Candle in the Attic Window Part 12

I nodded dumbly. Yes. I remembered. One of the lesser, back-left chimneys went down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. I watched as he twisted the key in the door, only half-noticing that it opened with hardly a squeak. I smelled the fresh oil they had, apparently, kept up the inside as well as the outside not just of hinges, but of the darkly polished woodwork that surrounded us as we stepped into the shallow, box-like reception hall.

"Just a moment, now, Mr. Parrish." Larabie spoke in almost a whisper. He handed me the first of the keys then produced a second. He twisted it in a smaller lock, across from the entrance we had just come through, then pushed back the double sliding doors that opened the wall to the huge, oak-paneled, main staircase hall.

"Your mother went with this house, Mr. Parrish," Larabie said, as he stood aside to let me look. To try to remember. Second only in size to the large formal dining room, the hall, with its stairs angling up to the right and around the back wall, was the dominant feature of the first floor. "Your mother was frail, white-skinned and slender, with pale-blonde hair," the attorney continued. "There were times when she would descend, the white of her clothes standing out, as well, from the dark wood around her, and look the perfect Victorian lady. Times when I'd come here on legal business ...."

I nodded. I saw. I remembered my mother on that staircase, saw in her now, in retrospect, the thin, almost-sickly Romantic ideal that would have held sway, not so much in her time here, but generations before when the house had been first constructed. I longed now to climb the stairs now I remembered how she would pause at the corner landing, letting me dash to her so we could go to the main hall together. But first, I had to know something more.

I turned to Larabie.

"You told me, just before we came to the top of the cliff, that my father was murdered. But not my mother ...."

"No, Mr. Parrish. She was the one who called the police I think I may have said that, already but, when they arrived here, they came through the sliding doors, just as we did, and the only person they found in the hall was you. You told them your mother had gone away. That was all you would tell them. But when they asked you about your father, you pointed, silently, to the rear archway that leads to the kitchen."

More memory came back the memory of blood. Of wanting to forget what I ....

"Under the circ.u.mstances," I heard the attorney continue, as if at a distance, "no one blamed your mother. For leaving you that way. She must have been so horribly frightened and she did keep her wits about her long enough to make sure help came. She had always been such a frail woman ...."

Incongruously, I thought of my wife, then fragile and pale. The bride I would send for who, people might say, would fit comfortably in with this house, as well. Then stark contrast of yet another detail I suddenly found I remembered. My father had been murdered in the kitchen, had almost staggered out past the pantry, past the back stairs and into the service hall, when he had fallen.

An axe in his back.

I must have begun to look Victorian-pale, myself. I felt the attorney's hand on my shoulder. Now I remembered the men in uniform, blood being cleaned up in the kitchen later by neighbours, my own panic at missing my mother. My wondering when I would see her come down the main staircase again.

"Mr. Parrish?" Larabie's voice was very low. "Mr. Parrish perhaps you'd like to come out for some fresh air?"

I shook my head slowly. "No," I answered. "Everything does look in order, however, so why don't you wait outside if you'd like to. I just want do a little exploring on my own, to get an idea of how much work it'll take before Amelia before Mrs. Parrish and I can move in."

Larabie nodded. "Upstairs, you'll find we pretty much left everything alone. May be dusty, though. Didn't even put dropcloths down much above the second floor."

"I think you've done an excellent job with what I've seen so far," I a.s.sured him. I took a deep breath then looked at my wrist.w.a.tch and glanced toward the front door. "I shouldn't be any more than an hour ...."

I waited, gazing up at the main staircase, until I heard the outside door close, then turned to the back hallway and the kitchen. On my left, I pa.s.sed the downstairs parlour first and then the dining room, noting the bay window in the latter the first-story bulge that jutted out onto the side veranda, forming the base of the four-story tower. Once in the kitchen, I took a deep breath. I saw, at least in my mind's eye, the stains. I thought for some reason of the ink I had spilled, myself, on Larabie's floor as I imagined my mother calling me, saw her standing over the sink, the door that led to the yard and the woodshed behind the house still yawning open, her hands red with blood.

My mother's hands. Why?

