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A Well-Shadowed HouseBy J.R. CampbellWINTER 2005 SHORT STORY CONTEST WINNER - SECOND PLACE |
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A thousand memories hung in the room’s still air, each scream or sob with its own distinct note and timbre pitched beyond the living’s ability to hear. Stalwart stone walls, impervious to misery or ecstasy, enfolded the room with a dignified solidity making all within their boundaries seem ephemeral and insubstantial. There was a strangeness to this place. A truth the mundane furniture and the dull, untested spines of anonymous books could not conceal. An emptiness possessions could not fill, a coldness no flame could banish. The home had been a sensation during its reconstruction. A centuries old villa, a fortified country house, from the hills outside Rome carried by steamer from the old world to the new. A mass of polished stone as alien to the layered grey New England shore as could be imagined. Men who cared about such things made the pilgrimage from all along the east coast, eager to see the home crafted by the renowned Andrea Palladio centuries before their brash nation’s birth. For a time the workmen who’d travelled with the home could forget the old stories. Lost and alone in America’s bleak savageness, the workmen found in the rebuilt home a remembrance of all they loved and so keenly missed. Their craftsmanship became an act of devotion and beneath their skilled hands the home, stern and magnificent, grew in defiance of this frigid, forsaken place. Their work was admired and each day’s labour brought them closer to their homecoming. For a time the old, whispered tales seemed as nothing. Then came the accident and everything changed. Visitors, aware by now of the inhospitality of the home’s new master, stopped coming. Hurriedly, the work was finished and the men shipped home. Anxious as they were for the sight of cobalt waters and bright blue skies, the workers were more eager to leave the shadows of the villa behind them. Abandoned, the house looked to the east as if in accusation. Strident footsteps in the hallway announced his approach; the home’s American master took perverse pleasure in the military rhythm of his boots against the smooth stone floor. There was no escape, the third floor sitting room originally had two exits but the northern exit had been bricked over. Nor were such modifications limited to this room, here in New England rooms and hallways had been transformed into corners, dead-ends and traps for the unwary. The double doors burst open. A voice, accustomed to being obeyed, called out. “Mr. Keith!” “Here, sir.” Arturo shuffled forward, eyes downcast and hands clasped over his belt buckle. A craftsman seeking work, Arturo reminded himself, nothing more. Humble, deferential, it was important to keep the rage hidden from Easton’s probing eyes. Easton turned sharply, surprised by Arturo’s unnoticed presence. Dark, wary eyes narrowed in suspicion, taking in Arturo’s dark complexion and the curls of his raven hair. “You are Keith? Mr. Keith from Derry?” Arturo opened his mouth to speak but the words would not come. He nodded instead, eyes lowered and hands trembling with what Arturo hoped would be mistaken for nervousness. “You don’t look like a Scot,” Easton observed, a vague disapproval in his tone. “People say I favour my mother,” Arturo admitted. “Italian, was she?” Easton asked. Arturo tilted his head just enough to see the industrialist. Beneath his chestnut moustache Easton’s thin lips pulled tight in an unfortunate expression, as if the child of such a diverse pairing was somehow to be pitied. Easton’s brows furrowed in their customary scowl as the wealthy man waited for some response. “Yes sir,” Arturo admitted. Easton nodded, acknowledging his own cleverness. With a wave he dismissed the servants waiting at the hallway door. The simpleton carriage driver watched the dismissal without understanding but the servant beside him, a thin-faced man whose eyes shone with a low cunning, understood well enough. A nervous twitch betrayed the servant as he pulled the doors closed, giving the simple action an unexplained gravity. Belatedly the simpleton carriage driver fumbled with his door. The double doors were pulled close. The sound of the lock turning was loud and distinct in the sitting room’s sudden silence. Easton walked towards the far wall, removing his heavy buffalo coat as he did. It was a curious garment, the hide of a beast, capable of granting the most innocuous looking man a savage appearance. It was wasted on Easton. The rich man was not tall but he was broad and trim. There was something feral about the wealthy man, he moved with a predator’s confidence. A fringe of neatly trimmed snow-coloured hair, incongruous with his dark brows and moustache, attempted a civilized circumnavigation of his pate but something dangerous hid in the sharp features of his face. Easton did not appear to be a man who smiled often yet; somehow, he seemed likely to bare his teeth in an altogether different expression. “I know your mother’s homeland well,” Easton said, tossing his heavy coat over a nearby chair. “I’ve