Abigail Sheaffer

The Mistress of Ravenswood Manor

 

 

 

The manor sprawls over a rather large estate at the edge of an evergreen forest. Through the tops of the balsam fir trees, one can just barely make out the dual spires of the towers. A wraith always seems to hover about the land, and the emerald stained glass windows flicker like eyes. Two solemn oak doors mark the entrance of the manor, with brass lion knockers corroded by the passing of time. The foyer is vast, and a crystal chandelier hangs reproachfully from a ceiling that is unnervingly high. The corridors, however, are narrow and marked with polished oak end tables that seem to laugh as you walk past. Portraits hang from the brocade crimson walls, lit from below with tinny gaslights that flicker unsteadily. The end of the corridor stops, suddenly, and is engulfed in a strange darkness.

 

She stands at the end of the corridor, her raven hair marked by a shock of white. She greets you with a heavy brass candelabra and a knowing smile. An ivory cameo clings to her neck upon a collar of burgundy organza and lace. Pursing her lips, she leads you back from whence you came, back to the foyer, which now gleams an odd shade of green.

 

“Snow,” she says. Her voice is silken and rich, like laudanum. “Let me show you to your quarters,” and she deftly grabs the skirt of her gown, the hem seething against the hardwood floors. A winding staircase reveals itself under the dreadful chandelier’s glow; she seems to float as she ascends the steps. Still more portraits seem to flicker and pass, but the staircase seems to detach from the foyer, sickness takes you when you can’t make out the landing. Her keys jingle at her side, merrily.

 

Dread passes as she steps off the winding staircase (like a serpent’s tail), and onto a dark oriental rug that sprawls languidly across the upper wing. Still more portraits lit under by a steady, tinny glow, flicker and pass, flicker and pass. Time, which seemed so slow on the stairs, quickens. The faces on the walls seem to mock and sneer as you pass, the dead eyes make you feel strange and dizzy. Then, time regains its syrupy viscosity, slowing to a stop; she opens the heavy oak door to your quarters.

 

Stark blackness greets you; shadows seem to ripple with laughter. She turns on the gaslights, and a warm, ochre glow resonates through out the room. You laugh to yourself, and now that your heart has stopped pounding, you find you’re quite in the mood for a brandy. With some grief, you feel guilty watching your hostess turn on the fireplace, and assist her by the mantle. She turns, smiling at you, and again grief strikes you; there’s no malice in her heart!

 

Wiping her hands off duty, she takes the candelabra off the oak mantle and back into her hands. Now that the hearth roars, she asks if you’d like a nightcap, and heartily you agree. The oak door closes with a thud as you rest heavily into a mahogany leather armchair before the fire.

 

In a few moments, she returns with a silver platter with a snifter of brandy and a cigar. With some ceremony, she warms the amber liquor, and—sniffing it under pert little nose—makes sure it is rife for consumption. Smiling, she hands it to you. You note her hands are frigid, and her smile drops. Still bearing a subtle grimace, she clips your cigar, you watch as the capped end unfurls and the pungent smell of tobacco overwhelms the room. She takes the platter and quits the room. A faucet drips water somewhere.

 

*

 

Bleak darkness. Outside your window you hear scratches, clawing. A horned owl coos and stops, coos and stops. You turn over on your pillow. Footfalls thud and rush outside your door. Children’s laughter, manic and high-pitched scrapes your ears. You sit up in your bed, stark white as a sheet. Perhaps the mistress has children. But blackness engulfs the window; it’s a moonless night. The clock on the mantle ticks like a pendulum. Narrow shadows wrap themselves around the room, tightening it. Then, as quickly as they threaten you, they recede. Soothing silence floods everything. You fall into a fitful sleep.

 

*

 

Morning. The corridor stretches on; the long vines of the Oriental rug seem to crawl up to greet your ankles. You shake your head, adjust your eyes; a mirage! A Fata Morgana! Feeling hungry and confused, you find the serpentine staircase and descend to the still and empty foyer. Outside, snow beats against the emerald windowpanes. As you reach the final step, she greets you. Her displaying her teeth in such a grin unnerves you, and she laughs—a rich, decadent laugh.

