House Of Shadows

“Yes. Tonight.” As he walked away, she was unable to tear her eyes away from his retreating form.

Then he was gone, and she stood alone in the entry hall. Or so she thought.

* * *

It was a testament to Penrose’s desperation that she stayed the day in that strange mansion. Forty-one rooms and she had walked through fourteen of them before her fear got the better of her and she went and sat in the front parlor, which was so large it was more of a great room. Not a person or servant had shown themselves, and yet the house looked well maintained and orderly. One thing drove her crazy—no matter where she went in the mansion, she could hear the grandfather clock ticking.

The front parlor had a large picture window that looked out over the front lawn. The view was like a fancy oil painting, with a serene pond and a large oak tree standing watch over it. It was easy to imagine a family gathering in this very room every evening, playing games and enjoying the twilight hours. But the eerie quiet of the house belied that image. It was a tomb. And even though the house was dead quiet, save for the clock, something else unsettled her even more. She was standing, staring out of the window and wondering exactly what it was, when the realization hit her.

It felt as if someone was watching her.

The sensation was similar to what she’d felt when she first arrived. But it didn’t seem like nonsense this time. It was very real, and she spun around, eyes darting left and right, skimming the room. What did she expect to find? This was silly. She had the sudden urge to be free of the house, to stand outside in the sun, where everything made sense. There was nothing scary with the wind in your hair and the sunshine on your cheeks.

Her mind was made up. She would go outside. As she walked from the room, she glanced at the door frame and something caught her eye. A growth chart had been carved into the frame. Names and dates were scratched into the wood, noting the heights of children as they grew. All the scratchings were muted and dulled with age.

The tallest carving was dated 1865 and inscribed with the name Carrick. Twenty-one years ago; the same year she was born. She guessed Carrick’s age at thirty-seven or so. Penrose ran her finger over the mark. He would have been too young to head off to war. She noticed other names, Carville and Sampson, that were almost as high as Carrick’s. Older brothers, she reasoned, though the last dates etched for them were 1861 and 1862.

Penrose almost missed the last marking. It was so very low on the frame. She had started to walk away when her gaze caught the raw color of the newly scratched wood. There was no date, but the scar was so fresh that it had to be recent. Only the initials C.J. were visible, carved crudely, angular and far too large.

On the other side of the door frame, there were other odd markings. Tally marks—single lines gouged in the wood, with a slash running diagonally through them. Someone was counting in blocks of five, and there were dozens and dozens of blocks. She didn’t know what to make of it and ran her fingers over the gouges, wondering.

She went outside the double doors at the rear of the house. There was a small flight of stairs that ended on a gravel path. Pecan trees dotted the rear lawn before they gave way to marshy grasses. The Ashley River flowed in the distance, dark as mud and slow as honey. Immediately, she felt better, walking along with the sweet aromas of the summer flowers perfuming the air. Honeybees flew lazy arcs around her head. She walked until the heat got the better of her.

It was getting late. She wanted to be well rested for work. When she turned around to head back inside the manor, what she saw stopped her cold. There was a stone cellar beneath the house, and in the window she saw two figures bent over as if working at a desk. For a long time, she stood there, hand on her hip, staring at the window.

They didn’t move. She walked forward, slow as molasses in winter, her eyes trained on the window. She was half expecting one of them to jump up and scare her silly just for their own amusement. But, no, they were dark and still shadows in the dull shine of the windows. Standing and staring at them, she almost wished they would jump out and scare her. At least she’d know they were real people, then.

They definitely weren’t real, or if they were, they were fantastic at posing perfectly still. There wasn’t anything human about them. The way their bodies slumped looked awkward, a position that no one could hold for very long. Resting her hand on the wall of the house, she bent over the railing and tried to get a better look.

She had to lean out quite a ways before the shine on the window disappeared and she saw them clearly. They were faceless and formless wooden beings, slumped over in their chairs. The wood was perfectly cut and shaped to form odd, rounded limbs, hands like paddles and oval-shaped heads. They had no features on their faces, only smooth, dark wood.

Much as she tried to muffle her thoughts, Charlie’s words about Carrick and voodoo spells kept popping up. What kind of man was he?

After backing away from the window, she turned and ran back into the house. She may have been desperate and the pay might have been high, but it might not be high enough to make her stay here.

She went to find her room, her skirts sweeping the floor as she walked. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, gripping the balustrade with one hand and her air-light valise in the other. A stretch of red carpet covered the hallway. Dust bunnies gathered at the edges of the baseboards.

There were so many doors. Which one was his? She slowed, listening at each door, goose bumps on her skin, afraid he would somehow know and yank open the door. But all was quiet. Finally, she found the small stairwell at the end of the hall. Grim narrow steps rose in a tight spiral, and she had to focus on her feet as she climbed. A single door welcomed her at the landing and she stepped inside a large and airy attic that had been converted into a room. Though sparsely appointed, it pleased her.

Certainly it was a huge improvement over the storage closet she’d slept in for the past six months. A bed and dresser were tucked in a corner and there was a closet against one wall. A circular window, the biggest she’d ever seen, looked out across the front lawn. She ran her hands over the sill. The ledge was big enough that she could crawl up onto the sill, curl up and survey at the grounds.

She undressed and stretched out on the bed, relaxing against the pillow. But that creeping sensation returned again, the feeling that someone was watching her. She crawled under the covers and pulled them to her chin. It helped a little bit. Dimly, she heard the grandfather clock toll eleven mellow chimes. It was still morning. It felt like a lifetime since she’d first arrived at the manor. The lids of her eyes felt heavy. She gave in to the urge and closed them.

