She called out to him, “I will take you to the guillotine, if you are bad, Maurice!” She gave a terrifying laugh, and the words she spoke became inhumane sounds in her mouth. “The guillotine!” she sang. “The guillotine!” That word seemed to vibrate endlessly in her throat just as Therese galloped across the table like a vengeful demon.
As she drew near, little Maurice was crippled by such a dread that he dropped his spoon. Therese’s triumphant laughter was an inhuman shriek. She was going to reach him very soon, and when she did...
By enchantment, the table lengthened and lengthened again, increasing the distance between Maurice and his hateful mother. How far it seemed to stretch as Therese’s angular limbs crept forth, faster and faster still. Thump, thump, thump, against the wood. He could do it forever; he could make the table stretch so that she would never reach him.
In his bed, Maurice’s entire body sweated and writhed. His head shook frantically on his pillow. Thump, thump, thump. Again, Therese drew closer, but he would not let her. He would not.
Thump, thump, thump. A noise rose from beneath Alexandra Hall like a deep echo of the thumping in Maurice’s dream. For underneath the stairs, below the ground, where no light shone, a restless presence stirred in the dark.
Chapter 5
Wednesday
“Mrs. Cleary, I must remind you not to lock my bedroom door,” began Maurice the following day as he sat on the veranda for breakfast.
He was struck by her response.
“I am merely protecting you,” she snapped, with that self-righteous tone she employed for effect. “What should happen if you were to roam around and suffer some accident?”
He had not imagined that Gerard might be right about the housekeeper’s questionable sanity. For a moment he stared back at her, lost for words.
“I understand you do not mean disrespect, Mrs. Cleary. However I feel that your fears are misplaced. I can take splendid care of myself. I do not need to have my door locked for me like a child. Please, if you could leave it alone. I would much prefer to sleep in a room where I can go outside at my own whim. Imagine if I were to accidentally set the room on fire. You would be grieved to find my body set ablaze before anyone could open the door.”
As he spoke to the housekeeper, Maurice became aware, even before she responded, of his increasing heart rate. He had felt the same agitation in the past whenever his mother was angered and was about to speak. He instantly pushed away the memory.
Mrs. Cleary flashed him an angry look whose sudden energy startled him further.
“Have it your way,” she said. “Whatever was I thinking?” Then no sooner had she uttered those words than her eyes took on a dark glow. “You think you have it all figured out, don’t you? You believe I am imagining things? Mrs. Cleary is a raving fool. That poor woman.” She recollected herself, but Maurice saw that she shook.
“What exactly are you protecting me from, Mrs. Cleary?” he asked, adding sugar to his tea.
“Sooner or later, Mr. Leroux, you shall see,” she breathed, her voice lowered. “Don’t say I did not warn you.”
“Warn me about what? That Calista Nightingale has returned to Alexandra Hall as a ghost?” asked Maurice in a mocking tone.
She was startled. “Who…who told you this?”
“I am not at liberty to say. But your fears have not gone unnoticed by the rest of the staff.”
“I’ll not have the staff gossip about me,” she muttered, visibly insulted.
“I would not go so far as to call it gossip. Needless to say, this notion of hauntings is far-fetched.”
Mrs. Cleary glowered at him but said no more.
He ignored her outburst, content that from now on, that bedroom door would remain unlocked.
As he drank his tea, he noticed with a certain dismay that Mrs. Cleary’s eyes were not only far too small, but also black. There was not a trace of the mingled blue he had glimpsed last night through the keyhole.
So then, if it were not the prying housekeeper, whose eye had he seen? Maurice concealed his confusion and continued to eat breakfast.
In the meantime, a transformation had taken place in Mrs. Cleary and the distress she had revealed earlier seemed to have gone. She now smiled at him in a manner she thought sweet and conciliatory. Maurice shuddered, for reasons he could not explain, save perhaps that Mrs. Cleary behaved like his mother. For a moment he was reminded of his dream.
“You must forgive me,” said Mrs. Cleary, as though nothing had happened. She sat quietly, looking newly composed. Save for the pulsating jugular on her throat, there was no trace of an earlier outburst.
At last, having poured her tea, she declared, mouthing each word slowly:
“Things go…awry around here. You must remain watchful.” She nodded to herself. “Very watchful.”
She averted her eyes and sipped her tea.
Maurice buttered another slice of fresh bread and tried to bring the conversation to something concrete that was nearer to the purpose of his visit.
“Well it certainly appears that death follows this house. Is that what you meant when you spoke of awry things?” he asked.
“No. You don’t understand.” Her voice was cold, almost aloof. “When Mrs. Nightingale passed away, and while her husband still lived, that’s when it all began. Things would go missing.”
“What kind of things?” Maurice bit into his buttered bread.
“All sorts. Bobby pins, my brooch, sugar cubes… teaspoons. I used to have quite a collection in
