Liberty Horror #6: Emily In the Cellar

Emily In the Cellar

⚘

Emily Parga woke up, like she did every day, in complete darkness. She reached over and turned on the lamp that was on a nightstand next to her bed. She turned on the radio which was always on her favorite morning show. She never deviated from the one station except occasionally to listen to NPR. She went to the bathroom, put her hair up and then poured a bowl of cereal. She ate while listening to the radio and then washed her dishes.

She turned the radio down and read for about an hour. Then she watched The Price Is Right. She liked watching it. With the audience and all the people on the stage, it made her feel less lonely. She was bad at guessing the cost of things since it had been a while since she’d been in a store. After The Price Is Right, she’d sweep and do some dusting. It got dusty where she lived. She always wore slippers because the floor was half cement and half dirt depending on which room she was in. The bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen were cemented while the closets, living room, and entryway had dirt floors. After cleaning, she’d make lunch, today was a turkey sandwich with Colby jack cheese and half a can of pineapple chunks, and sit down to watch The Young and the Restless.

During the afternoon, she tried to alternate what she did. Radio, television, reading, cross-stitching, she tried to keep things fresh since she spent all day here, by herself, and has for years. Cross-stitching was something her mother taught her. She didn’t like it at first but all that changed when she needed to figure out other things to do to fill her days. Luckily, her mother had many unstarted and unfinished project lying around.

The one she was currently working on was a simple black, white and gray one about coffee. Her mom loved coffee and was excited to get started on it and hang it in the kitchen next to the coffee maker. It remained untouched until Emily took it out of the cedar chest a week ago. Emily’s mother had died several years ago. As did her younger brother, Antonio. Since then, she had been alone. All alone, by herself.




She was fourteen. It had been a good day. Her dad always started the story out that way when he told her about that day. She didn’t remember it—a combination of the accident and her brain hiding something traumatic. They all got in the car, a maroon SUV, and drove into town to get ice cream at Dairy Queen. “How about you drive back?” her father asked her. She had just gotten her permit and had just driven around the countryside. She was ready and excited to drive back home from town.

The Pargas lived about three and a half miles south of town. About two miles from town was a fairly busy intersection that had a four-way stop. It was an odd intersection as a creek went underneath it. The intersection was essentially a four-way bridge. The family had driven over it hundreds of times. It was all familiar, there shouldn’t have been a problem but a rainstorm just before they had left lasted only fifteen minutes but the road still had puddles.

She remembers waking up in the hospital. Her father, who was amazingly unhurt in the crash, had stayed at her side throughout the two weeks she was unconscious. They had hydroplaned, where the tires kind of go out from under you when you hit water, he explained to her between sobs. He was thrown from the car. Her mother and brother, because they were in the backseat, had been killed. Emily only had a few cuts and bruises but had been knocked unconscious. After about a week, her father took her out of the hospital against doctor’s advice.

“I talked to the police,” he said to Emily as they drove back home. “They want to hold you accountable for your mom’s and Antonio’s death. They want to charge you with murder. You could get life in prison.”

“What? It was an accident. I didn’t mean to,” Emily cried. “Why do they want me in jail?”

“You know the police. But don’t worry. I’ll protect you,” he hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head. “I have just the place. They’re not taking my daughter away from me.”




Emily was making macaroni and cheese on the stovetop when there was a knock on the cellar door. The knock was just a courtesy, she heard keys jingle, a lock click, and the door open. “Hi, Daddy,” Emily greeted.

“Hey, sweetie. How are you doing today?” he asked, placing a bag on the counter and giving his daughter a kiss on the forehead. “I brought you your groceries for the next few days.”

“I’m doing fine, Daddy. Thanks.”

⚘

Vincenzo Parga ran a successful construction business. When he was able to, he bought a quarter section of land to build his family’s house on. On the land was the ruin of a stone house that had burned down in the 1970s. He took some of the stone to build the new house but left the basement ruin alone. After the crash, after his daughter’s survival, he began working on the ruin. He attached a metal roof, reinforced the walls, got electricity and water to the basement, he cemented the floors of a couple of rooms and moved furniture in. He reinforced the cellar door and the basement was ready for Emily to move in.

It took Emily some time to adjust to her new situation. She was only fourteen and the basement—the basement of an abandoned, burned-out house ruin—scared her. Vincenzo tried to make the place more homey and warmer, bringing Emily whatever she might need for her stay.

She believed that at any time, she’d be allowed to leave what she now called home. “How long do I have to stay here?” Emily asked about a month into her stay.

“Until the heat dies down, sweetie,” Vincenzo answered.

“How long do I have to stay here?” Emily asked again about two years into her stay.

Finally, Vincenzo ominously shut down any further hope of her leaving. “I don’t know, sweetie. There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Vincenzo held his daughter’s cheek. “If they figure out that you’re here or living in the house then they could come busting through the door and take you away. Even if it’s twenty years from now. You might as well stop getting your hopes up.”

“Maybe I should just turn myself in. Maybe if they hear my side and that I didn’t mean to do it…”

“No! I said I would protect you, that I would keep you from them, and I mean it,” Vincenzo said.

She cried for nearly a week. She was angry at everything and everyone. Then, she woke up one morning and was resigned to her situation. She became a model prisoner, so to speak. She looked on the bright side of everything. No more going to school. Her own place. She’d never have to get a job. She really had no problems or cares in the world.




Emily popped herself some popcorn and sat down to watch the news. “A dangerous intersection will be getting a major upgrade in the coming months,” the reporter began. Emily looked up and stared at the television. She recognized the intersection immediately. “It’s a four-way intersection with a creek that goes underneath. It’s also very narrow, barely able to hold two cars in either direction. Some may remember almost five years ago when an accident at this intersection resulted in the deaths of 14-year-old Emily Parga, nine-year-old Antonio Parga, and their mother, 39-year-old Amelia Parga. It was these deaths that spurred a movement to widen the intersection and redirect the creek. Those people are finally getting their wish.”

Emily stared blankly at the TV. She was dead? No, they made a mistake. Or her father said she was dead. He had to explain her disappearance somehow, right? She finished watching the news then got ready for bed.

She hadn’t dreamed of the accident for a long time. Nearly a year. But tonight, she did, but it was different. The basics of the dream was the same. She was driving and her mom and brother were in the backseat. Her father was sitting next to her.

As they approached the intersection, where she hit the puddle, hydroplaned, and crashed, things changed. She noticed the ‘passenger door open’ warning light and her father’s hand reach over and grab the steering wheel. As the car swerved and left the road, she woke up, as she always did. She could usually just roll over and fall right back to sleep. Tonight, she sat up in bed, in the darkness, and thought about the dream and the differences she now remembered.

“Can you tell me again?” Emily asked her father when he came by two days later. “How it happened?”

“What?”

“The accident.”

“I just told you a few days ago.”

“They’re replacing the intersection. I saw it on the news,” Emily revealed. “They said I was dead.”

Vincenzo thought fast. “I made them think you were dead. So they wouldn’t be coming around her looking for you. You understand, right?”

“I think so. I remember something else, too. I think I can clear my name.”

“What are you talking about?” Vincenzo immediately got upset. Irritation and anger quickly boiled over inside him.

Should she tell him? “If I could just talk to the police. I think I can clear this up.”

“No. Never. Out of the question.”

“I want out of here,” Emily said, practically demanding. “I can live with the consequences of my actions. Can you?”

Flustered, Vincenzo stood up quickly and stormed over to the door. “You will never leave here. I am protecting you. You killed your mother and brother. You nearly killed me and yourself. You should be glad that I love you. I could just give you to the police. You’d be arrested, convicted of murder, and sentenced to death.”

“It was an accident,” Emily ran after her father as he began leaving the cellar. “And I didn’t even do it!” she shouted as the door slammed shut. She stood at the door, looking at it, trying to will it to open. “Dad!” she began screaming. She started knocking on the door and while it echoed inside the cellar, it couldn’t be heard on the other side.

⚘

Vincenzo didn’t go to the cellar for over a week. Emily about ran out of food and opted to go to bed early than stay up and eat dinner. He couldn’t leave her down here forever. What if she did starve? She needed to get out of the cellar but there was no way, except through the front door.

She was down to her last few cans of food—canned tamales, potatoes, and a can of pineapples. As she opened the can of pineapples with the can opener, she held the lid with her thumb and forefinger. She bent the lid back to snap it off from the can. Her finger slipped and was sliced open by the edge of the lid.

“Ow!” she yelled. She put her finger in her mouth and went to the bathroom to clean and hopefully bandage the cut. She washed the finger repeatedly but it kept bleeding. She worried that it wouldn’t stop and she’d die without getting out of here.

When it did stop bleeding, she then worried about it becoming infected. She cleaned the cut and put a bandage on it. If she were really sick or going to die, her father would take her to a doctor or the hospital, right? She was almost out of food and she hadn’t seen him since their fight.

“I have to get out of here,” she said to herself. “He’s going to kill me. If he hasn’t already.”




Vincenzo reappeared with some groceries on day nine. It was late at night, the ten o’clock news was just ending, which surprised Emily. “I figured you’d be running out of stuff by now,” he said.

Emily didn’t know how to act. Should she act nice or upset? Should she act like they didn’t have a fight? How much should she push? “Thank you,” she decided. She noticed a box of chicken in a biscuit crackers and took them out and tore into them.

“I will be bringing you a large thing of groceries in a couple days. Is there anything special you want?” Vincenzo asked.

Is he planning on abandoning me? Leaving me to die in here, she asked herself. “Froot Loops,” she answered. She glanced at the bandage on her finger. “And more canned pineapples.”

“Is that it?”

“Give me a minute to think,” Emily said. “How are you doing?”

The question surprised Vincenzo. She never asked about what he was doing or how he was doing. “I’m doing good, Emily. Thanks,” he smiled.

“Do you still build houses?” Emily asked. When she was a kid, she would brag about her Daddy building houses. She wondered if that would elicit any emotion in him.

“For the most part,” he answered. “I’ve done a few commercial properties since you’ve been here—buildings for businesses.”