I watched as she washed them then followed a trail of water stains, this time pale, clear drops diluting a deeper red back toward my father. It circled, minced, avoided expanding pools of crimson, as it reached the telephone in the hallway, then returned to the door by the pantry that led to the back stairs. The stairs my mother would never use because, as she used to say, "It isn't proper."

The stairs that rose toward the outside wall then curved and spiraled up through the tower, until they angled back into the attic.

A child's "secret pa.s.sage".

I followed the trail.

I heard my mother's voice.

"Joseph," she said, as we climbed the spiral, "you must forget everything that you've seen. It's only a game, like the games your father played down in the village. Games I might have been told about, but had never believed until he came home, more drunk than usual, early this morning."

We reached the top, where the stairs straightened out again for their final climb up to the attic, and the sun suddenly shone through the windows, filling the tower with spotlights of blood-red.

"While he was sleeping," my mother continued, "I thought of a game, too."

My mother had always used the front staircase. The back stairs were dusty. And one had to stoop to get from the attic into the tunnel beneath the front gable. But this was different this was a game.

I straightened up, b.u.mped my head, realized I stood in the attic, myself, now.

I had trouble breathing the stuffy air. I leaned against a rough brick column the front parlour chimney, my memory told me and felt the f.l.a.n.g.e where it thrust through the roof brush against my shoulder. I blinked my eyes, hard, to clear my vision and, when I opened them up again, I saw what still looked like a pool of blood.

Again, a memory a recognition. I was already within the front gable. The red that I saw was the light of the sun, spilling out from a second low arch where the gable roof met the tower's final top level. I heard my mother's voice warning me to be sure to brush my pants carefully before, once the game we would play was ended, I went back downstairs. I saw my mother kneeling next to me as we crawled through the final tunnel.

We came to a child's hidden pirate castle. A room of oval stained-gla.s.s windows that served as portholes, of worn-out sheets and ropes, carefully hung from the open beams of the dome roof above as a ship's sails and banners.

I helped my mother build a tower within the great tower's uppermost room, helped her make a stair-like heap of the boxes and trunks I'd dragged in for years from the main attic proper as pirate treasure.

"Now you must help me with one thing more," she said, when we were finished. She climbed to the top and began to pull on the ropes that hung toward her. "Hold my legs. That's right. And now I want you to promise me that everything that has happened today will be our secret. Do you promise, Joseph?"

"Yes, Mother," I said. The memory was clear now.

"I want you to think of this as a game. Like playing pirates. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother," I said again.

"Good. Now your mother must walk the plank just as in a game. As soon as you feel me move my feet, I want you to push me off these boxes and knock them over, just as if you were a real pirate captain pushing me off the plank. I want you to go downstairs after you've done that, without looking back. Some men will come later and all you must tell them is that your mother went away. Do you promise, Joseph?"

I had promised.

I blinked again. I stood alone in the tower now. Raising my eyes to the dome above me, I gazed at my mother, her flesh long since shrunken into a parchment against her body, still hanging in the red light of the windows, just as I had left her.

And somehow, for no reason whatsoever, I thought of Amelia, who so resembled her, walking down the front, formal staircase. Amelia, my bride, also somewhat reclusive, who, I was sure, as soon as the house was cleaned and ready, would come to love it and make it her own.

And then, without willing it, I thought as well of the restaurant hostess. I could not help it.

Of dark, round-curved Anise, who lived in town and would be waiting.

James Dorr has published two collections with Dark Regions Press, Strange Mistresses: Tales of Wonder and Romance and Darker Loves: Tales of Mystery and Regret, and has a book of poetry about vampirism, Vamps (A Retrospective), out this year from Sam's Dot Publishing. Other work has appeared in Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine, New Mystery, Science Fiction Review, Fantastic, Dark Wisdom, Gothic.Net, ChiZine, Enigmatic Tales (UK), Faeries (France), and numerous anthologies. Dorr is an active member of SFWA and HWA, an Anthony and Darrell finalist, a Pushcart Prize nominee, and a multi-time listee in The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Up-to-date information on Dorr is at: http://jamesdorrwriter.wordpress.com.

New Archangel.

By Desmond Warzel.