been to Rome, seen the Coliseum, stood on the steps where Caesar’s blood was spilt. In fact, Mr. Keith, I had this home brought here from the hills just outside Rome.” “If I may say so, sir, this home is - “ Arturo struggled to find a word grand enough but settled for “- extraordinary.” Easton nodded, accepting the praise without satisfaction. Moving to a decanter resting on a small desk, Easton poured himself a generous drink. There was, Arturo noted, only one glass by the bottle. Easton was not a generous man. “Others share your opinion, Mr. Keith,” Easton replied, taking a drink without savouring it. “Unfortunately I am immune to the charms of this place. In my eyes this structure is little more than a failed experiment. A disappointment. Don’t look so shocked, Mr. Keith, allow me to explain. You see that?” Easton gestured with his drink to a threadbare floor covering hanging along the northern wall. Tattered, faded and stained, the old rug was curiously out of place in the wealthy home. Obediently, Arturo examined the faded relic. “See those stains in the lower left corner?” Arturo nodded, knowing well the nature of the stains but allowing Easton his theatrics. "Blood, Mr. Keith. The blood of a murdered woman, slain in this very room three centuries ago. The Lady Isotta Aligheri. Perhaps the name is familiar to you? The story is infamous, the sort of tale mothers whisper to frighten naughty children." Arturo shook his head. "Pity. Suffice to say the Lady Isotta was a beautiful innocent whose strong sense of honour was an inconvenience to her family. Having lost their fortune, the family coveted this villa and the estates it overlooked. Quite properly, the Lady Isotta refused them. Assassins were hired. Even by the standards of those barbaric times her death was considered particularly depraved. It is sad reflection upon Man's nature that even so heinous a crime is unlikely to be long remembered but the story does not end there. Those who profited from her death, her parents, two brothers, her husband and his mistress, claimed the villa as their own. One by one, they were driven to madness and suicide. You see, Mr. Keith, according to legend the ghost of Lady Isotta took revenge upon those who wronged her and is destined to haunt this home until the trumpets of Judgement Day free us all." Easton waited, enjoying his drink, his eyes fixed expectantly on Arturo. Shuffling his feet, Arturo pretended to examine the floor covering. The silence between the two men became uncomfortable, forcing Arturo to speak. “Your letter said you might have work for me? I am a cabinet maker - “ ”Now, Mr. Keith, don’t be modest.” Easton moved back to the desk and refreshed his drink. Bourbon. Arturo could smell it. The intoxicating fumes were a reminder of all things beyond these stone walls, of growing, sunlit fields and running water. For a moment Arturo hoped Easton would offer him a drink but, opening his eyes and regaining his reason, he saw there was little chance of that. “You have a reputation, Mr. Keith.” Easton continued, sipping his bourbon. “You’ve become something of a celebrity among the good folk of Derry. They say you are a decent enough carpenter but that your true talents, your gift if you will, lies in a realm far less mundane.” Arturo straightened, focussing his attention on the glass doors opening onto the generous balcony. The sun, hidden behind a pearly-gray sky, still managed to illuminate the rolling waves of the Atlantic. Arturo could just see the waters beneath the balcony’s low balustrade. “I do not know what you mean,” Arturo declared stubbornly. “Oh, but you do, Mr. Keith. I can see it in your face. The way you look at this room, like a frightened deer surrounded by wolves. You’re being obstinate, Mr. Keith, but I am not so easily fooled. I know quite a bit about you and your talent. You’ve become a curiosity to the people of Derry, one they’re eager to gossip about. They say, Mr. Keith, you are blessed with vision beyond that of your fellow man. They say, Mr. Keith, you can see the spirits of the dead as plainly as I can see you now.” Eyes darting around the room, Arturo looked for a way out. The bricked-over exit, the glass doors leading to the too-high balcony, his gaze came to rest on the double doors Easton’s servants had closed. “Locked, Mr. Keith,” Easton confirmed, walking back to the desk to refill his drink. The bourbon was beginning to show, bringing a flush to Easton’s feral face and a slur to his words. Even so, there was no mistaking the growing excitement in Easton’s voice. The wealthy man was enjoying this conversation. Arturo considered calling for help but, remembering the servants, doubted anyone within earshot would answer his cry. Crossing the room slowly, Arturo stood before the balcony’s glass doors and asked, “What is it you want from me?” “If you can do what they say, my intentions should be quite clear by now,” Easton complained. “I believe there are spirits dwelling in this home. The Lady Isotta and, perhaps, others as well. If you can see them, I wish to know it. You will tell me what you see, all that you see, and in return I will compensate you financially.” Arturo lifted his