“Cookie dough. Chocolate chip and sugar. I miss having homemade cookies. And more of these,” she held up the chicken in a biscuit box. “And ice cream. Cookies and cream and cookie dough.”

Vincenzo smirked and pulled out his phone. He opened the notes app and made a list of what Emily wanted. “All right. Is that it? I’ll be back in a couple days. Love you, Emily.”

He opened the door and left, slamming the door to the cellar behind him. She stared at the door for quite a while before returning to the living room to watch TV a bit longer before going to bed.

⚘

Vincenzo returned with almost three weeks’ worth of groceries and the stuff that Emily asked for. She immediately began putting the groceries away. “How was your day?” she asked sweetly.

“It was fine,” he answered. “We got a contract for an industrial building in the new technology park.”

“How does that work? Getting contracts?” Emily asked, genuinely curious.

“It’s usually whoever bids the lowest, but sometimes it’s just who can do a good job in a reasonable amount of time and money,” he explained. “That’s what happened with us. We offered better construction in quicker time for just slightly more money.”

“Cool,” Emily nodded. “Thank you for the food.”

“I brought you…” Vincenzo pulled a paper out of his back pocket “…the ingredients for cookies and made you copies of your Mom’s cookie recipes,” he handed the paper to Emily.

Emily had no pictures of her mom. It had been five years since seeing anything related to her mom. Seeing her handwriting made her tear up. “Thank you. It’s been so long since I’ve seen anything of hers.” She stared at the handwriting for several seconds before looking back up at her father. “Can I see her?”

“What?”

“Her grave. Can you take me to see her?”

“I didn’t bury her. She and Antonio were cremated. They are in an urn in the house,” Vincenzo revealed.

“Even better. I can just come into the house and…”

“No.”

“This isn’t fair. It’s not fair to take away my childhood, my teenage years, my life in general because of something I didn’t do,” Emily argued, raising her voice.

“I’ve lost my wife—your mother—and your brother. I’m not losing my daughter,” he said. He sounded like he was about to cry but she wasn’t sure if it was real and she wasn’t taking the bait.

“That’s a lie. You’ve already lost me by locking me in here. You only see me once or twice a month. If the crash and the death were an accident, I wouldn’t be sent to jail. You’re keeping me here because I was supposed to die in that crash, too. But I didn’t so you have to hide me away. Why? Why am I down here?”

“You ungrateful…” Vincenzo looked like he wanted to hit her. His fists shook was rage. “I keep you safe and this is the thanks I get.” He exhaled sharply and turned to leave.

“Don’t you dare…” Emily ran toward him. He turned quickly and pushed her away from him. She stumbled on the slightly uneven dirt floor and fell to the ground, hitting her head on the corner of the kitchen counter, knocking her out.

⚘

She was unconscious for nearly five hours. And he just left me there, she thought and thought about it constantly over the next few days. She spent most her of her days looking for a way out but there was only one window and it was unbreakable glass, could not be opened, and sealed tight. The walls were well-built and were surrounded by dirt anyway. The ceiling was a wood and steel vault-like ceiling. She couldn’t dig through the floor. And the front door was like the door on a bank vault. She spent an entire day screaming as loud as she could for ten minutes every hour but no one heard her or no one ever came close enough to hear her.

She prepared herself for the possibility that her father would never return. She made herself cookies from her mother’s recipes and enjoyed each and every one she made. She watched a lot of TV and spent a lot of time looking over every inch of the cellar trying to find a weakness that she could exploit to escape. When she would open a can, she’d secret away the lid, placing them around the cellar to use as a weapon if she needed them.

The days and nights dragged as her sleep schedule changed as did what she did to pass the time. It was three in the afternoon, almost a month since she last saw her father, when she heard the door to the cellar clang and start to open. She had rearranged what little furniture she had so she would have cover if he came in with a gun. He came in empty-handed and stopped suddenly at seeing the rearranged rooms. “Been making some changes?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Emily quickly answered. “How are you?” she asked, starting with the nice tactic but wanting to quickly move on.

“I’m good. I’m fine. Wanted to get a list from you for groceries. You’re probably running a little low,” he smiled at her.

Get away from the door. I should’ve thought of something to get him away from the door. “Yeah, a little bit. I haven’t been eating much,” her eyes widened. “I think the toilet isn’t working.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? Is it clogged or overflowing?”

“I don’t know. Just go see,” she shooed.

“I’m sure it’s fine. Is there anything you want? I have to get going,” Vincenzo clearly wasn’t going to fall for anything.

“I don’t want or need anything,” Emily walked up to him. “Because I’m coming with you.”

He chuckled a little and shook his head. “We’ve been over this. You are staying right here.”

“No, I’m not. Now get out of the way.”

“Emily, listen…”

“I’ve been listening. For five years, I’ve listened. I’m not doing this anymore. You are letting me out of here or so help me I will let myself out.”

“It’s for your own safety…”

“Get out of the way!” she screamed and charged at Vincenzo. He grabbed her arms but she kept trying to claw and kick at him. “Let me go!”

“Calm down, Emily. You don’t want to hurt yourself,” he said calmly but condescendingly.

Emily was done. She kicked at one of his legs but missed. She tried again and was able to hit his crotch. He let go and fell to one knee. She kicked at the one knee that was still holding him up and he went down to the ground. She stood over him, panting.

“That was pretty good,” Vincenzo laughed as he started getting up. “I should’ve known that at some point you’d want out of here. I should’ve just killed you when I had the chance but…”

“Enough talking,” she said.

Vincenzo watched her right arm flash in front of him. He felt a sharp zip across his throat. He held a hand up to his neck and looked down to see blood. He glanced at Emily’s hand which was holding the lid to a tin can, also with blood on it. He tried to say something, opening his mouth.

“I said ‘enough,’” and she slit his throat again. And again. And again.

The can lid and her hand was covered with blood. Vincenzo was lying motionless on the dirt floor. She was still panting as she pulled the steel cellar door all the way open and stepped out into the outside world she hadn’t seen in five years. Emily walked from the cellar to the house that she could barely remember. There had been some changes but it was still the same. She walked up the steps of the back porch to the back door that led into the kitchen. She threw open the door, it hitting the wall, startling the people in the kitchen. At the stove, was another woman. At the table, were two young boys—one, around five-years-old, was doing some kind of school worksheet, while the other, a couple years younger, was holding two action figures. They gasped at the door hitting the wall and again when they saw Emily.

The three of them, Vincenzo’s new family, stared at the girl they had only seen in pictures and only heard about. The woman then noticed Emily’s bloodied hand and gasped. ▩

Liberty Horror #5: Julia

Julia

The home was small. Barely enough room for Julia and her baby, who was upstairs in his bedroom asleep in his crib. The movers and two friends that had helped her get mostly settled had left. Julia made herself some tea and wandered around the house, practically in a daze. Her friends had lives—husbands and children—to get back to. She couldn’t get upset that they didn’t want to stick around. She wouldn’t have either.

Julia looked around the kitchen, looking at what she could have for dinner. She heard the clunk of the furnace downstairs in the basement turning off. She had only been in the basement once while looking at the house with the landlord. She decided that she would never have to go down there. A washer and dryer were in the mudroom so there was no reason to go downstairs.

From the baby monitor, Julia heard the baby stir and then start crying. She sighed heavily and went upstairs. When she got upstairs, her baby was quiet and still asleep. She shrugged and picked the baby up, waking it.

The rest of the day was spent playing, unpacking, and having dinner before placing her baby back in his crib and going to bed herself. She wasn’t tired and read for a bit. She figured if she went to bed earlier, the next day would arrive sooner.

When she finally laid down to sleep, she started on just one side of the bed. Just like she did when her husband was with her. They seemed to grow further and further apart with each day—both emotionally and physically—until, finally, they both knew it was over.

She didn’t want to blame the pregnancy or the baby, the degradation of their relationship had been happening for about year before that, but it certainly didn’t help. When he brought her the papers, she begged him not to end their marriage just a couple months into parenthood but he was done. She begged him to let her stay him until she could get back on her feet but he refused.

She didn’t even know she had fallen asleep until she was woken up by the baby crying through the baby monitor. She waited a few minutes, noticing it was almost four in the morning, and waited—hoped—the baby would shut up. When he didn’t, she threw the blanket off of her and shambled her way to the baby’s room. The room was silent, she stepped on a stuffed lamb that had somehow wound up on the floor. She picked up the lamb and looked at it. She then looked at the baby, quietly sleeping away except for a tiny, nearly inaudible snore.

She tossed the lamb into the crib and swore to herself. She went back to the bedroom and picked up the monitor. It was quiet. She turned it off and went downstairs. She began making coffee and turned the monitor back on. Still quiet.

She didn’t need the monitor. The house was small enough to hear everything that was going on upstairs. When enough coffee had been made for a cup, she poured herself a mug. Placing the mug and baby monitor on the coffee table, she collapsed onto the couch. Squeals began coming from the monitor. She groaned, threw up her hands, and felt like crying.

She leaned forward and turned off the monitor. She listened for squeals, cries, anything from upstairs and heard nothing. Fed up, she quickly and quietly went upstairs. Again, she stepped on the stuffed lamb that had, again, wound up on the floor. She took the lamb and monitor and left the room.

The day was spent with her baby. They played and watched TV, they ate and attempted to play outside for a bit. She took him in a stroller to the park two blocks away. On her way back, a neighbor from across the street ran over. Welcome to the block. What a cute baby. What do you do? I noticed a light on all night. The upstairs front window. The baby sleeps there? It looked like the light was on all night. I didn’t mean to trouble you. If you need anything, just knock.

Julia immediately went upstairs, placed the baby in his crib, and looked around. There was only the one light, on the ceiling in the middle of the room, and the night light in the far corner. Definitely nothing that lit up by the window. The baby was starting to doze off so she sat down and waited until he fell asleep.

The afternoon was quiet as Julia tried to finish some unpacking. She didn’t want to so she allowed herself to get distracted, repeatedly. At about six, the baby monitor came to life with the sounds of her baby’s laughter and coos. She listened at both the monitor and from upstairs to tell if noise could be heard. She didn’t hear anything even after turning off the monitor. She leaned down and rested her head on her palm. She waited a few more minutes then forced herself to get up and go upstairs.