 

“Come,” she says, the room all too silent again, “I’ve made you breakfast.” Again, she lifts the heavy organza skirt, and the hem seethes across the hardwood floor. The dining room is expansive and beautiful, full of windows that—you suppose—were it not for the inclement weather, would show glorious sunlight and pastoral majesty. The vast oak dining table (filigreed with carvings of cherubs and berries) gleams as though just polished. Upon the table lay a spread of omelets, lox, crusty baguettes, sausages, and tarts so fresh it makes your stomach cry out. Maternally, she dishes you up your plate, and sets them down before you.

 

Greedily, you devour your feast. Satisfied with this, she pours you a cup of steaming hot coffee, and you sip it while licking the buttered crumbs of a cherry tart from your lips. Oddly, she eats nothing. Instead, from her seat to the left of you, she coldly sips her coffee.

 

“I heard children’s laughter last night,” you say suddenly.

 

“Oh?” she says, lifting a brow.

 

“Yes,” you say, “have you any children?”

 

“My dear Mr. Cygnet,” she whispers, “did you have a nightmare?”

 

You stare down at the polished wood, at the half-eaten tart. A great rumbling wind as snow beats against the windows. The world feels narrow.

 

“Perhaps,” you murmur. A cold fever braces you. Your stomach drops from your bowels.

 

In an instant, she stands over you.

 

“Your plate, sir,” she says, stiffly.

 

“Yes, yes of course,” and you hand it to her. Her frigid fingertips abhor you, for reasons unknown. As if knowing this, she presses her nail into your thumb. Somewhere, a log thuds down and sparks from the hearth. The gaslights flicker and darken.

 

She sneers at you, and you start—your heart slamming against the walls of your chest. The chandelier sways as the high ceiling thuds.

 

“Snow,” she murmurs, “just snow, Mr. Cygnet.”

 

*

 

That evening, following a dinner of pot roast and new potatoes, you suggest a game in the parlor. Her eyes flash with girlish beauty.

 

“Oh yes, that sounds quite fun!”

 

With the poking iron, you rumble about some birch logs that hiss and sparkle. She hands you a snifter of brandy, and from the pocket of her violet (burgundy?) gown, unveils a golden cigarette case. It is engraved with the initials you can’t quite make out. She places her cigarette through her holder and lights it. The air smells mossy.

 

“Would you like one?”

 

You accept her offer. The cigarette smells putrid and sweet. Ease sweeps over you as your pores soften and open. Such vast expanse fills your senses, but all at once it tightens, and the room once again feels narrow.

 

“Strange house,” you murmur.

 

She stands, regally by the mantle, the bustle and train of her gown seem to curl and wriggle, like a scorpion’s tail.

 

“How old is it?”

 

Her viridian eyes glimmer at you and she laughs.

 

“As old as the Towel-of-Babel… as old as time itself…”

 

“You’re mocking,” you say, “you believe me a fool!”

 

The old house creaks; the lack of windows in this wing frightens you, though you know not why.

She laughs, and exhales her cigarette.

 

“It was built by Count Edgar Ravenswood, in 1666. He hired over a thousand workers, never completing some wings of the house. Then, in 1795, my great grandfather inherited it, and with some renovations, completed his legacy. Still, my own father wasn’t satisfied, and added more wings, more wood, and rare marble. Come,” she says.

 

The familiar candelabra in her hand, she leads you to that narrow and darkened corridor, though certain things seem to have been switched around (memory is so faulty). Your heartbeat races as you pass through the darkness, now edged with a blue flame. Brisk air seizes you, and a hand seems to grab your waistcoat.

