Isabella Connor | from:English

The Castle in the Woods

Nature is a haunted house — but Art — is a house that tries to be haunted.

-Letter excerpt, Emily Dickinson, 1876.

 

Chilled Autumn air settled over me, the dryness of it tickling my lungs. I walked down the dirt path, overtaken by tree roots and layered with crisp, fallen foliage. I kept my head down and shoulders hunched for most of the walk, searching for the leaves that would make the most satisfying crunch when I stepped on them. When I removed my hands from my coat pockets the harshness of the air prickled my fingers.

I finally brought my head up and evened out my posture. The cemetery gate was slightly askew, silently enticing me to enter. The people buried here didn’t have many visitors anymore, the most recent year on any gravestone was 1850. Nature had reclaimed the forlorn cemetery as her own—some headstones had toppled over, and most had become overgrown and faded. On one evening visit with my sister Louise, we saw forget-me-nots placed over one of the graves. I searched for clues of their origin, but the inscription on the headstone did nothing but further my curiosity. Like most, it was almost completely deteriorated, only visible to those who looked.

Abigail.

1780 – 1813. AGED 33.

No last name. Nothing about her family, the life she lived, or who she was. Years have passed since I saw the forget-me-nots on Abigail’s grave, and I still wonder if or when the flowers will appear again.

I walked about the cemetery, collecting the brightest botanicals I could find. I recalled their scientific names from a grade school expedition: acer rubrum, monarda didyma, lobelia cardinalis. I used a long piece of switchgrass to tie my makeshift bouquet together, and held it up to the sun, admiring how the crimson edges burned in the light—before placing it over Abigail’s grave. Autumn whipped up another bluster of brisk air, and I turned and exited the cemetery as the wind echoed at my back.

On my way home, I was joined by Prince, the shaggy black Maine Coon that occasionally accompanied me on my walks. His coat was dusty. Leaves clung to his belly, and tufts of fur stuck out from under his ears, but he walked with regality. And why should he not? It was his kingdom, and I was merely an inhabitant.

“Hello, your highness. How are you today?” I asked him, with the air of respect one of royal lineage deserved. I often kept treats in my coat pocket as tribute to his rule.

Prince stopped walking, looked up at me, slowly blinked, then continued on. It was his usual response, but it still warmed my heart each time he did it.

When I got home, Louise was sitting in her usual spot by the window. Her shoulders were slouched forward and she held her volume of Edgar Allan Poe short stories too close to her face.

“Why don’t you wear your glasses?” I asked as I kicked my shoes under the bench.

“Hey Beatrice, how’s the dead lady?” Louise said without looking up.

“She misses you.”

Louise looked up and rolled her eyes. “You’re so weird,” she said, her voice cracking slightly as she tried to hold back a laugh.

“Why don’t you come with me anymore?”

Louise dog-eared the page she was on, and tossed her book onto the cushion next to her, “It’s probably haunted.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, “but don’t you like haunted places?”

“I don’t like cemeteries.”

“Guess what?” I said, changing the subject. “The historical society finally approved my research request. I got the key.”

“Can I come?” Louise asked, almost jolting off the couch.

“Nope, just me.”

Louise scrunched up her face, annoyed.

“I’m kidding, of course you can come,” I said.

When Louise and I were young we would always stop to peek in the windows of what we called “the castle in the woods” on our way home from school. It was never really a castle, and we knew it, but there was something exciting about imagining that it was. I used to lift her up so she could see the antique furniture covered in white sheets like eerie specters.

Those are ghosts,” I’d tell her. “They stay still like that when we look in the windows because they’re shy.”

“Stop it, I’m not stupid,” she’d say, wiggling until I put her down.

When the most recent owners died, almost a century ago, the house was left to the town, who let it fall into disrepair. For a while, it was considered a dilapidated eyesore by many, and at one point, we were afraid it would be demolished—I was relieved when the town

historical society finally started paying attention. A researcher was hired and there was talk about converting it into a museum, but progress had halted in recent years.