The baby was asleep. The lamb was on the floor. She kicked the lamb under the crib and picked up her baby. He stirred and was soon awake. The evening and night went fine. It was similar to the day with playing, watching TV, eating, and continuing trying to unpack. At nearly midnight, the baby was starting to dose off. Julia carried him upstairs and tucked him into the crib. She read for a while and then fell asleep.

At three-thirty, she woke to cries and babbling. She reached over for the monitor before realizing it was off and both of them were downstairs. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or aggravated that her baby was crying. She threw the blankets off and got up. Entering the baby’s room, the lamb was back in the middle of the floor and the baby was fast asleep.

She stayed up the rest of the night and was practically a zombie the next day. After bringing her baby downstairs, she didn’t go upstairs again. She actively avoided going upstairs until she was tired and ready for bed which was earlier than usual. She quickly fell asleep and was woken up at four o’clock by babbling and crying.

She was trembling as she went into the bedroom where the baby was quiet and still sleeping. She made a soft growling noise as she picked up the lamb from the middle of the floor and threw it in the hall closet. Still trembling, she went downstairs. She thought about making coffee but instead chose tea.

As she about took her first sip, cries erupted from upstairs. She dropped the mug and it shattered leaving mug shards and tea all over the counter. She stormed upstairs like a woman possessed and slammed the door to the baby’s room open. The baby, this time, was crying and reaching his arms up. Julia grabbed the baby and began shaking and screaming at him, demanding to know what was going on. The baby went quiet and his face and hands curled and spasmed. Despite the quiet in the bedroom, the crying and babbling was now coming from downstairs.

She practically threw the baby back in the crib and ran downstairs. Grabbing the monitors, even though they were off and had no batteries, she threw them across the room. One smashed into the wall, leaving a dent, the other crashed through the window. The crying remained but now coming from the basement. She pushed the table out of the way of the door. It fell over with a loud crash. She opened the basement door, turned on the light, and stomped down the stairs. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, the house was quiet again.

Her breathing calmed but she still shook. She started crying before growing dizzy and falling to her knees. She looked up slightly and saw the stuffed lamb in the middle of the basement floor.

Liberty Horror #4: Ghost of A. Chantz

Ghost of A. Chantz

Dominic, Ryan, and MaryJane arrived at the historic Chantz Mansion where a van with 107.3 FM emblazoned on it was sitting in the yard. “You the contest winner?”

“I am,” Dominic said. “These are my friends, Ryan and MaryJane. They’ll be spending the night with me.”

“A threesome with two men in a haunted house. It’s a dream come true. Again,” MaryJane said.

Everyone looked at MaryJane. “O…kay…The rules are pretty simple. You have to stay in the Chantz Mansion for 18 hours. From three this afternoon to nine a.m. tomorrow morning. We will pay for pizza to be delivered at 7—three pizzas, one for each of you. As long as you stay in the house then you win the $1,000 each,” the radio guy explained.

“Sounds easy,” Dominic said. “It’s not like this place is haunted anyway.”

“Innit,” a gravelly voice said from behind them. “I been caretaker of the Chantz Mansion for nigh on twenty years. I’ve seen mysterious lights, bodies in the window, footsteps on the floor, heartbeats in the walls, and the smell of death in the air. It’s enough to drive a person insane.”

“But you seem fine,” Dominic said. “Can we go in the house now?”

“If we’re murdered by the caretaker does that void our winnings?” MaryJane asked.




The Chantz Mansion was a beautiful brick house on a hill overlooking the river. It had been built by a milliner in 1879 and abandoned since the 1940s. As the house became more deteriorated, the more people thought it was haunted. The great-grandson of Alexander Chantz was trying to rehabilitate the house and reopen it as a bed and breakfast, AirBnB, or museum. The radio station gave him several thousand dollars in exchange for allowing this contest to happen at his house.

“This place is beautiful,” Ryan said, aghast at the fancy woodwork, marble, and brick throughout the interior of the house.

“It is now three o’clock. You three are now required to stay in the house until tomorrow morning. We do have cameras placed throughout the house and yard to watch you. The caretaker will be in his house and also keeping an eye on you,” the radio guy explained.

“Oh, good,” Dominic said sarcastically.

“Just give me your pizza order and that will be delivered at seven.”

They exchanged information and the radio guy left leaving Dominic, Ryan, and MaryJane alone in the Chantz Mansion. “What are we supposed to do here?” MaryJane asked.

“Do we just spend the next eighteen hours on our phones? Is there a TV? Books? Is there even electricity in this place?”

The wood in the fireplace suddenly ignited. They all jumped and looked at the fire. “Well, the fireplace works,” Dominic said.

“Who lit it?” Ryan asked.

“Maybe there was already a burning ember…” MaryJane said “…and it got hot enough…or the ghost was getting a little chilly, I don’t know.”




The three had been in the house for a few hours with no incident. They decided to wander and explore the house. Most rooms were empty but were strewn about with dust, rodent feces, and some debris. The wallpaper was faded and peeling in some places. A deer head hung on the wall which went good with the stuffed bear in the corner of the living room. There were no lights anywhere so they were relying on whatever natural light that came through the boarded-up windows.

“Where are the bathrooms?” Ryan asked.

“I think there is just the one downstairs,” Dominic said.

“What’s in here?” Ryan asked, grabbing a doorknob and trying to turn it. “It’s locked.”

“Probably just storage,” Dominic said.

“Sex dungeon,” MaryJane said.

“I think that would be downstairs in the basement,” Dominic said.

“Mine’s not,” MaryJane said.

“But you live in an apartment.”

“I need to find a bathroom,” Ryan said. “I’ll see you downstairs,” Ryan walked away and headed downstairs.

MaryJane turned to the locked door. “Why does this sex dungeon storage room have a giant window in it?” As she asked herself that, a mustachioed face appeared in the window. The eyes had dark circles around them and tight curly hair. The face stared menacingly at MaryJane. She yelped and turned to Dominic. The face disappeared.

“What’s wrong?”

“A face. In the window.”

“What? There’s nothing there,” he looked and saw nothing. “It was probably just your reflection.”

“I don’t have a mustache,” MaryJane said.

“Well…” Dominic shrugged.

“I. Don’t. Have. A. Mustache,” MaryJane repeated, hitting Dominic with each word.

“Maybe you turned your head too fast and it was your hair…” he pulled her hair around her face, bringing a lock of it under her nose.

“No,” she shook her head.

“Maybe…” he began to offer another explanation.

“No,” she cut him off. A high-pitched Joker-esque laugh echoed through the house. Dominic and MaryJane looked at each other. “Feets, don’t fail me now,” she said and began running downstairs.

“It’s probably Ryan or something,” Dominic said. He slowly followed her down the stairs.

MaryJane got downstairs and turned, running right into Ryan as he was leaving the bathroom. They both screamed loudly in each others faces.

“Quit screaming. You’re both acting like idiots,” Dominic said. “Show a little decorum!”

“The laugh clearly wasn’t Ryan. Then who was it?” MaryJane asked.

“Probably the radio station playing a trick. It’s so they don’t have to pay out the $3,000,” Dominic said. “No matter what, we do not exit this house.”

The deer head on the wall suddenly fell and rolled down the stairs. As the deer head came to a rest, the laugh echoed through the house again.

“We may not get a chance to exit this house,” MaryJane said.




A little after seven, the doorbell rang, a simple chime from a bell connected to a turnkey on the porch. MaryJane and Ryan jumped a little as they sat on an old and kind of damp couch. “It’s the pizza,” Dominic said and stood up. He walked over to the door and opened it. The caretaker stood on the porch with three pizzas.

“Your pizzas are here,” he grumbled.

“Why are you delivering them? Where’s the delivery person?” Dominic asked.

“The pizza boy met with an unfortunate accident shortly after entering the grounds,” the caretaker said.

“That’s too bad. Want to stay and have some pizza?” Dominic asked.

“No. Thank you. I have to call the pizza place about the pizza boy so they can call his next of kin,” the caretaker began walking away.

“What a cool guy,” Dominic said, closing the door.

“What’s going on?” Ryan asked.

“Pizza’s here. I think the caretaker killed the pizza boy.”

“Oh,” Ryan nodded his head. “Great.”

“Wanna eat this at the dining room table?” MaryJane asked, referring to the large table in the fancy dining room just off of the living room.

“Yeah. Let’s do that,” Dominic agreed. “It’ll be nice. We can light the candles on the table and get really fancy with our pizza.”

The three of them went to the dining room where a giant table was in the center of the room. Two candlesticks sat on the table—one on each end. They put the pizza down on the table and Dominic went into the kitchen. MaryJane pulled a lighter out of her pocket and lit the candles. When Dominic came out of the kitchen, he was holding a pack of matches. He saw the candles were lit and stopped in his tracks.

“Who lit the candles?” he asked.

“They just lit on their own,” MaryJane said. “It took all our power to not run away in fear.”

“Weird,” Dominic looked closely at the candles. “I wonder how they did that.”

MaryJane and Ryan rolled their eyes at each other.




After dinner, they heard footsteps upstairs and banging on pipes in the basement. They went to investigate both and saw nothing. This happened several times and each time they went to investigate. “You know, it’s ten o’clock,” Dominic began. “We should all just go to bed and get this night over with. It’s not like there’s anything to do anyway.”

“That’s a great idea,” MaryJane agreed. “I’d rather be murdered in my sleep anyway.”

The three of them went upstairs to the bedrooms. By the time they all got ready and into bed, it was a little after eleven. “I’m glad you all agree with me to just go to sleep and end this night,” Dominic said “but there are enough beds that we don’t have to sleep together.” Ryan and MaryJane were in Dominic’s bed, snuggled up close to him.

“But this is how it is in all my stories,” MaryJane said.

“Do your stories feature three grown adults sleeping in the same bed with their clothes on?” Dominic asked.

“At the beginning…” she replied.

“I’ll go to another room but I’m gonna make sure your name is scrawled on the wall with my blood,” Ryan said as he got out of bed.

