Haunted by Lynn Carthage

filled with the sound of my heartbeat. It seemed like the walls trembled to the sound, my pulse dictating the way the house throbbed.
    She’s not there, I told myself. You need medication. You’re hallucinating.
    She stopped and stared at me. My heart skipped a beat, and so did the walls, lurching after a delayed second.
    Her eyes widened in recognition and hatred.
    She knows me? She doesn’t know me. Wake the hell up.
    She lifted her lip in a sneer. I imagined that to her I was a commoner worth no more than a maggot that has surged to the forefront of its popping, headless cousins.
    The hallway was still pulsing with my heart, a cavernous ache pounding in my head. She isn’t there, Phoebe.
    She lifted a thin wrist dripping with diamond bracelets, and pointed behind me down the hall. I obeyed. Released from my paralysis, I backed up around the corner until I couldn’t see her anymore. But I heard her skirts rustle. She was following to make sure I did what she bade.
    She’s in our part of the house. She betrayed some vital rule . . . she was supposed to stay only in her realm, the cobwebbed, dank, stone-walled part.
    There are no rules! I screamed in my head. She doesn’t exist!
    I continued backing up, hearing those skirts from around the corner. I wasn’t imagining the sound. She was taking slow, paced steps in her profusion of silk skirts. I saw the halfway open door of Tabby’s room come back into my peripheral vision.
    My God. Tabby .
    We were isolated at the end of this hallway, my sister and I. Madame Arnaud stood between us and our parents. Try to scream! Just do it!
    I slipped inside. Tabby’s sleeping form, breathing heavily, lay humped in the crib. The night-light gave off an intimate glow, made the room a stage set for a quiet lover’s confession. Her crib created a massive shadow of bars on the wall.
    I heard those skirts, those whispering skirts, turning the corner.
    I clung to the crib rails. I’ll protect you, I promised in my head, but I knew I had no power.
    Tabby’s face was buried in darkness, and I saw the new shadow on the wall, blocking the pattern of the crib. Silk rustled behind me. I fell to my knees.

C HAPTER F IVE
    Dozens of masons and hundreds of laborers worked two years
on the manor’s construction. A parade of carriages carried the
workers back and forth each sunrise and sunset, as
idiosyncrasies of the property owners did not sanction the
customary temporary-workers’ village. Glaziers sailed from the
continent to fashion the splendid glasswork features, such as a
conservatory and a rooftop tower. Tremendous efforts went
into the expansive and verdant lawns, with delightfully formed
topiaries, gushing fountains, and statuary to rival the finest
estates close or far-flung.
    Â 
    â€”From England: Her Cities, Her Towns, Her Pride, Vol. XII

    I still knelt on Tabby’s floor. Hours had passed. I hadn’t slept, but I’d been in some kind of paralyzed state. There had been a shadow show on the wall, as Madame Arnaud did whatever she did, but I sent my mind somewhere else and ignored the slow silhouette.
    I hadn’t been able to do a damn thing to help my sister.
    My body had not belonged to me.
    I had sat helpless in its husk.
    Now sensation returned and I lifted myself to standing. Walked to the crib and stared down at the still-breathing soul there. Thank God.
    Thank God, thank God, thank God, thank God.
    Thank you, God, and I’ll try harder next time, I won’t let the magic freeze me, I’ll fight, I’ll fight her off, I’ll keep my little sister safe, I’ll . . .
    I don’t know how I could have done anything different.
    I jumped, startled, when Tabby erupted into a hiccupping cry. This was her way of letting Mom know each morning that she was awake. Her eyes opened for a second, but her eyelids came down again to cover them as she sobbed.
    â€œI’m so sorry, Tabby,” I said to her.