The afternoon of our visit to the house was foggy and wet. The air clung to my skin and the leaves that had been crisp and dry the day before stuck to the pavement in clumps. Louise and I walked in silence together, watching the birds patter on the sidewalk as they searched for stranded worms. About halfway through our walk, we were joined by Prince, who greeted us by nuzzling his head against our legs.

We turned the street corner and the house came into view. It looked less like a castle than

I remembered, but seeing it again gave me chills. The chipping paint I remembered was stripped away, the result of recent preservation work. The windows, however, were the same— they still evoked the intrigue I had felt since childhood.

Louise gently tugged my arm. “This is it,” she said, and I sensed a hint of wonder in her

eyes.

The key I was given opened a side door of the house. I felt a nervous pang in my heart as I realized a dream from my adolescence was about to become a reality. I hoped the house wouldn’t disappoint that inner part of me.

“Sorry, my friend, you have to wait outside,” I said to Prince, whose eyes revealed that he

was planning to follow us.

Prince cocked his head to the side, and I took a treat out of my pocket to give to him. Louise and I went inside, leaving poor Prince on the steps, crunching on his snack.

We entered into a narrow hallway. The walls were plastered with mustard wallpaper, and every few inches, there was a mounted electric candle. We were only steps down the hallway when Louise released a horse-like exhale as if she had gotten something in her mouth. When I turned towards her, she was swatting around her face with her hands.

“You okay?” I said.

“I think I just walked through a spiderweb,” she said.

“But I’m in front of you and I didn’t walk through anything.”

“Beatrice, that’s just what it felt like, I don’t know.”

I kept walking, and for a brief moment, I thought I felt Louise standing close behind me. I took a small step forward and a glint of gold in the design of the yellow wallpaper caught my eye. Gilded flowers merged together into halos, encasing miniature scenes portraying the Roman myth of Diana. One hand rested on her quiver, the other shielded a young fawn—her crescent moon diadem illuminated in the incandescent candlelight. My attention was drawn away from the wallpaper when I felt a distinct tap on my shoulder. I turned around, but Louise wasn’t there.

“Louise?” I called out.

“I found something,” Louise answered from another room.

“Where are you?”

“In the basement.”

“The basement?” I asked, Why?”

“I was curious. Come on.”

I thought I followed Louise’s voice, but found myself in what must have been the parlor, face to face with a portrait of a young woman hanging above the fireplace mantle. Her features

were soft, she was beautiful, yet something about her was drenched in sadness. The subject

simultaneously looked dead and alive. Her skin had a pink tinge, and her hair framed her face

with ease— her eyes, her eyes were flat, with no glimmer of life in them. A panging misery

hung over me and made its way to the pit of my stomach as I peered into the portrait’s eyes. The bottom of the frame read “Mrs. Elijah Scott.”

“Beatrice?” I heard Louise say.

“I’ll be there in a second,” I called back, prying my eyes away from the painting. I

hesitated before turning away.

I walked down the hallway until I came across the open basement door. The basement was well lit with a harsh LED glow, and there were a few worn chairs arranged around an obtrusive metal desk. On the desk was a haphazard pile of papers, files, and manilla envelopes.

“There’s a bunch of information about the house in here,” Louise said while squinting at

the binder.

We skimmed through the weighty binder, flipping through pictures and descriptions of the house’s collections: dining room chairs, the grandfather clock in the parlor, a taxidermied owl—a black and white photograph caught my attention.

“Beatrice?”

I flipped back to the page. It was the painting I saw upstairs. Underneath, a small

description read:

“Abigail Scott was chronically ill for a majority of her life, and spent most of her time confined to her room. She married the inheritor of the house, Elijah Scott, and died in 1813 at the age of thirty-three.”

I was stunned. This was where she lived. This was her home. “I saw her upstairs,” I said,

still staring down at the page.

I felt a light tap on my shoulder along with a cold brush of air, followed by a faint voice—a gentle whisper.

“Beatrice.”

When I turned around, Louise was standing behind me. Her face looked drained and

pale.

“I feel nauseous,” she said.

I put the binder in my tote bag, and we went outside. I would return it before we left, but for now, there was more I wanted to know. We sat on the front steps and the color returned to

Louise’s face after a few moments.