From: Ivan Vasiliyevich Furugelm, Governor, Russian American Company To: Otto Furugelm, Helsingfors, Finland June 30, 1859 Dear Father, Nearly a week has pa.s.sed since my arrival in Novoarkhangelsk and my a.s.sumption of the mantle of Governor of Alaska. I wonder if perhaps someone simply wishes me out of the way, for there could be no worldly place in less need of governing. In fact, I fully expect Imperial interest in Alaska to fade completely within ten years. My predecessors have already wrung nearly every pelt from this land, and we are forced to squabble over the rest with the British and the Americans. As a result, there is precious little to do here.

One curiosity: I spoke at length with Voyevodsky, the outgoing Governor, and a more relieved man I have never met! During our conversation, he chanced to bring up a legend that has sprung up here over the last decade or so. It seems that Voyevodsky, one or two of his predecessors, and several of their guests over the years, have all claimed to see a curious spirit roaming the halls of Baranof Castle, a lady in blue. I humoured the man, of course, for I have seen what this place is like and I could not begrudge its residents any harmless tales they might conjure to amuse themselves.

Or so I thought, Father, for I have now seen this ghost myself! She is a lady of indescribable beauty, dressed in sumptuous blue wedding attire, with hair blacker than night. I promise you that I was neither dreaming nor imbibing! I looked her directly in the eyes, but she seemed to stare straight through me; though I was also looking through her, after a fashion, for she was in no way solid. She never stays in one place; indeed, she never stands still at all. She is seeking something.

My inquiries have turned up a tale of a princess or n.o.blewoman who killed herself and her lover in 1844, but there is no one in the castle with firsthand knowledge of this alleged tragedy. Would that it were so easily ascribed to that event, but then where is the lover's ghost? He is nowhere to be found and he has more reason to haunt than she, for his demise was both violent and unplanned. Perhaps there is some logical explanation, if logic holds in the affairs of the restless dead, but I fear it will forever remain hidden.

I will write again soon, Father, but in the meantime, I charge you with delivering my greetings and good wishes to the rest of the family.

Your loving son, Ivan *

From: Brig. Gen. Jeff C. Davis, Commander, Department of Alaska To: Maj. Gen. Horatio Wright, Brooklyn, New York March 19, 1868 Dear Horatio, I can only imagine the expression of shock that graces your countenance as you unfurl this missive! You never expected to hear from old Jeff, and I never expected to write, having resolved only to trouble my friends with letters if something noteworthy were to occur here in Sitka (the Indian name with which we rechristened the town, since no one could p.r.o.nounce that ludicrous name the Russians had foisted on it; there are no angels in this place, for certain). Well, something has happened: an unfortunate and curious circ.u.mstance.

Last evening, I had the ill luck to discover an officer of mine, Lieutenant Paul McKenzie, dead in his quarters. d.a.m.n good man, too; such a shame. We committed his body, today, and now it will fall to me to write Paul's family and inform them of his death. This is a duty I do not relish at the best of times, but I find myself arrested by an even greater hesitancy in this case. It is the manner of his death, you see, that gives me pause.

Paul was murdered, stabbed in the back with his own sword. He cannot have done it himself, obviously, yet the guards swear that no one entered or left the castle all evening. I believe them, for I am scrupulous at monitoring my men when they are at their duties. Likewise, I can account for the whereabouts of everyone else in the castle (There were only a few). We are therefore looking at an impossibility, it would seem.

Whispered speculations have been circulating in the castle today regarding the involvement of the Blue Lady. I have put a decisive end to these. Of course I know the story. The outgoing Russian Governor, one Prince Dimitri, related the legend to me during the hullabaloo surrounding the transfer of Alaska to the United States. I will admit that Dimitri could spin quite a yarn; so much so, in fact, that there were occasions, early on, when I actually thought I glimpsed a flash of blue in the corner of my own eye, disappearing around a corner or down a staircase. Such illusions are easily dismissed by men of our intellect.

Poor Paul. Bad enough his death must remain a mystery, but he had nearly completed his duties and was set to leave Sitka for home within the month. Though his body must remain in this G.o.dforsaken place, thank Heaven that at least his soul has escaped.

How are things in Brooklyn, Horatio? Have you begun building that silly bridge, yet? What a common task for such a valiant warrior!

Your friend, Jeff *

From: James Sheakley, Governor, District of Alaska To: D. P. Packard, Greenville, Pennsylvania March 19, 1894.