gaze, directly meeting Easton’s for the first time. Appraising his host, Arturo noticed several things about the man. His words were bold but there was a fear, an excitement, trembling the glass he held. There was nothing spontaneous about this meeting, Easton had crafted this encounter and believed himself ready for anything Arturo might do or say. Almost anything. There was a single possibility Easton could not plan for and it was this uncertainty that put the tremor in Easton’s hand. Easton had done this before, had met with others reputed to have unusual skills and each time met with failure. He was accustomed to disappointment. The chance Arturo might actually be able to see the ghosts Easton lusted for was both exciting and terrifying. Behind the industrialist, above the desk with the bourbon decanter, a portrait was displayed. A bland configuration of pigments, an uninspired work flawed in such a way as to convince Arturo the artist had not had the benefit of a living subject. The woman depicted might have been lovely, there were clues to her beauty, but the brush strokes deliberately obscured her desirability. Easton walked in front of it, as if parading before it, but even when he turned to face the desk he avoided looking at the painting. Arturo was confident. Despite Easton’s plans, Arturo would control what happened here. “Is that the Lady Isotta?” Arturo asked, pointing to the dull portrait. Easton’s dark eyes widened in surprise and he lowered a hand to the desk to steady himself. It took an effort of will on Arturo’s part not to smile in satisfaction. “No, that’s my - “ Easton turned away and messily refilled his glass with a generous measure of bourbon. Taking a steadying sip, he continued with feigned nonchalance. “No, that is not the Lady Isotta. Can you see this woman’s ghost?“ ”I am not certain what I see,” Arturo countered. “You mentioned there might be other spirits?” “Yes,” Easton answered. “Perhaps a man?” Arturo glanced out the glass doors to the balcony, knowing Easton would follow his gaze. “A workman?” “That’s possible. There was an accident when the house was being rebuilt. A scaffolding collapsed, a man fell to his death.“ ”It does not seem high enough,” Arturo observed, peering through the glass doors. “The scaffolding tipped, it carried the workman over the cliff’s edge. He fell all the way to the shore. A most unfortunate accident.” “Was it?” Arturo asked. “Did you think it unfortunate? Did you think it an accident?” Easton looked up at his accuser, draining his tumbler of bourbon in an effort to steady himself. When Easton spoke his words were deliberate, as if they had braved many obstacles to be heard. “No, Mr. Keith, I did not think it unfortunate. I believed it entirely appropriate. I purchased this home and brought it here for a single purpose: To see a spirit. A great many people tramped in and out of this place during its construction but no one reported seeing anything. Nothing was happening. You understand? Nothing. So, when the work was almost complete, I took it upon myself to arrange an accident. A sacrifice, if you will, an offering to the Lady Isotta. I’d hoped she would present herself to me but, failing that, there would be another spirit in the house.” “You failed?” Arturo goaded the man. “I did not,” Easton proclaimed. “It’s true I’ve not seen a spirit but I know they’re all here. I can feel them Mr. Keith, every one of them.” “How many are there?” “I’d rather hoped you would tell me Mr. Keith,” Easton sniffed. “After the workman, I proceeded rather tentatively. Slaves, Chinamen, Indians, those whose disappearances would not be noticed. When that failed to produce results, I moved my attention to Christians, both men and women. Men mostly, young women are always missed by someone. I admit, Mr. Keith, there were times when it felt as though my experiments were pointless, times when I questioned my own sanity. Who would have thought they’d so much blood in them? However, I’ve never abandoned my methodology, never lost sight of my objective. I wish to see a spirit Mr. Keith, I crave the vision God has granted you. I will see a ghost and know what lies beyond the grave.” Easton’s eyes blazed as he spoke, their naked madness focussed on Arturo. Surprised by his discomfort in the face of Easton’s insanity, Arturo turned away. “What do you see Mr. Keith? A man? A woman?” Arturo lowered his eyes. “Is it one of the children?” “Shall I tell you what I see, Mr. Easton?” Arturo was surprised by his decision but knew any other choice was beyond him. “Are you certain you want to know?” “Yes.” Easton answered, a lifetime of obsession expressed in the single syllable. The wealthy man stepped closer, intent on hearing every whisper Arturo might share. “ Tell me.” Arturo straightened. “I see a madman, alone in his empty house.” Easton stepped back, the jut of his jaw reaffirming his determination as his eyes narrowed with their customary wariness. The industrialist did not speak. He seemed for a moment unable to find his voice, afraid his tone might betray him. Hesitantly, Easton returned to the desk and the dull portrait overlooking it. He set his empty glass on the table and opened the desk’s top