They fell asleep quickly when they each got settled down. A loud thud woke Ryan up and then he heard the sound of what sounded like a chain being dragged across the floor. Ryan got out of bed and went to door. “I’m probably going to regret this,” he sighed and opened the door.

MaryJane awoke to a scream—a long, almost ear-piercing scream from what sounded like everywhere. MaryJane hopped out of bed and ran to Dominic’s room. He was also awake but was still lying down. “How can you just lie there when a ghost woman clearly wants her baby back?”

“It’s just a recording,” Dominic said. “Or Ryan on the toilet. It could be Ryan on the toilet.”

“It must be Ryan on the toilet because he hasn’t run in here yer.”

“That is odd,” Dominic threw the covers off and got out of bed. “Don’t tell me he’s in his room soundly sleeping.”

The two went down the hallway to where Ryan was sleeping. They pushed open the door and saw Ryan wasn’t in the room. The screaming had stopped when they both got in the hallway. Both looked around the room for a place where Ryan could hide. “Where is he?” MaryJane asked. “I’ll check in the bathroom.”

“I’ll stay here in case he comes back,” Dominic said. MaryJane went off downstairs. Dominic leaned against the door jamb to the bedroom and crossed his arms and waited. Five minutes passed. Then ten. After fifteen, Dominic shouted. “What’s going on down there?”

There was no response.

Dominic sighed heavily and followed MaryJane’s path downstairs. Dominic approached the bathroom and saw the door was open. There was no sign of Ryan of MaryJane. “Well, crap,” he said.




For nearly an hour, Dominic sat alone and silent in the house. In two more hours, the sun would be up and then three hours after that he’d be $1,000 richer. He thought for a moment. He wondered if he could get Ryan and MaryJane’s money if they had left, gone missing, or were murdered.

A clanking sound began from the basement. “Nope,” Dominic began. “It’s just someone in the basement banging on a pipe with a hammer or something. It doesn’t scare me. In fact, it makes me want to go back to bed. I think I’ll do that. Go back upstairs and back to sleep.”

Dominic got up and went upstairs. He passed the locked door then paused. He took a couple steps back and tried the knob. It turned and the door popped open. Inside, was an old-timey glass doll sitting in a rocking chair, completely naked and missing both eyes. There was a crack in the doll’s head and the doll, somehow, was holding a giant knife.

Dominic closed the door. “That is not a good use of that room,” he said. “But it doesn’t bother me. I’m still going back to bed. And I know it may seem like me narrating what I’m doing and talking to no one might look like you have driven me insane, but I assure you that I am not. I’m just making sure the radio people, the caretaker, and my so-called friends know that I am not scared.”

Dominic went back into his bedroom and got back into bed. He heard stomping up the stairs and down the hall, passing in front of his door. Dominic covered himself with the blanket and closed his eyes.

He woke up to thunder. Out the covered window, he saw that the sun was coming up. The thunder boomed again. “That’s odd…” Dominic got out of bed and went to the window. He peered out of the boarded-up window and saw three people in black robes and hoods standing around a fire underneath the window. “The hell…?”

Laughter echoed throughout the house. Dominic’s hair stood on end and goosebumps appeared on his arms. There was a loud, slow knock on his bedroom door. Dominic didn’t know what to do. Keep an eye on the possible cult members outside or see who was at the door. He slowly approached the door. They knocked only once. He opened the door and stuck his head out and looked up and down the hallway.

Darkness there and nothing more.

There was a knock on the front door. Slow and loud like the one on the bedroom door. Knock……knock……knock. “Probably the caretaker,” Dominic chuckled to himself. “Leaving Ryan and MaryJane’s dead bodies on the stoop.” Dominic went downstairs and opened the door. Three robed people stood outside the door, similar to the ones that were out back. They began approaching the front door with their hands leading the way. “I already know about Jesus,” Dominic said and slammed the door.

He turned around and saw three hooded figures enter the living room from the dining room. The front door flew open and the other three figures entered the house. “Well, this certainly didn’t end up on my list of ways I’ll probably die.”

The six figures surrounded Dominic and moved closer, boxing him in. The figures were silent then stopped when they were within a couple feet of him.

“It’s time to give your soul…” one of the figures said “give your soul to 107.3 FM—the city’s rock alternative!” the hoods were taken off and the radio guy was standing there along with the caretaker, Ryan, MaryJane, and two guys Dominic had never seen before.

“What? This is all a bit? For the radio?” Dominic asked.

“Yep. And you all passed with flying colors. We were streaming the whole thing. I have to admit that I’m shocked you weren’t as scared as Ryan and MaryJane.”

“He’s a emotional robot,” Ryan said.

“So what happens now?” Dominic asked. “There’s still three hours until nine.”

“You all get the money. This was just a fun little idea we had to drive people to our website,” the radio guy said.

“I just think it’s so cool that everyone but me was in on this,” Dominic said, a huge smile on his face. “My best friends, the radio guy who I trusted, the creepy caretaker. You two I’ve never seen before.”

“This is our producer, Milton Saunders, and our prize patrol head, Scott Geiger.”

Dominic pointed to Milton’s mustache. “Hey. Mustache,” he turned to MaryJane. “Mustache.”

“Told you I didn’t have a mustache,” MaryJane replied.




Everyone sat in the living room, eating breakfast ordered in. “So everything was accomplished with hidden speakers and random people hiding in dark corners?” Ryan asked.

“Yep,” the radio guy said.

“Somehow creepier than if there was a murderous ghost haunting this place,” Ryan said.

“Okay. So you explained how you did everything but how did you get the candle to light?” Dominic asked.

“Candle?” the radio guy was confused.

Ryan and MaryJane looked at each other.

“I looked all over that candle and couldn’t find any way to light it from a distance. How’d you do it?”

“Candle? We didn’t do anything to candles or lights. It was too expensive,” the radio guy said.

“Seriously?” Dominic got up. “Feets don’t fail me now.” Dominic took off out the door.

“What’s this about a candle?” the radio guy asked Ryan and MaryJane.

“He thinks there was a candle that lit itself,” MaryJane said.

“MaryJane lit it with her lighter while Dominic’s back was turned,” Ryan laughed. “So we just let him believe something supernatural lit it.”

The radio guy laughed. “Are you going to tell him?”

Ryan and MaryJane looked at each other again. “No,” they said in unison.

“He’s needs to be knocked down a couple of pegs anyway. He’s been absolutely terrible since that whole Ryan’s car was trying to kill him thing,” MaryJane said. ▩

Tauy Creek Digest #56: Winter

         

Andrew Winters ran a small farm about three miles from town. He owned ten acres and on those ten acres he had a barn where a small collection of animals--goats, cows, and a couple of pigs--were kept along with chicken coops. The Winters house was a simple frame structure, one-story high with a half story for the attic. The white paint was nearly gray with dirt and age. Andrew Winters made quite a bit of money even though it didn't look like it. His money didn't come from the animals or even the small amount of crops he tended to but from repairing farm equipment.

Farmers would come from miles around and drop their equipment and machinery off with Andrew for him to fix. They would then walk the three miles into town to wait for their equipment to be repaired as Andrew never put up his house for visitors. Not that there was any room in the house.

Along with Andrew, there was his wife, Catherine, a quiet and disciplined woman who mainly worked on the crops and did housework. His daughter, Virginia, was a widow who helped with the animals. Five years ago, she had gotten married in a rush after she had been charmed and bedded by Karl Gimenez. She immediately got pregnant and the two of them got married despite protests from both Karl and her father. Karl was an undocumented immigrant from Mexico and sold drugs in order to make money. It was known that he was unfaithful but Virginia wanted a father for her daughter, Cecelia. A little more than a year ago, Karl was arrested and, even though he was legally married to a citizen, deported back to Mexico. Virginia kept in contact with Karl through his friends, Angel and Andreas Garcia. The last time she spoke with them, they revealed that Karl had been killed. Virginia was distraught mainly because she wanted a father figure for Cecelia. Virginia struck up a friendship with a new neighbor, Matthew Lawrenz, who lived two farms over. She then allowed Matthew to sleep with and impregnate her, giving birth to Joseph but Matthew was adamant he really wanted nothing to with Virginia or Joseph. They kept up their affair though.




Matthew finished and rolled off of Virginia who was underneath him on her stomach. "You know, we could move in together and still do this," she said. She was always hinting about moving in together or getting married. Matthew had yet to take the bait.

"I thought we were fine just doing this," he said. "Besides, you know we were just having fun. You didn't have to get pregnant."

Virginia sat up and grabbed her clothes off the floor. "Okay. Well, just so you know, you'll be hearing from the state in a few days about child support for Joseph. He's your kid, you should help take care of him."

Virginia stormed out of Matthew's house and walked back to her parents' farm. It was a gray, cloudy day and getting cold. Snow was in the forecast so she had to get home and help Andrew to get the farm ready for it. A train whistle went off in the distance behind the woods that surrounded these farms. She walked home in silence, her mind drifting everywhere.




Andrew Winters woke up to a snow-covered farmstead. Everything looked pristine and new. He stepped out onto the slab of concrete just outside of the back door. He noticed footprints in the snow leading from the house, past the barn, and toward the woods. Although they weren't so much leading to the woods, as he noticed, but to the house.

"Did you follow them? Where do they go?" Peter Webber asked, as he helped Andrew on the combine stored in the barn for one of Andrew's regulars.

"No, I didn't follow them. They go into the woods. They were probably from a drifter walking along the railroad tracks. They saw a light and thought they could get a quick meal or something but we were all asleep so they left."

"But you said the tracks didn't lead away from the house," Peter said.

Peter Webber was a handyman that helped Andrew with work around the farm. Peter helped with the animals and crops but also on maintenance and helping Andrew with the machinery. Webber liked to drink and had bragged about sleeping with Virginia numerous times at the bar even though he never had. He also complained about all the money that Andrew hoarded when he was working for pennies. To anyone who listened to Webber, the Winters were close to being millionaires.