“You probably just needed to sit down. It was stuffy in there,” I said.

Louise and I ate some homemade ginger crinkle cookies I had packed in my bag. For a while we were comfortable outside, and I imagined what it was like in Abigail’s time. Prince sauntered over to us and purred while we ate. We took in the scents of the ginger, cinnamon, and nutmeg mixed with the damp fall atmosphere. Before we knew it, the sun had gone down and the temperature dropped so quickly we shivered. I took another nibble of my cookie and felt a cool droplet of rain hit my hand, signaling us to head back inside.

When I opened the door, Prince dashed in front of me, running into the house. Louise and I called out to him, but he was nowhere to be seen. All the lights inside were off except the electric candles on the walls. They cast a still, artificial glow down the hallway that somehow froze the past and the now in conjunction. There were no ever changing flickers of light and shadow, only stillness until a figure passed by, splashing a glint of life across the walls like a projected memory.

As we walked around the house in search of Prince, everything seemed odd—like walking through a dream. We found him in a small room furnished only by a sewing table.

“Silly kitty,” Louise said.

I walked over and patted Prince on the head.

“Can I see that binder?” Louise asked.

I took it out of my bag and handed it to her before scooping Prince up into my arms. We walked over to the window at the end of the room, and looked out. During daylight hours, I could imagine the perfect view of technicolor autumn tree leaves, but after sundown, all I could see was darkness seeping in from outside. It was cold, and I held Prince close to me, his long fur tickling my neck.

“It’s gotten dark, your highness,” I said, stepping closer to the window. “I think it’s time to go home.”

“This was Abigail’s room,” I heard Louise say.

As Louise spoke, I noticed something peculiar. The glass panes had words etched into them. I could feel my heart beating in my throat.

“Look at this,” I said, running a finger lightly across the glass and turning towards her.

Louise squinted, dug through her tote bag, and took out her glasses.

In the dim light, it was difficult to make out what the inscriptions said. The words were coarse, the handwriting scratchy and scrawled, done hurriedly, but with care. The clouds shifted in the sky and the moon briefly let in a flood of milky iridescence, teasing me as I attempted to make out the words to no avail. I imagined Abigail confined to her room, carving into the glass, perhaps with her diamond wedding ring, covering her work with the curtains when her husband came in—defiant, yet careful not to be caught. I could almost feel her presence as I stood where she would have. I crossed my heart and wished to set her free.

After we returned the binder to the basement, Louise walked in front of me as we went to

leave, cradling Prince in her arms. Abigail’s illusory presence followed us as we made our way

down the hall, and I made sure to walk by her portrait before we locked the house back up.

Abigail’s figure hung in the forlorn parlor, hovering above the emberless fireplace. I clicked off

the candles.

The next day, Louise and I walked along the familiar path overtaken with roots and leaves. Prince greeted us at the cemetery gate, stretching out his front paws towards us, as though bowing. I placed the forget-me-nots over Abigail’s grave and rested my hand lightly over the

top, closing my eyes and breathing in the freedom of the forest. We sat in the grass, wanting to

be with her, with Abigail. The wind picked up, cold air rushing past us, and we walked home.

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Liked the story? Comment below.

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Michele M.
Michele M.

Beautiful. I am walking alongside Beatrice and Louise, experiencing every moment….. waiting for more from this talented writer.

Ginette Lemire
Ginette Lemire

Loved it! I was there with you, very well written, liked all the descriptions. I wish there was more, maybe the girls could go back and discover something else about Abigail’s life. Just a thought, I know it’s a short story! Well done!

Mona Elrifai

so long

Edwin Maldonado

yall ever had mac in cheese

Edna Mae Rose Barlow (Melnick)

A very good mystery story about ghosts and the graveyard I real y like paranormal type stories, I think it was well put together and interesting you should write a part two to the story. I am putting your story on my Facebook Good Vibes By Cosmic Queen.

Lisa Sweeney
Lisa Sweeney

The author left me wanting to read further! The descriptive writing put me in the setting feeling the leaves crunch beneath my feet and smelling the autumn air.