Dear D. P., Baranof Castle burned yesterday and we are well rid of it.

Perhaps the Blue Lady has found that which she sought; or perhaps she has finally claimed her ultimate revenge for whatever slight has tied her restless shade to this place. It may even be that the fire was righteous rather than diabolical, that the Good Lord has at long last seen fit to scour her from the Earth.

I am not given to flights of supernatural speculation; your father, G.o.d rest his soul, once called me the most stolid and skeptical man he had ever met. But I cannot deny what I have seen since my arrival last summer. And yesterday's destruction marks 50 years of such horrors 50 years to the day, D. P.! Real horrors, not apparitions; lives have been lost. The things I have witnessed! I will tell you when I next see you, rather than commit an account of these atrocities to paper; if the Blue Lady has gone from this world, let her remain gone.

If we may indeed hope that the Blue Lady's reign ends with the immolation of her demesne, then a new beginning is called for. I think the fire is a sign; I have long been for moving the capital away from Sitka, perhaps to Juneau. Sitka is a trapping town and there are few animals left to be had. America's future in Alaska, if it has one, lies with gold, or some yet-undiscovered treasure. The Lady has had done with us; let us have done with Sitka.

I have done my best, in my short tenure, to give Alaska those things I think it deserves: better schools, greater stature in the Republic, a peaceful existence for the Indians. My reward has been to be hounded throughout my home by a spectre whose grievances I can only speculate upon. I could hardly stand to set foot inside that place and lodged elsewhere when I could. Perhaps I shall now have peace.

How I yearn for the hills of Pennsylvania, D. P.! I have some years left here in Sitka and I would not think of shirking my duties. I will remain here and better what I can. But you may rest a.s.sured that I am headed straight to Greenville the moment my successor arrives. I cannot imagine I shall ever live elsewhere again. The things I have seen have made me appreciative of the comforts of home.

Your friend, James *

From: Olga Feodorovna, Novoarkhangelsk, Alaska.

To: Iryna Dvorkin, Saint Petersburg, Russia July 20, 1840 Dear Iryna, My most heartfelt apologies for the tardiness of this letter; surely, one who has been such a devoted lifelong friend and companion deserves greater consideration than this. But such is the degree of my distress that it has taken me over two months to become sufficiently accustomed to living in this wretched place that I might take pen in hand and produce anything more sensible than the ravings of a madwoman!

This is not to say, mind you, that there is anything of consequence to relate. Even a simple pleasantry such as a discussion of the weather is precluded by the simple fact that, much of the time, there is none. And on those occasions when we are blessed with weather, the skies rage so as to exceed the reach of the Russian language to describe them. As for life on Baranof Island, it is simply a mockery of aristocratic life as you and I had known it. Baranof Castle is drafty and dreary, and it is only with the utmost charity that one might call it a "castle" at all; are not castles built of stout stones rather than stacks of logs? And Novoarkhangelsk is no proper town but a seamy den of hunters and trappers; and where we are not surrounded by the ocean, we are fenced in by savages.

Despite this, Uncle Adolf insists that his appointment as Governor of Russian Alaska is a reward rather than a punishment! Though, of course, he is Finnish by birth and so, is easier acclimated to such an inhospitable locale.

Now, Iryna, stop your scoffing! You know I love Uncle Adolf with all my heart and shall ever be grateful to him for taking me in. I have only the most sincere best wishes for him, which is why I would have him finish his tenure as Governor as quickly as possible so he might move on to greater things and that we might return home and leave Alaska behind forever!

I miss you greatly, dear Iryna, and will endeavor to write you regularly.

Your friend, Olga *

From: Olga Feodorovna, Novoarkhangelsk, Alaska To: Iryna Dvorkin, Saint Petersburg, Russia May 11, 1843 Dear Iryna, It is nearly three years into my Alaskan exile, and three years you have had to tolerate my monthly letters in which I relate my misery and little else. I had intended that this letter mark the end of my correspondence with you, to be resumed only upon the occurrence of some event momentous enough to justify its chronicling. I wanted to spare you the endless cycles of antic.i.p.ation and disappointment that my missives must surely produce. But no sooner had I made this resolution, when something happened that saw me racing to my desk and fumbling madly for ink and paper.