"You're right. It's probably a hobo from the tracks," Peter said, assuming Andrew was just drunk or just seeing things. But he remembered something he saw a couple days ago. A man standing at the end of the woods. He didn't recognize him and when he started to approach, the man went into the woods. Peter initially thought it was a hobo from the train tracks. Maybe not.




At dinner, the family ate in near silence. The ceiling above them creaked and groaned. They all looked up. "What was that?" Catherine asked. "Another animal get into the attic?"

"I'll check it out after dinner," Andrew said.

After dinner, he went upstairs and peered into the attic. With his flashlight, he couldn't see anything. He walked around, heard and saw nothing. The next day, the sounds of walking in the attic continued but Andrew could find nothing. When night fell on the third day, the Winters family went to sleep as they always did. Catherine cross-stitched, Andrew read, Virginia nursed Joseph and softly sang to Cecelia.

In the middle of the night, a noise awoke Virginia. She looked out the window and caught a glimpse of someone in the barn. She went outside to meet the person where she was immediately struck down with an axe, the blade easily cutting through her skin and skull. Virginia was able to let out one piercing scream before she fell to the ground.

Andrew heard the scream. "Catherine," he shook his wife awake. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"It sounded like a scream." He pulled the covers off and got out of bed. "I'm gonna check. Sounded like it came from the barn."

Andrew went out to the barn and slowly peered in but saw nothing out of the ordinary. As he stepped inside, the blade of the axe split his head in two and he landed with a dull thud on the ground. Fifteen minutes later, curious as to where Andrew had gone, Catherine followed her daughter and husband to the barn and to the same fate.

Peter Webber saw no evidence of anything when he arrived the next morning. He knocked on the door but no one answered. Smoke was coming from the chimney but he could see no signs of life. Assuming that Andrew, and the rest of the family, was ignoring him, he gave the house the middle finger and left.

"Did the Winters go somewhere?" the postman asked Matthew the next day. "Their mail is still in their box."

"They should be home. There's been smoke coming from their chimney," Matthew said.

Matthew walked to the Winters' house. No smoke came from the chimney. All the doors were locked. "What's going on?" Peter asked, coming up behind Matthew.

"Have you seen Andrew or Virginia?" Matthew asked.

"No. I came by yesterday but no one was here. Or they were ignoring me," he gave a light chuckle.

"The mailman thinks they went away but I've been seeing smoke coming from their chimney so I came over to investigate," Matthew said. He opened the door to the barn and went inside. Nothing looked out of the ordinary until he noticed a door placed over a pile of hay. He lifted the door off the hay and saw the bodies of Andrew, Catherine, and Virginia underneath the blood-soaked straw. "Jesus Christ," he whispered.

He dropped the door and ran out of the barn to the house. "What are you doing?" asked Peter.

"I'm looking for my son," Matthew bellowed as he unlocked the door with a key and went inside the house. Nothing in the house was disturbed but the chimney had clearly been used as well as some dishes in the kitchen. In Virginia's bedroom, Matthew found the bludgeoned bodies of Cecelia and Joseph.




"No idea who did this?" an officer investigating asked another officer who was looking around for clues.

"No idea. The two who discovered the bodies would be my first picks but there's no evidence. Word around the bars is that Webber guy talked a lot about stealing money from Mr. Winters and Lawrenz was recently given a summon to pay child support."

"So they have the motive."

"There was nothing taken. There's cash littering the house in places--all of it untouched. Anthony Loudekis once broke into this place and stole some money but, again, nothing was taken."

"I heard a rumor that Gimenez is back in the country."

"Gimenez? He's dead."

"His friends--those punks, Angel and Andreas, say he faked his death. I know it sounds stupid but what else is there? Maybe he got mad that his wife was sleeping around. Joseph isn't--wasn't--his."

"The killer supposedly lived in the house the day after the murders."

"Mm. No thank you. You know, it could just be a drifter following the railroad tracks. Sees smoke or a light on and instead of just asking for some warmth and food, lures them out here and just takes the house."

"That Lawrenz guy has a key. It's how he found the kids' bodies. Why'd he have a key?"

"Maybe they gave it to him since he was a neighbor. Maybe she gave it to him so he could come over at night."

"Maybe he stole it."

"We have, what? Four possible suspects?"

He nodded.

"We should get started then," the two officers began walking toward Peter and Matthew who were being detained by the barn by another officer. The bodies of the Winters family were covered and loaded into a van. A train whistle sounded from behind the woods, breaking the silence.

Liberty Horror #2: The Romance of Certain Old Clothes

The Romance of Certain Old Clothes

by Henry James

I.

Toward the middle of the eighteenth century there lived in the Province of Massachusetts a widowed gentlewoman, the mother of three children. Her name is of little account: I shall take the liberty of calling her Mrs. Willoughby, a name, like her own, of a highly respectable sound. She had been left a widow after some six years of marriage, and had devoted herself to the care of her progeny. These young persons grew up in a manner to reward her zeal and to gratify her fondest hopes. The first born was a son, whom she had called Bernard, after his father. The others were daughters,—born at an interval of three years apart. Good looks were traditional in the family, and this youthful trio were not likely to allow the tradition to perish. The boy was of that fair and ruddy complexion and of that athletic mould which in those days (as in these) were the sign of genuine English blood,—a frank, affectionate young fellow, a deferential son, a patronizing brother, and a steadfast friend. Clever, however, he was not; the wit of the family had been apportioned chiefly to his sisters. Mr. Willoughby had been a great reader of Shakespeare, at a time when this pursuit implied more liberality of taste than at the present day, and in a community where it required much courage to patronize the drama even in the closet; and he had wished to record his admiration of the great poet by calling his daughters out of his favorite plays. Upon the elder he had bestowed the romantic name of Viola; and upon the younger, the more serious one of Perdita, in memory of a little girl born between them, who had lived but a few weeks.

When Bernard Willoughby came to his sixteenth year, his mother put a brave face upon it, and prepared to execute her husband's last request. This had been an earnest entreaty that, at the proper age, his son should be sent out to England, to complete his education at the University of Oxford, which had been the seat of his own studies. Mrs. Willoughby fancied that the lad's equal was not to be found in the two hemispheres, but she had the antique wifely submissiveness. She swallowed her sobs, and made up her boy's trunk and his simple provincial outfit, and sent him on his way across the seas. Bernard was entered at his father's college, and spent five years in England, without great honor, indeed, but with a vast deal of pleasure and no discredit. On leaving the University he made the journey to France. In his twenty-third year he took ship for home, prepared to find poor little New England (New England was very small in those days) an utterly intolerable place of abode. But there had been changes at home, as well as in Mr. Bernard's opinions. He found his mother's house quite habitable, and his sisters grown into two very charming young ladies, with all the accomplishments and graces of the young women of Britain, and a certain native-grown gentle brusquerie and wildness, which, if it was not an accomplishment, was certainly a grace the more. Bernard privately assured his mother that his sisters were fully a match for the most genteel young women in England; where upon poor Mrs. Willoughby, you may be sure, bade them hold up their heads. Such was Bernard's opinion, and such, in a tenfold higher degree, was the opinion of Mr. Arthur Lloyd. This gentleman, I hasten to add, was a college-mate of Mr. Bernard, a young man of reputable family, of a good person and a handsome inheritance; which latter appurtenance he proposed to invest in trade in this country. He and Bernard were warm friends; they had crossed the ocean together, and the young American had lost no time in presenting him at his mother's house, where he had made quite as good an impression as that which he had received, and of which I have just given a hint.

The two sisters were at this time in all the freshness of their youthful bloom; each wearing, of course, this natural brilliancy in the manner that became her best. They were equally dissimilar in appearance and character. Viola, the elder,—now in her twenty-second year,—was tall and fair, with calm gray eyes and auburn tresses; a very faint likeness to the Viola of Shakespeare's comedy, whom I imagine as a brunette (if you will), but a slender, airy creature, full of the softest and finest emotions. Miss Willoughby, with her candid complexion, her fine arms, her majestic height, and her slow utterance, was not cut out for adventures. She would never have put on a man's jacket and hose; and, indeed, being a very plump beauty, it is perhaps as well that she would not. Perdita, too, might very well have exchanged the sweet melancholy of her name against something more in consonance with her aspect and disposition. She was a positive brunette, short of stature, light of foot, with a vivid dark brown eye. She had been from her childhood a creature of smiles and gayety; and so far from making you wait for an answer to your speech, as her handsome sister was wont to do (while she gazed at you with her somewhat cold gray eyes), she had given you the choice of half a dozen, suggested by the successive clauses of your proposition, before you had got to the end of it.

The young girls were very glad to see their brother once more; but they found themselves quite able to maintain a reserve of good-will for their brother's friend. Among the young men their friends and neighbors, the belle jeunesse of the Colony, there were many excellent fellows, several devoted swains, and some two or three who enjoyed the reputation of universal charmers and conquerors. But the home-bred arts and the somewhat boisterous gallantry of those honest young colonists were completely eclipsed by the good looks, the fine clothes, the punctilious courtesy, the perfect elegance, the immense information, of Mr. Arthur Lloyd. He was in reality no paragon; he was an honest, resolute, intelligent young man, rich in pounds sterling, in his health and comfortable hopes, and his little capital of uninvested affections. But he was a gentleman; he had a handsome face; he had studied and travelled; he spoke French, he played on the flute, and he read verses aloud with very great taste. There were a dozen reasons why Miss Willoughby and her sister should forthwith have been rendered fastidious in the choice of their male acquaintance. The imagination of woman is especially adapted to the various small conventions and mysteries of polite society. Mr. Lloyd's talk told our little New England maidens a vast deal more of the ways and means of people of fashion in European capitals than he had any idea of doing. It was delightful to sit by and hear him and Bernard discourse upon the fine people and fine things they had seen. They would all gather round the fire after tea, in the little wainscoted parlor,—quite innocent then of any intention of being picturesque or of being anything else, indeed, than economical, and saving an outlay in stamped papers and tapestries,—and the two young men would remind each other, across the rug, of this, that, and the other adventure. Viola and Perdita would often have given their ears to know exactly what adventure it was, and where it happened, and who was there, and what the ladies had on; but in those days a well-bred young woman was not expected to break into the conversation of her own movement or to ask too many questions; and the poor girls used therefore to sit fluttering behind the more languid—or more discreet—curiosity of their mother.

