was quite muted, like the ting of a spoon against a glass. Not long ago it had chimed two and Anine hadn’t slept a wink. She thought of the silence that must have pervaded the house during the summer months while Bradbury’s body hung undiscovered from the balustrade.
    She imagined the moment of his death. Did he cry out? Did his neck snap audibly when the rope jerked taut? The next sound would have been a gentle creaking of the rope against the railing as his body swayed, dangling like the pendulum of that noisy clock ( TICK…TICK…TICK… ) until it finally came to rest. After that the house was silent. If Julian and the police inspector were right Bradbury hanged himself on June 4. The next sound to break the deathful silence was the sound of Julian rapping on the door with his walking stick, two and a half months later. For ten weeks this house had been completely and ominously silent.
    For some reason Anine was more horrified by the thought of that long unbroken silence than she was by the imagination of the suicide itself.
    TICK! TICK! TICK!
    Then Anine heard something else: a creaking noise, like footsteps on the floorboards, under the thick new forest-green carpet outside the bedroom door.
    Her body jerked taut but she didn’t sit up. No—I can’t have heard that! I imagined it! The sound lasted for only a