You see, I have met a man, Iryna!

Oh, I have met many men, as you well know. Uncle Adolf, the dear, as though sensing my discontent, has a.s.sumed the role of father as best he can, doting on me and being a lovable nuisance; in doing so, he has realized that I am of marriageable age and has taken upon himself the burden of alleviating my spinsterhood. The arrival in Novoarkhangelsk of even the lowliest of n.o.blemen is grounds for an elaborate ball, that I may be presented to my latest suitor. All are horrid boors, of course, as you might expect in this dirty corner of the Empire.

But this month, a ship graces our port, the grandest naval vessel I have ever seen. Baranof Island is simply riddled with sailors; to be besieged by so many vulgar gazes is enough to put one off ever leaving the castle. With one exception, none of them has the slightest conception of how to act in the presence of a lady.

But, Iryna, what an exception! He is a lieutenant, and his name is 'Pavel'.

How can I describe him to you? In truth, I cannot. Though he is handsome, his qualities extend much further, into the deepest reaches of his soul. How long it has been since I met a man who could converse at all wittily? And yet, when Pavel and I talk, hours go by in the s.p.a.ce of a minute. We walk together every night along the bank of a little river that flows nearby.

In your wisdom, Iryna, you are now wondering how Uncle Adolf can possibly approve of such an arrangement and you have guessed the answer: He does not know. Except for Pavel and me, only old Yevgenia, my maid, is privy to our a.s.signations. She is my confidant and willing accomplice, and finds great sport in plotting a new escape each night; now you are my confidant, too! It goes without saying that you must tell no one of this. A lady's reputation is her most fragile possession.

Perhaps, next month, I shall have even more news for you!

Love, Olga *

From: Olga Feodorovna, Novoarkhangelsk, Alaska To: Iryna Dvorkin, Saint Petersburg, Russia June 22, 1843 Dear Iryna, Discovery!

I admit I was careless. I wished Pavel to have a favour, to remember me during the times we could not be together, and so, I presented him with one of my ribbons: blue, of course. You remember how Uncle Adolf was always having new clothes made for me, and always the same colour. He said it went well with my black hair, which he claimed looked blue in strong light, and he called me his "blue lady". Here, in Novoarkhangelsk, he has maintained this harmless eccentricity. So, my closets are seas of blue.

Pavel wore my ribbon at his wrist but underneath his sleeve. One day, Uncle Adolf was down in the town and chanced to pa.s.s him in the street. The ribbon had slipped, unnoticed, below the cuff of Pavel's shirt and Uncle's eye was naturally drawn to it. He recognized it and confronted Pavel, demanding an explanation.

Pavel responded admirably. Although he feared for my honour, he refused to speak falsely before a Governor of the Empire, much less before the father of the girl he hoped to marry. He confessed everything and professed his love for me.

Uncle will have none of it, of course. He refuses to allow me to marry a "common sailor". This from the Governor of Alaska! As though sailing the seas for the glory of Emperor Nicholas is any less n.o.ble than sitting hunched over a ledger tabulating otter pelt yields!

Pavel has Uncle's grudging respect; I have his boundless love. I can only hope that, together, these a.s.sets might be enough to change his mind.

Pray for me, Iryna!

Sadly yours, Olga *

From: Olga Feodorovna, Novoarkhangelsk, Alaska To: Iryna Dvorkin, Saint Petersburg, Russia July 8, 1843 Dear Iryna, Uncle Adolf has dispatched Pavel's ship on an extended voyage. He will be gone a year or longer.

Uncle wishes to arrange my marriage to a wealthy friend of his, Vladimir t.i.tov.

I have given my a.s.sent. What else can I do? Uncle Adolf wants what is best for me. I could never bring myself to show ingrat.i.tude.

We are to be married next spring. Perhaps you can arrange to come. I feel I may need you.

Love, Olga *

From: Olga Feodorovna, Novoarkhangelsk, Alaska To: Iryna Dvorkin, Saint Petersburg, Russia August 17, 1843 Dear Iryna, I have much to tell you and I hope you will read to the end of this letter before dismissing me. You may find it unbelievable, but I am a desperate lady and I have discovered that there are few lengths to which I would not go to escape my situation.