II.

That they were both very fine girls Arthur Lloyd was not slow to discover; but it took him some time to satisfy himself as to the apportionment of their charms. He had a strong presentiment—an emotion of a nature entirely too cheerful to be called a foreboding—that he was destined to marry one of them; yet he was unable to arrive at a preference, and for such a consummation a preference was certainly indispensable, inasmuch as Lloyd was quite too gallant a fellow to make a choice by lot and be cheated of the heavenly delight of falling in love. He resolved to take things easily, and to let his heart speak. Meanwhile, he was on a very pleasant footing. Mrs. Willoughby showed a dignified indifference to his "intentions," equally remote from a carelessness of her daughters' honor and from that odious alacrity to make him commit himself, which, in his quality of a young man of property, he had but too often encountered in the venerable dames of his native islands. As for Bernard, all that he asked was that his friend should take his sisters as his own; and as for the poor girls themselves, however each may have secretly longed for the monopoly of Mr. Lloyd's attentions, they observed a very decent and modest and contented demeanor.

Towards each other, however, they were somewhat more on the offensive. They were good sisterly friends, betwixt whom it would take more than a day for the seeds of jealousy to sprout and bear fruit; but the young girls felt that the seeds had been sown on the day that Mr. Lloyd came into the house. Each made up her mind that, if she should be slighted, she would bear her grief in silence, and that no one should be any the wiser; for if they had a great deal of love, they had also a great deal of pride. But each prayed in secret, nevertheless, that upon her the glory might fall. They had need of a vast deal of patience, of self-control, and of dissimulation. In those days a young girl of decent breeding could make no advances whatever, and barely respond, indeed, to those that were made. She was expected to sit still in her chair with her eyes on the carpet, watching the spot where the mystic handkerchief should fall. Poor Arthur Lloyd was obliged to undertake his wooing in the little wainscoted parlor, before the eyes of Mrs. Willoughby, her son, and his prospective sister-in-law. But youth and love are so cunning that a hundred signs and tokens might travel to and fro, and not one of these three pair of eyes detect them in their passage. The young girls had but one chamber and one bed between them, and for long hours together they were under each other's direct inspection. That each knew that she was being watched, however, made not a grain of difference in those little offices which they mutually rendered, or in the various household tasks which they performed in common. Neither flinched nor fluttered beneath the silent batteries of her sister's eyes. The only apparent change in their habits was that they had less to say to each other. It was impossible to talk about Mr. Lloyd, and it was ridiculous to talk about anything else. By tacit agreement they began to wear all their choice finery, and to devise such little implements of coquetry, in the way of ribbons and topknots and furbelows as were sanctioned by indubitable modesty. They executed in the same inarticulate fashion an agreement of sincerity on these delicate matters. "Is it better so?" Viola would ask, tying a bunch of ribbons on her bosom, and turning about from her glass to her sister. Perdita would look up gravely from her work and examine the decoration. "I think you had better give it another loop," she would say, with great solemnity, looking hard at her sister with eyes that added, "upon my honor!" So they were forever stitching and trimming their petticoats, and pressing out their muslins, and contriving washes and ointments and cosmetics, like the ladies in the household of the Vicar of Wakefield. Some three or four months went by; it grew to be midwinter, and as yet Viola knew that if Perdita had nothing more to boast of than she, there was not much to be feared from her rivalry. But Perdita by this time, the charming Perdita, felt that her secret had grown to be tenfold more precious than her sister's.

One afternoon Miss Willoughby sat alone before her toilet-glass combing out her long hair. It was getting too dark to see; she lit the two candles in their sockets on the frame of her mirror, and then went to the window to draw her curtains. It was a gray December evening; the landscape was bare and bleak, and the sky heavy with snow-clouds. At the end of the long garden into which her window looked was a wall with a little postern door, opening into a lane. The door stood ajar, as she could vaguely see in the gathering darkness, and moved slowly to and fro, as if some one were swaying it from the lane without. It was doubtless a servant-maid. But as she was about to drop her curtain, Viola saw her sister step within the garden, and hurry along the path toward the house. She dropped the curtain, all save a little crevice for her eyes. As Perdita came up the path, she seemed to be examining something in her hand, holding it close to her eyes. When she reached the house she stopped a moment, looked intently at the object, and pressed it to her lips.

Poor Viola slowly came back to her chair, and sat down before her glass, where, if she had looked at it less abstractedly, she would have seen her handsome features sadly disfigured by jealousy. A moment afterwards the door opened behind her, and her sister came into the room, out of breath, and her cheeks aglow with the chilly air.

Perdita started. "Ah," said she, "I thought you were with our mother." The ladies were to go to a tea-party, and on such occasions it was the habit of one of the young girls to help their mother to dress. Instead of coming in, Perdita lingered at the door.

"Come in, come in," said Viola. "We've more than an hour yet. I should like you very much to give a few strokes to my hair." She knew that her sister wished to retreat, and that she could see in the glass all her movements in the room. "Nay, just help me with my hair," she said, "and I'll go to mamma."

Perdita came reluctantly, and took the brush. She saw her sister's eyes, in the glass, fastened hard upon her hands. She had not made three passes, when Viola clapped her own right hand upon her sister's left, and started out of her chair. "Whose ring is that?" she cried passionately, drawing her towards the light.

On the young girl's third finger glistened a little gold ring, adorned with a couple of small rubies. Perdita felt that she need no longer keep her secret, yet that she must put a bold face on her avowal. "It's mine," she said proudly.

"Who gave it to you?" cried the other.

Perdita hesitated a moment. "Mr. Lloyd."

"Mr. Lloyd is generous, all of a sudden."

"Ah no," cried Perdita, with spirit, "not all of a sudden. He offered it to me a month ago."

"And you needed a month's begging to take it?" said Viola, looking at the little trinket; which indeed was not especially elegant, although it was the best that the jeweller of the Province could furnish. "I should n't have taken it in less than two."

"It is n't the ring," said Perdita, "it's what it means!"

"It means that you 're not a modest girl," cried Viola. "Pray does your mother know of your conduct? does Bernard?"

"My mother has approved my 'conduct', as you call it. Mr. Lloyd has asked my hand, and mamma has given it. Would you have had him apply to you, sister?"

Viola gave her sister a long look, full of passionate envy and sorrow. Then she dropped her lashes on her pale cheeks and turned away. Perdita felt that it had not been a pretty scene; but it was her sister's fault. But the elder girl rapidly called back her pride, and turned herself about again. "You have my very best wishes," she said, with a low curtsey. "I wish you every happiness, and a very long life."

Perdita gave a bitter laugh. "Don't speak in that tone," she cried. "I'd rather you cursed me outright. Come, sister," she added, "he could n't marry both of us."

"I wish you very great joy," Viola repeated mechanically, sitting down to her glass again, "and a very long life, and plenty of children."

There was something in the sound of these words not at all to Perdita's taste. "Will you give me a year, at least?" she said. "In a year I can have one little boy, or one little girl at least. If you'll give me your brush again I'll do your hair."

"Thank you," said Viola. "You had better go to mamma. It is n't becoming that a young lady with a promised husband should wait on a girl with none."

"Nay," said Perdita, good-humoredly, "I have Arthur to wait upon me. You need my service more than I need yours."

But her sister motioned her away, and she left the room. When she had gone poor Viola fell on her knees before her dressing-table, buried her head in her arms, and poured out a flood of tears and sobs. She felt very much the better for this effusion of sorrow. When her sister came back, she insisted upon helping her to dress, and upon her wearing her prettiest things. She forced upon her acceptance a bit of lace of her own, and declared that now that she was to be married she should do her best to appear worthy of her lover's choice. She discharged these offices in stern silence; but, such as they were, they had to do duty as an apology and an atonement; she never made any other. Now that Lloyd was received by the family as an accepted suitor, nothing remained but to fix the wedding-day. It was appointed for the following April, and in the interval preparations were diligently made for the marriage. Lloyd, on his side, was busy with his commercial arrangements, and with establishing a correspondence with the great mercantile house to which he had attached himself in England. He was therefore not so frequent a visitor at Mrs. Willoughby's as during the months of his diffidence and irresolution, and poor Viola had less to suffer than she had feared from the sight of the mutual endearments of the young lovers. Touching his future sister-in-law, Lloyd had a perfectly clear conscience. There had not been a particle of sentiment uttered between them, and he had not the slightest suspicion that she coveted anything more than his fraternal regard. He was quite at his ease; life promised so well, both domestically and financially. The lurid clouds of revolution were as yet twenty years beneath the horizon, and that his connubial felicity should take a tragic turn it was absurd, it was blasphemous, to apprehend. Meanwhile at Mrs. Willoughby's there was a greater rustling of silks, a more rapid clicking of scissors and flying of needles, than ever. Mrs. Willoughby had determined that her daughter should carry from home the most elegant outfit that her money could buy, or that the country could furnish. All the sage women in the county were convened, and their united taste was brought to bear on Perdita's wardrobe. Viola's situation, at this moment, was assuredly not to be envied. The poor girl had an inordinate love of dress, and the very best taste in the world, as her sister perfectly well knew. Viola was tall, she was stately and sweeping, she was made to carry stiff brocade and masses of heavy lace, such as belong to the toilet of a rich man's wife. But Viola sat aloof, with her beautiful arms folded and her head averted, while her mother and sister and the venerable women aforesaid worried and wondered over their materials, oppressed by the multitude of their resources. One day there came in a beautiful piece of white silk, brocaded with celestial blue and silver, sent by the bridegroom himself,—it not being thought amiss in those days that the husband elect should contribute to the bride's trousseau. Perdita was quite at loss to imagine a fashion which should do sufficient honor to the splendor of the material.

"Blue's your color, sister, more than mine," she said, with appealing eyes. "It's a pity it's not for you. You'd know what to do with it."