 

“Mr. Cygnet,” you hear he murmur, “please,” and following the tail—the train—of her dress, you pass through into the golden glow of a spacious library. A dark and winding catwalk rests heavily on the stratosphere. She flickers on the gaslight. Books surround you, beautiful spines embedded with gold font. You step onto the scarlet rug, and gaze longingly at a cabinet of rare books close to the lozenge shaped stained glass window. She calls you over, and with girlish glee opens a large anthology set on a maple wood podium.

 

“See,” she says, and shows you the architectural sketches of the house. The spires seem so real and sharp; you fear you could poke your finger. She traces her fingers over the miniature, across the doors, the corridors, what you suppose was her grandparents’ master suite.

 

You edge closer to her, smelling the rose oil on her neck. You bring your warm hand to her frigid one, and her fingertips accept you just for a moment.

 

“Count Edgar built this house for his wife. She died, tragically, she flung herself off the cliff that borders the estate following the death of their only child, Lavinia.” Her lips speak close to you, and your stubble bristles in your cheeks. Longing captivates you. “It’s said that Count Edgar descended into madness and became obsessed with Black Magick.”

 

She closes the anthology and places it back on the shelf. She takes out another, a flesh colored book, and opens it just so. The shell of a dead scorpion clings to the pages. Your lips curl in disgust.

 

“Not for the faint of heart,” she coos, and her cold hand seizes you once more. Longing turns to dread. Her viridian eyes crawl over you, sensing your pallor, she hisses, “perhaps you should retire to bed, Mr. Cygnet.”

 

*

 

You awake around midnight to clawing at your window. The fire in your hearth has consumed itself. You suppose it’s just the branches of a tree, scraping the windowpane. You hear a knock.

 

Slipping your feet into your slippers, you throw over your shoulders a black silk robe.

 

“Just a minute, ma’am, just a minute…” and turning on your gaslight, you open the door.

 

The dimly lit corridor greets you. You peer around both corners, but find nothing. Closing the door, you go back to your room, back to your bed.

 

Something shuffles beneath your bed. You ignore it.

 

The sheets are heavy and warm on this frigid night, and with some effort, you sleep.

 

Another knock.

 

You put on your slippers (which seemed to have moved) and go to the door.

 

Again, silence.

 

You turn off the gaslight.

 

That’s when the moaning begins. That’s when the bed skirt ripples. You feel something beneath the mattress, rippling and writhing, you jump off the bed, and a cold fever seizes you. A woman’s face seems to appear beneath the bed, sunken protruding eyes glower beneath a heavy forehead.

 

You gasp. A scorpion skitters across the rug, then another, then another. One crawls onto your wrist and bites you. You cry out in pain.

 

Something knocks at the door. You rush, turning on the gaslight, tripping over the rug, pain, anguish, and fear flood you. A cold hand rushes up as if to seize you. You lift yourself up, up off the floor, madly murmuring, muffling your cries.

 

You open the door just as the demon—and there on other side with placid viridian eyes, the mistress of the manor greets you under candlelight.

 

“Mr. Cygnet, are you quite well?” with cool malice she gazes upon your face. A scorpion crawls across her shoulder. You adjust your eyes, you turn to look behind you; the room is empty, lovely in its treachery.

 

“Have you seen a ghost, my dear Mr. Cygnet?”

 

*

 

Morning. The blizzard has all but past. You pack your suitcase with full intention to leave this miserable place. Descending the serpentine staircase, you see her, standing before the foyer door.

 

“My dear Mr. Cygnet, don’t you know?” She whispers and eyes the bruise on your wrist.

 

“Don’t I know what?” you say.

 

“The house has chosen you.”

 

Slowly, the walls close in on you.

 

 

 

Abigail Sheaffer is the founder and editor-in-chief of Chicago Literati, a nonprofit literary organization and magazine, and the editor-in-chief of The Vignette Review. Her fiction has been published in Bird’s Thumb, Bluestockings Magazine, Crab Fat Magazine, Danse Macabre, and Literary Orphans. For more information on Abigail, please visit: abigailsheaffer.com.