CHAPTER FIVE

I consider myself to be a practical woman. I don't believe in fate, and I don't believe that spiritual powers manipulate Earthly events to bring about some predetermined end. I believe that people—whether they realize it or not—are fully responsible for everything that happens in this world.

But there are moments when I can't help but wonder if something beyond myself has decreed that I will be unable to escape the mysteries that surround me. Perhaps I truly am doomed to pull the thread of every scandal I stumble across until I either solve those mysteries or finally encounter a foe I can't overcome.

I experience one of those moments the evening after meeting Clara. I am in my room preparing for bed after a long day of work when I notice a corner of paper sticking out from underneath my bedroom's dresser. I pick it up, and when I unfold it, a chill comes over me.

There is something odd about Elizabeth. Not madness. Something more sinister than that. Something rotten hides in the shadows here.

The handwriting on the note appears familiar. It takes me a moment to place it, but then I recall the lesson books I discover in the chest in my closet. I hurry to the chest and compare the handwriting to that on the front page of the book.

It matches. Lila Benson wrote this note.

I close the chest carefully, my heart pounding. I look at the note again and wrestle with what to do.

Annabelle has not needed a governess in four years. Lila Benson would have been gone from the family at least that long. Whatever scandal Lila thought she sniffed, it can't possibly be anything I can help with today.

I make several other excuses like this, but I am too tired to pretend I won't try to get to the bottom of this mystery. Not for the first time, I am reminded of the story of Cain and Abel. God asked Cain where Abel was, and Cain feigned ignorance of his brother's fate. God then revealed to Cain that he knew exactly where Abel was and what had happened to him.

"Your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground." I believe that's what the verse said.

I felt that same cry for justice when I investigated the murder of Johnathan Ashford. I felt it again when I looked into the disappearance of Minerva Montclair. I feel it here, and it's that feeling that makes me question whether there may indeed be something to spiritualism and religion.

Perhaps it is Deirdre McCoy's ghost that calls to me. Perhaps she called to Lila as well. Talking to Clara Beaumont earlier, I was able to convince myself that I was uninterested in solving a decades-old mystery that could only implicate a senile old woman in a crime she probably didn't commit. I was able to dismiss Clara's gossip as a fabrication.

Now, though…

Maybe it isn't Deirdre McCoy's ghost. Maybe it's the same ghost with whom Elizabeth pleaded in her secret garden. Elizabeth said the ghost knew where they were.

What are they? Or is the proper question who are they? And why would Elizabeth travel to a secret garden to ask that question? Why would she be so desperate for an answer that she would turn to phantoms?

The practical woman in me can't ignore the possibility that Elizabeth is simply experiencing an earlier onset of the dementia that plagues her mother. Perhaps she isn't entirely aware of herself during these episodes.

In any case, this is none of my business. Unfortunately, I'm past the point where realizing this is going to stop me.

So, rather than slipping into my nightgown, I slip into my boots and pull a sweater over my dress. I head downstairs quietly, not wanting to wake anyone, then just as quietly slip outside.

I am lucky to have a full moon to guide me. I don't want to use a light because I don't want to alarm anyone. The wrathful Moses stares accusingly at me as I pass, but I ignore him and proceed anyway. Perhaps I am as rebellious as the Israelites.

I follow the path toward the garden and soon disappear behind the walls of honeysuckle that ring the gardens deeper portions. The vibrant colors are muted by the pale light of the moon. They seem ominous to me now, not bright and lively as they do under the sun. With the house hidden by the vines and the only sound that of my feet softly crunching into the dirt, it's not hard at all to imagine this place as a sanctuary for haunts and spirits.

The night is warm, and I wear my sweater, but the chill within me spreads to my limbs, and I begin to tremble.

I reach the wrought iron gate and pause once more with my hand on the handle. I hear nothing beyond. No whispers. No prayers. No insects either.

It strikes me that I haven't seen or heard a single insect since leaving the house. Not a single cricket plays its fiddle. No moths flit through the moonlight, and no fireflies flicker over the flowers. The place is silent as a tomb.

I shiver and think longingly of my bed, but I've come this far. I might as well see this through.

I push the handle down, and as before, the gate swings open soundlessly. I step through, and the sound seems more muted than before somehow, as though the world has been covered by a felt cloth.

The moon seems both to dim and brighten at the same time. No, that's not quite right. The moon brightens, but the world dims. It's as though the moon sucks the light away from the Earth rather than shining down on it.