Viola got up from her place and looked at the great shining fabric as it lay spread over the back of a chair. Then she took it up in her hands and felt it,—lovingly, as Perdita could see,—and turned about toward the mirror with it. She let it roll down to her feet, and flung the other end over her shoulder, gathering it in about her waist with her white arm bare to the elbow. She threw back her head, and looked at her image, and a hanging tress of her auburn hair fell upon the gorgeous surface of the silk. It made a dazzling picture. The women standing about uttered a little "Ah!" of admiration. "Yes, indeed," said Viola, quietly, "blue is my color." But Perdita could see that her fancy had been stirred, and that she would now fall to work and solve all their silken riddles. And indeed she behaved very well, as Perdita, knowing her insatiable love of millinery, was quite ready to declare. Innumerable yards of lustrous silk and satin, of muslin, velvet, and lace, passed through her cunning hands, without a word of envy coming from her lips. Thanks to her industry, when the wedding-day came Perdita was prepared to espouse more of the vanities of life than any fluttering young bride who had yet challenged the sacramental blessing of a New England divine.

It had been arranged that the young couple should go out and spend the first days of their wedded life at the country house of an English gentleman,—a man of rank and a very kind friend to Lloyd. He was an unmarried man; he professed himself delighted to withdraw and leave them for a week to their billing and cooing. After the ceremony at church,—it had been performed by an English parson,—young Mrs. Lloyd hastened back to her mother's house to change her wedding gear for a riding-dress. Viola helped her to effect the change, in the little old room in which they had been fond sisters together. Perdita then hurried off to bid farewell to her mother, leaving Viola to follow. The parting was short; the horses were at the door and Arthur impatient to start. But Viola had not followed, and Perdita hastened back to her room, opening the door abruptly. Viola, as usual, was before the glass, but in a position which caused the other to stand still, amazed. She had dressed herself in Perdita's cast-off wedding veil and wreath, and on her neck she had hung the heavy string of pearls which the young girl had received from her husband as a wedding-gift. These things had been hastily laid aside, to await their possessor's disposal on her return from the country. Bedizened in this unnatural garb, Viola stood at the mirror, plunging a long look into its depths, and reading Heaven knows what audacious visions. Perdita was horrified. It was a hideous image of their old rivalry come to life again. She made a step toward her sister, as if to pull off the veil and the flowers. But catching her eyes in the glass, she stopped.

"Farewell, Viola," she said. "You might at least have waited till I had got out of the house." And she hurried away from the room.

Mr. Lloyd had purchased in Boston a house which, in the taste of those days, was considered a marvel of elegance and comfort; and here he very soon established himself with his young wife. He was thus separated by a distance of twenty miles from the residence of his mother-in-law. Twenty miles, in that primitive era of roads and conveyances, were as serious a matter as a hundred at the present day, and Mrs. Willoughby saw but little of her daughter during the first twelvemonth of her marriage. She suffered in no small degree from her absence; and her affliction was not diminished by the fact that Viola had fallen into terribly low spirits and was not to be roused or cheered but by change of air and circumstances. The real cause of the young girl's dejection the reader will not be slow to suspect. Mrs. Willoughby and her gossips, however, deemed her complaint a purely physical one, and doubted not that she would obtain relief from the remedy just mentioned. Her mother accordingly proposed on her behalf a visit to certain relatives on the paternal side, established in New York, who had long complained that they were able to see so little of their New England cousins. Viola was despatched to these good people, under a suitable escort, and remained with them for several months. In the interval her brother Bernard, who had begun the practice of the law, made up his mind to take a wife. Viola came home to the wedding, apparently cured of her heartache, with honest roses and lilies in her face, and a proud smile on her lips. Arthur Lloyd came over from Boston to see his brother-in-law married, but without his wife, who was expecting shortly to present him with an heir. It was nearly a year since Viola had seen him. She was glad—she hardly knew why—that Perdita had stayed at home. Arthur looked happy, but he was more grave and solemn than before his marriage. She thought he looked "interesting,"—for although the word in its modern sense was not then invented, we may be sure that the idea was. The truth is, he was simply preoccupied with his wife's condition. Nevertheless, he by no means failed to observe Viola's beauty and splendor, and how she quite effaced the poor little bride. The allowance that Perdita had enjoyed for her dress had now been transferred to her sister, who turned it to prodigious account. On the morning after the wedding, he had a lady's saddle put on the horse of the servant who had come with him from town, and went out with the young girl for a ride. It was a keen, clear morning in January; the ground was bare and hard, and the horses in good condition,—to say nothing of Viola, who was charming in her hat and plume, and her dark blue riding-coat, trimmed with fur. They rode all the morning, they lost their way, and were obliged to stop for dinner at a farm-house. The early winter dusk had fallen when they got home. Mrs. Willoughby met them with a long face. A messenger had arrived at noon from Mrs. Lloyd; she was beginning to be ill, and desired her husband's immediate return. The young man, at the thought that he had lost several hours, and that by hard riding he might already have been with his wife, uttered a passionate oath. He barely consented to stop for a mouthful of supper, but mounted the messenger's horse and started off at a gallop.

He reached home at midnight. His wife had been delivered of a little girl. "Ah, why were n't you with me?" she said, as he came to her bedside.

"I was out of the house when the man came. I was with Viola," said Lloyd, innocently.

Mrs. Lloyd made a little moan, and turned about. But she continued to do very well, and for a week her improvement was uninterrupted. Finally, however, through some indiscretion in the way of diet or of exposure, it was checked, and the poor lady grew rapidly worse. Lloyd was in despair. It very soon became evident that she was breathing her last. Mrs. Lloyd came to a sense of her approaching end, and declared that she was reconciled with death. On the third evening after the change took place she told her husband that she felt she would not outlast the night. She dismissed her servants, and also requested her mother to withdraw,—Mrs. Willoughby having arrived on the preceding day. She had had her infant placed on the bed beside her, and she lay on her side, with the child against her breast, holding her husband's hands. The night-lamp was hidden behind the heavy curtains of the bed, but the room was illumined with a red glow from the immense fire of logs on the hearth.

"It seems strange to die by such a fire as that," the young woman said, feebly trying to smile. "If I had but a little of such fire in my veins! But I've given it all to this little spark of mortality." And she dropped her eyes on her child. Then raising them she looked at her husband with a long penetrating gaze. The last feeling which lingered in her heart was one of mistrust. She had not recovered from the shock which Arthur had given her by telling her that in the hour of her agony he had been with Viola. She trusted her husband very nearly as well as she loved him; but now that she was called away forever, she felt a cold horror of her sister. She felt in her soul that Viola had never ceased to envy her good fortune; and a year of happy security had not effaced the young girl's image, dressed in her wedding garments, and smiling with coveted triumph. Now that Arthur was to be alone, what might not Viola do? She was beautiful, she was engaging; what arts might she not use, what impression might she not make upon the young man's melancholy heart? Mrs. Lloyd looked at her husband in silence. It seemed hard, after all, to doubt of his constancy. His fine eyes were filled with tears; his face was convulsed with weeping; the clasp of his hands was warm and passionate. How noble he looked, how tender, how faithful and devoted! "Nay," thought Perdita, "he's not for such as Viola. He'll never forget me. Nor does Viola truly care for him; she cares only for vanities and finery and jewels." And she dropped her eyes on her white hands, which her husband's liberality had covered with rings, and on the lace ruffles which trimmed the edge of her night dress. "She covets my rings and my laces more than she covets my husband."

At this moment the thought of her sister's rapacity seemed to cast a dark shadow between her and the helpless figure of her little girl. "Arthur," she said, "you must take off my rings. I shall not be buried in them. One of these days my daughter shall wear them,—my rings and my laces and silks. I had them all brought out and shown me to-day. It's a great wardrobe,—there's not such another in the Province; I can say it without vanity now that I've done with it. It will be a great inheritance for my daughter, when she grows into a young woman. There are things there that a man never buys twice, and if they're lost you'll never again see the like. So you'll watch them well. Some dozen things I've left to Viola; I've named them to my mother. I've given her that blue and silver; it was meant for her; I wore it only once, I looked ill in it. But the rest are to be sacredly kept for this little innocent. It's such a providence that she should be my color; she can wear my gowns; she has her mother's eyes. You know the same fashions come back every twenty years. She can wear my gowns as they are. They 'll lie there quietly waiting till she grows into them,—wrapped in camphor and rose-leaves, and keeping their colors in the sweet-scented darkness. She shall have black hair, she shall wear my carnation satin. Do you promise me, Arthur?"

"Promise you what, dearest?"

"Promise me to keep your poor little wife's old gowns."

"Are you afraid I'll sell them?"

"No, but that they may get scattered. My mother will have them properly wrapped up, and you shall lay them away under a double-lock. Do you know the great chest in the attic, with the iron bands? There's no end to what it will hold. You can lay them all there. My mother and the housekeeper will do it, and give you the key. And you'll keep the key in your secretary, and never give it to any one but your child. Do you promise me?"

"Ah, yes, I promise you," said Lloyd, puzzled at the intensity with which his wife appeared to cling to this idea.

"Will you swear?" repeated Perdita.

"Yes, I swear."

"Well—I trust you—I trust you," said the poor lady, looking into his eyes with eyes in which, if he had suspected her vague apprehensions, he might have read an appeal quite as much as an assurance.

Lloyd bore his bereavement soberly and manfully. A month after his wife's death, in the course of commerce, circumstances arose which offered him an opportunity of going to England. He embraced it as a diversion from gloomy thoughts. He was absent nearly a year, during which his little girl was tenderly nursed and cherished by her grandmother. On his return he had his house again thrown open, and announced his intention of keeping the same state as during his wife's lifetime. It very soon came to be predicted that he would marry again, and there were at least a dozen young women of whom one may say that it was by no fault of theirs that, for six months after his return, the prediction did not come true. During this interval he still left his little daughter in Mrs. Willoughby's hands, the latter assuring him that a change of residence at so tender an age was perilous to her health. Finally, however, he declared that his heart longed for his daughter's presence, and that she must be brought up to town. He sent his coach and his housekeeper to fetch her home. Mrs. Willoughby was in terror lest something should befall her on the road; and, in accordance with this feeling, Viola offered to ride along with her. She could return the next day. So she went up to town with her little niece, and Mr. Lloyd met her on the threshold of his house, overcome with her kindness and with gratitude. Instead of returning the next day, Viola stayed out the week; and when at last she reappeared, she had only come for her clothes. Arthur would not hear of her coming home, nor would the baby. She cried and moaned if Viola left her; and at the sight of her grief Arthur lost his wits, and swore that she was going to die. In fine, nothing would suit them but that Viola should remain until the poor child had grown used to strange faces.