A few moments later, a strange shuffling noise grabbed her attention. It was an odd, sliding, shifting sound, like a cotton sack being dragged along a floor. Rising and wiping the sleep from her eyes, she went to the door and looked down the stairs. They were empty. But the sound persisted. She went completely still to pay attention.

The walls. The sound was coming from within the walls. A tight wave of icy fear swept her body as she listened. What a fool she’d been to race over here and hop on the easy-money bandwagon. That scraping, swooshing noise just wouldn’t stop.

Penrose sighed. Better to know. It was always better to know.

In her white cotton underthings and with her dark hair spilled around her shoulders, she tiptoed to the wall. She pressed her ear to the wooden panels. Silence. But something or someone was there. Taking shallow breaths, she walked along slowly, swallowing often to keep the bile from her throat. Again. A scratching. Scraping. Following the noise, she traced her finger over the plaster, drawing closer to the source. When the sound increased suddenly, she knew she’d located it. The sound was low to the ground. Dropping to her knees, she pressed her head to the wall and closed her eyes. The noise was quite distinct and just on the other side.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, surprised by the sharpness in her voice.

Complete silence. Then, distantly, the sound dimmed, more scratching. Still as stone, she stood, her whole being focused on the sound as it drifted farther away until there was only the sharp, quick hiss of her own breathing. She returned to her bed shaken, convinced she’d never sleep again, let alone take an afternoon nap. But she was wrong and fell quickly asleep.

* * *

Carrick Arundell parted the thick curtains and looked out at the unfamiliar sight of the afternoon sun. He hated the day, hated that aching yellow ball inching its way across the sky. It did nothing but bruise his eyes and burn his skin. It was the night he lived for—for the long, dark hours when the world was asleep and he emerged to create his inventions.

On most mornings, the rising sun was easy to ignore. Except for today. He’d twisted and turned in bed, reluctantly watching a streak of sunlight stretch across the floor. Finally, he’d given in. There would be no sleep today.

It didn’t sit well with him. He needed his energy. A thousand small setbacks plagued his project, and every single one had to fall into place before the mechanical man took his first step.

Now he could add one more setback. An image that he couldn’t get out of his mind. His new assistant standing in the doorway, pure midnight from head to toe. Black dress, black bonnet, black hair and a winter-white face peering out at the world. Any man would be tempted. But he wasn’t any man. He couldn’t afford to be.

No, it was more than that. It wasn’t just the project. It was the sight of her stepping back, her lips curling in disdain. The poor girl could barely talk. Dropping the curtain, he went to his wardrobe and began to dress for the evening.

Maintaining focus was crucial. Every day, his eyesight grew even weaker.

There was no choice but to control his thoughts about her. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women. Quite the opposite. It was that women didn’t like him. They stepped away, turned away, or looked down at their shoes when he approached. The only companionship he’d ever known, he’d paid for. Even then, the women turned their faces away from him.

Penrose had turned away, as well, but not before he caught a glimpse of her expression in the bright flash of the lightning. She’d looked up at him in a mixture of fear and horror. He’d grown immune to such looks. But coming from her it angered him.

Long ago, his heart had turned to iron. If he had his way, he would shun everyone. Keep the whole damn world out. But he needed the help of a steady hand and a good pair of eyes. Pretty blue eyes, a voice inside him added.

He went and looked for her, and when she couldn’t be found, he went up the small flight of stairs to the servant’s bedroom. The door to her room was ajar a few inches and he peered in and saw her sleeping on the bed. Toeing the door open, he stepped inside. Maybe he should have just knocked, but it happened before he knew his foot was moving, and then he was inside the room.

He watched her sleep. It seemed wicked, an indulgence more sinful than the women he paid to lift their skirts for him. Here he was, a man of thirty-six, and he’d never once seen the serene, soft expression of a woman lost in her dreams. Her features were soft now, not guarded like when he’d first met her.

The attic was warm that afternoon. She had two high spots of color on her cheeks. Her beauty was unusual, angular even. A sharp prettiness. The kind that could cut a man. But those two spots of color flaming away against all that tumbling black hair softened her looks. She sighed, and flung an arm out, revealing bare skin all the way to the strap of her undergarment. It was damn tempting.

He heard the clock chime the half hour. A half hour of prime working time lost just watching her sleep. Like a fool.

When he reached out to wake her, he shook her much harder than he intended to. Her eyes snapped open and met his gaze. For a brief second, she looked at him openly, her expression unafraid. He wanted to stop time, to linger in that tiny moment. But then the moment was gone.

Penrose’s eyes widened and her hands clutched at the covers, instinctively pulling them higher. She was like all the rest, he realized, as he felt the shutters on his heart slam shut.

Chapter 3 (#ulink_c83e459d-e766-5fb0-bdf8-be12e385f9e4)

Penrose came to alertness from sleep in an odd rush, as if rising from a fog. Images still swirled in her brain—of Carrick looming above her, the chandelier spinning and spinning out of control, and the glittery windows of the manor watching her with their golden gaze. She knew if she opened her eyes, it would all prove true. So she lingered, stubbornly refusing to be roused. The grip turned harder still and shook her shoulders just firmly enough that she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Finally, she looked up and right into the kaleidoscope eyes of her new employer.

“You overslept.” It sounded like an accusation coming from him. The shadowy light of the afternoon made him appear deathly pale. Anger or some other emotion etched his face in a deep scowl.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice heavy with sleep. She was disoriented, staring hard at him before rubbing her eyes. It was difficult to know if she still slept and he was just a dream. “I must have been very tired,” she managed to say.

He nodded. “Well, then, I’ll leave you to get dressed. Meet me downstairs in the cellar.”

“Fine. I’ll hurry.”