I step forward, my feet seeming to move of their own accord. The hedges extend above me, looming like the walls of a dungeon. I look for the geraniums I remember from my first foray into this secret garden, but I don't find any. Did I have to walk this far the last time? I thought that when I first entered this place, I found Elizabeth and her flowers right away.

There's a glow ahead of me. Someone else is out here. I need to flee before I'm scene and questioned.

I try to turn, but my feet don't allow me. I hear the soft crunch of each footfall as I am compelled inexorably forward. How is it that I have such little control over my own faculties? Am I so desperate to solve this mystery that I am willing to risk putting my position, perhaps even my life, in jeopardy?

Apparently so, because as the glow brightens, I hear whispers, and even those are not enough to stop me.

"I know you know where they are. You've always known. Why are you hiding them from me?"

The voice speaks too softly for me to identify it, but it must be Elizabeth. Who else would be out here at this hour, pleading to a patch of geraniums for guidance?

"Tell me where they are. Tell me quickly, or it will be too late."

Too late? Too late for what?

I round a corner and see Elizabeth. She wears a cotton nightgown, and her long blonde hair falls straight down her back. She is barefoot. She kneels in front of the geraniums, and I see that it's the flowers that release the glow I see. Perhaps she has placed a flashlight among them, or perhaps there are lights embedded in the soil.

I don't think she notices me. She continues to kneel and whisper without turning.

"She's looking for them too. If she finds them, it'll be too late."

Another chill runs through me. Does she know that I'm looking into the family's secrets? And what is she worried about? If I find them, it'll be too late for what? And what are they? Who are they?

"We have to stop her. We have to turn her away, or she'll fall with them."

Now I am truly frightened. I wish to flee, but I can't move, can't even cry out for help. I know it's not my own will that keeps me here because every fiber of my being screams at me to run, to return to the house, to lock my room, to resign my position first thing in the morning and fly anywhere else.

Why did I even become a governess? Why didn't I remain a schoolteacher? I was happy then. Why at fifty years old did I decide to embroil myself in the secret lives of others when I had spent my entire adult life content to worry only about myself?

"But you weren't content. Not really. You've only just begun to admit that to yourself."

It takes me a moment to realize that the voice that has spoken is not that of my conscious, but that of the woman kneeling in front of the geraniums. Elizabeth.

I try to apologize for my intrusion, to promise that I'll never return here again, but my lips are as untethered from my will as the rest of me. I can only stand mutely and listen.

"You were happy because you were hiding. But there are some things you can't hide from, and as age deepens the lines in your forehead, you realize that dying without answers is unacceptable."

She lifts her head, and I open my mouth to cry out, why I'm not sure. No sound comes out. The only sound is her voice, and the only light is from the harsh moon and the ghostly flowerbed in front of me.

"You still hide, though. You surround yourself with little mysteries because they convince you you're a good person, but you can't run forever. The voice of your sister's blood cries out to you from the ground, and eventually, you will return to that ground if for no other reason than to stop her incessant shrieking."

What is this? What is she talking about? How does she know about Annie?

God damn it, why can't I move?

Elizabeth turns her head.

It's not Elizabeth. It's Annie. Not the sister I knew and loved, though. The image that stares at me is that of the ghost I first encounter in the Ashford home. It is my sister, but she is pale, nearly translucent. Her lips are gray and bloodless, and in place of eyes, there are only two gaping holes, darker than night, emptier than death.

She opens her mouth and screams.

***

I sit up, screaming at the wall.

I am in my bed in my room. Light filters in through the curtains of my bedroom window. I look at my door and see that it is locked. I am shaking with terror, but I am safe.

I had a nightmare. A bad one. I try to recall what it was, but the images are fading rapidly. I can only remember the harsh light of the moon and the wrought iron gate that separates Elizabeth's geraniums from the rest of the estate opening soundlessly at my touch.

I release a heavy sigh and run my hands through my hair. It's been some time since I had a night terror that bad. I still have some of the sleeping pills prescribed to me during my time with the Carltons. Perhaps I should take one tonight.

Oh well. Whatever haunted me in my dreams, it's not here now. It was never there in the first place. It's only my mind playing tricks on me.

I throw open the covers and step onto the floor. That's when I see that I am not in my nightgown. I am in my dress from the day before, a thick woolen sweater pulled over it. On my feet are my walking boots, and a muddy trail of prints leads from the doorway to the bed.