drawer. For a moment, Arturo thought Easton was removing a chequebook to compensate him for his time. “An odd choice Mr. Keith,” Easton’s words slurred by emotion and drink. “I had such hopes for you.” Turning, Easton revealed the large revolver he held. The heavy mass of ugly metal rested easily in Easton’s firm grip. It was a weapon he had used before. “Goodbye Mr. Keith,” Easton said levelly. “I hope to see you again.” The gunshot filled the room like a thunderclap. Thick smoke stung Easton’s eyes and a sound of shattering glass fell on numb ears. Through the smoke, a figure could be seen racing across the balcony, preparing to leap over the low balustrade. Easton fired again. Arturo, staggering away from the house, felt Easton’s gaze on him. The wealthy man took his time, lining up the shot. A bullet passed through Arturo’s chest and Arturo fell, rolling, over the cliff’s edge. Easton would, Arturo knew, consider it a fortunate convenience. The tide should carry away the corpse, leaving his staff free to pursue their duties. Easton would call for the lean-faced servant, give him the revolver to clean and ask him to arrange for replacement glass for the balcony door. He would, for a time, remain in the sitting room to compose himself but eventually Easton would rise and dress for dinner. After his meal, and a good cigar to settle the excessive bourbon he’d consumed, Easton would don his night attire and return to the sitting room for his nightly vigil. Hoping to catch sight of a ghost, hoping to be haunted. Arturo laid on the rocks, seemingly solid and real but no longer caring about the deception. Rage filled him. Though he recognised himself incapable of doing other than he’d done an anger burned within him. The night was coming. He could go back. Let Easton taste the madness and the rage. Grant the wealthy man the chaos he sought. Take his vengeance. Even as the thought burned across his thoughts, Arturo knew he would not do it. Lacking the ambition to move he lay on the rocks, oblivious to the cold, rising tide. “He did not recognize you.” Reluctantly Arturo turned his head. She was there, shrouded in the deepest shadow of the gathering night. The Lady Isotta. “You said he wouldn’t.” Arturo complained. Arturo wanted her to speak then but knew she wouldn’t. The Lady offered no comfort. Had her compassion died during her murder or had the centuries stripped it from her? Salted by the tears of forsaken sailors, the cold Atlantic rose over the spot where Arturo lay, a rising barrier between him and the Lady. Cursing, Arturo roused himself. He wanted to stand before her. “The real Keith?” Arturo asked, not certain why he cared. “Safe.” The Lady answered, her lips turning in a small smile of amusement. Arturo, seeing her grin, was deeply startled. After so long, he’d assumed she was beyond so human an emotion. “Men such as Keith are receptive to warnings and I gave him no cause to doubt mine. He flattered me before fleeing, but he fled just the same. You had no difficulties?” “None,” Arturo admitted. “It all went just as you said it would. He didn’t recognize me, he confessed to my murder. Said he arranged for my scaffolding to collapse. He confessed to all the killings.” “You hoped he would tell you why,” The Lady Isotta reminded him. “He said he meant to offer my life to you.” Arturo smiled ruefully. “A sacrifice, a bribe to bring you to him.” “What he does, he does only for himself.” “I know,” Arturo admitted. “I understand him better now. He thinks himself brave, you know. Sitting in that house, night after night, cowering in the dark as he waits for us. The man’s arrogance is astounding. He sincerely believes no one could understand his ghostly obsession yet he parades before her portrait without risking so much as a glance at it. He thinks he searches for her but it is his own annihilation he seeks.” The Lady Isotta fixed him with her gaze, something sharp glinted in her eyes. Arturo shivered, uncertain if the wicked gleam detracted or enhanced the dark beauty of the Lady’s face. “Shall we grant his desire?” “No,” Arturo answered. “He deserves a punishment beyond our power to give. Let him search for ghosts in the house he’s filled with shadows, denied even the comfort of a tormentor’s voice.” The Lady nodded, wrapping her shadows close around her. Her gaze went up to the dark, stone house. “You’re leaving.” Arturo nodded. The way had been hidden, obscured by his need for vengeance. Now his path beckoned and he was eager to take it. Still, something in the Lady’s face gave him pause. “Walk with me.” He offered, holding out his hand. The faded pleasures of moonlight and sea waited. The morning would find them parted, each on their chosen paths, but tonight they could walk the shore together. Offer each other a comfort a monster like Easton, imprisoned forever in his well-shadowed house, would never know. |
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| ABOUT THE AUTHOR J.R. Campbell’s work has appeared in a wide variety of publications including Fantasy, Folklore & Fairy Tales, Wax Romantic, Curious Incidents 1 & 2 and Fantastical Visions IV. His writing can also be heard aloud on radio's Imagination Theater. | |