It took two months to bring this consummation about; for it was not until this period had elapsed that Viola took leave of her brother-in-law. Mrs. Willoughby had shaken her head over her daughter's absence; she had declared that it was not becoming, and that it was the talk of the town. She had reconciled herself to it only because, during the young girl's visit, the household enjoyed an unwonted term of peace. Bernard Willoughby had brought his wife home to live, between whom and her sister-in-law there existed a bitter hostility. Viola was perhaps no angel; but in the daily practice of life she was a sufficiently good-natured girl, and if she quarrelled with Mrs. Bernard, it was not without provocation. Quarrel, however, she did, to the great annoyance not only of her antagonist, but of the two spectators of these constant altercations. Her stay in the household of her brother-in-law, therefore, would have been delightful, if only because it removed her from contact with the object of her antipathy at home. It was doubly—it was ten times—delightful, in that it kept her near the object of her old passion. Mrs. Lloyd's poignant mistrust had fallen very far short of the truth. Viola's sentiment had been a passion at first, and a passion it remained,—a passion of whose radiant heat, tempered to the delicate state of his feelings, Mr. Lloyd very soon felt the influence. Lloyd, as I have hinted, was not a modern Petrarch; it was not in his nature to practise an ideal constancy. He had not been many days in the house with his sister-in-law before he began to assure himself that she was, in the language of that day, a devilish fine woman. Whether Viola really practised those insidious arts that her sister had been tempted to impute to her it is needless to inquire. It is enough to say that she found means to appear to the very best advantage. She used to seat herself every morning before the great fireplace in the dining-room, at work upon a piece of tapestry, with her little niece disporting herself on the carpet at her feet, or on the train of her dress, and playing with her woollen balls. Lloyd would have been a very stupid fellow if he had remained insensible to the rich suggestions of this charming picture. He was prodigiously fond of his little girl, and was never weary of taking her in his arms and tossing her up and down, and making her crow with delight. Very often, however, he would venture upon greater liberties than the young lady was yet prepared to allow, and she would suddenly vociferate her displeasure. Viola would then drop her tapestry, and put out her handsome hands with the serious smile of the young girl whose virgin fancy has revealed to her all a mother's healing arts. Lloyd would give up the child, their eyes would meet, their hands would touch, and Viola would extinguish the little girl's sobs upon the snowy folds of the kerchief that crossed her bosom. Her dignity was perfect, and nothing could be more discreet than the manner in which she accepted her brother-in-law's hospitality. It may be almost said, perhaps, that there was something harsh in her reserve. Lloyd had a provoking feeling that she was in the house, and yet that she was unapproachable. Half an hour after supper, at the very outset of the long winter evenings, she would light her candle, and make the young man a most respectful curtsey, and march off to bed. If these were arts, Viola was a great artist. But their effect was so gentle, so gradual, they were calculated to work upon the young widower's fancy with such a finely shaded crescendo, that, as the reader has seen, several weeks elapsed before Viola began to feel sure that her return would cover her outlay. When this became morally certain, she packed up her trunk, and returned to her mother's house. For three days she waited; on the fourth Mr. Lloyd made his appearance,—a respectful but ardent suitor. Viola heard him out with great humility, and accepted him with infinite modesty. It is hard to imagine that Mrs. Lloyd should have forgiven her husband; but if anything might have disarmed her resentment, it would have been the ceremonious continence of this interview. Viola imposed upon her lover but a short probation. They were married, as was becoming, with great privacy,—almost with secrecy,—in the hope perhaps, as was waggishly remarked at the time, that the late Mrs. Lloyd would n't hear of it.

The marriage was to all appearance a happy one, and each party obtained what each had desired— Lloyd "a devilish fine woman," and Viola—but Viola's desires, as the reader will have observed, have remained a good deal of a mystery. There were, indeed, two blots upon their felicity; but time would, perhaps, efface them. During the first three years of her marriage Mrs. Lloyd failed to become a mother, and her husband on his side suffered heavy losses of money. This latter circumstance compelled a material retrenchment in his expenditure, and Viola was perforce less of a great lady than her sister had been. She contrived, however, to sustain with unbroken consistency the part of an elegant woman, although it must be confessed that it required the exercise of more ingenuity than belongs to your real aristocratic repose. She had long since ascertained that her sister's immense wardrobe had been sequestrated for the benefit of her daughter, and that it lay languishing in thankless gloom in the dusty attic. It was a revolting thought that these exquisite fabrics should await the commands of a little girl who sat in a high chair and ate bread-and-milk with a wooden spoon. Viola had the good taste, however, to say nothing about the matter until several months had expired. Then, at last, she timidly broached it to her husband. Was it not a pity that so much finery should be lost?—for lost it would be, what with colors fading, and moths eating it up, and the change of fashions. But Lloyd gave so abrupt and peremptory a negative to her inquiry, that she saw that for the present her attempt was vain. Six months went by, however, and brought with them new needs and new fancies. Viola's thoughts hovered lovingly about her sister's relics. She went up and looked at the chest in which they lay imprisoned. There was a sullen defiance in its three great padlocks and its iron bands, which only quickened her desires. There was something exasperating in its incorruptible immobility. It was like a grim and grizzled old household servant, who locks his jaws over a family secret. And then there was a look of capacity in its vast extent, and a sound as of dense fulness, when Viola knocked its side with the toe of her little slipper, which caused her to flush with baffled longing. "It 's absurd," she cried; "it 's improper, it 's wicked"; and she forthwith resolved upon another attack upon her husband. On the following day, after dinner, when he had had his wine, she bravely began it. But he cut her short with great sternness.

"Once for all, Viola," said he, "it 's out of the question. I shall be gravely displeased if you return to the matter."

"Very good," said Viola. "I 'm glad to learn the value at which I 'm held. Great Heaven!" she cried, "I 'm a happy woman. It 's an agreeable thing to feel one's self sacrificed to a caprice!" And her eyes filled with tears of anger and disappointment.

Lloyd had a good-natured man's horror of a woman's sobs, and he attempted—I may say he condescended—to explain. "It 's not a caprice, dear, it 's a promise," he said,—"an oath."

"An oath? It 's a pretty matter for oaths! and to whom, pray?"

"To Perdita," said the young man, raising his eyes for an instant, but immediately dropping them.

"Perdita,—ah, Perdita!' and Viola's tears broke forth. Her bosom heaved with stormy sobs,—sobs which were the long-deferred counterpart of the violent fit of weeping in which she had indulged herself on the night when she discovered her sister's betrothal. She had hoped, in her better moments, that she had done with her jealousy; but her temper, on that occasion, had taken an ineffaceable fold. "And pray, what right," she cried, "had Perdita to dispose of my future? What right had she to bind you to meanness and cruelty? Ah, I occupy a dignified place, and I make a very fine figure! I 'm welcome to what Perdita has left! And what has she left? I never knew till now how little! Nothing, nothing, nothing."

This was very poor logic, but it was very good passion. Lloyd put his arm around his wife's waist and tried to kiss her, but she shook him off with magnificent scorn. Poor fellow! he had coveted a "devilish fine woman," and he had got one. Her scorn was intolerable. He walked away with his ears tingling,—irresolute, distracted. Before him was his secretary, and in it the sacred key which with his own hand he had turned in the triple lock. He marched up and opened it, and took the key from a secret drawer, wrapped in a little packet which he had sealed with his own honest bit of blazonry. Teneo, said the motto,—"I hold." But he was ashamed to put it back. He flung it upon the table beside his wife.

"Keep it!" she cried. "I want it not. I hate it!"

"I wash my hands of it," cried her husband. "God forgive me!"

Mrs. Lloyd gave an indignant shrug of her shoulders, and swept out of the room, while the young man retreated by another door. Ten minutes later Mrs. Lloyd returned, and found the room occupied by her little step-daughter and the nursery-maid. The key was not on the table. She glanced at the child. The child was perched on a chair with the packet in her hands. She had broken the seal with her own little fingers. Mrs. Lloyd hastily took possession of the key.

At the habitual supper-hour Arthur Lloyd came back from his counting-room. It was the month of June, and supper was served by daylight. The meal was placed on the table, but Mrs. Lloyd failed to make her appearance. The servant whom his master sent to call her came back with the assurance that her room was empty, and that the women informed him that she had not been seen since dinner. They had in truth observed her to have been in tears, and, supposing her to be shut up in her chamber, had not disturbed her. Her husband called her name in various parts of the house, but without response. At last it occurred to him that he might find her by taking the way to the attic. The thought gave him a strange feeling of discomfort, and he bade his servants remain behind, wishing no witness in his quest. He reached the foot of the staircase leading to the topmost flat, and stood with his hand on the banisters, pronouncing his wife's name. His voice trembled. He called again, louder and more firmly. The only sound which disturbed the absolute silence was a faint echo of his own tones, repeating his question under the great eaves. He nevertheless felt irresistibly moved to ascend the staircase. It opened upon a wide hall, lined with wooden closets, and terminating in a window which looked westward, and admitted the last rays of the sun. Before the window stood the great chest. Before the chest, on her knees, the young man saw with amazement and horror the figure of his wife. In an instant he crossed the interval between them, bereft of utterance. The lid of the chest stood open, exposing, amid their perfumed napkins, its treasure of stuffs and jewels. Viola had fallen backward from a kneeling posture, with one hand supporting her on the floor and the other pressed to her heart. On her limbs was the stiffness of death, and on her face, in the fading light of the sun, the terror of something more than death. Her lips were parted in entreaty, in dismay, in agony; and on her bloodless brow and cheeks there glowed the marks of ten hideous wounds from two vengeful ghostly hands.