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“What the fucking fuck?”
“Sonya’s sleepwalking or whatever the hell it is. Cleo’s behind her. I’m going.”
“Getting my damn pants on.”
They were out of the house along with the dogs inside two minutes.
At the manor, Sonya approached the staircase. And stood as if undecided, swaying a little, while the piano music stilled, and the house ticked and settled.
Then she turned and walked past the library, continued on toward the stairs to the third floor.
“I’m with you,” Cleo murmured. “I’m right here.”
She heard the weeping woman now, and stopped as Sonya did outside the door to what had once been the nursery.
When Sonya opened the door, the weeping became more distinct, and tears gathered in her eyes.
What do you see that I don’t? Cleo wondered. What do you see in the dark?
She held her phone up to use some light, saw the shadows of the antique crib, the cradle, the dresser, the rocker she remembered.
Then she heard it, under the grief of weeping. The rhythmic creak of a rocking chair. And as she watched, she saw it move, slowly, back and forth, back and forth.
“Night after night,” Sonya murmured, “year after year, Carlottagrieves for the son, so small, who came into the world too soon, and left it only hours later.”
Quietly, Sonya closed the door and moved on.
As they approached the stairs, Cleo sent another text.
Going to the third floor.
The return text came fast, and brief.
5 mins.
“That’s fast, all right. Trey’s coming, Sonya, and I’m right here.”
Cleo braced herself as the walls shook, the floor trembled. On the third-floor landing, Sonya again paused. Down the hall to the right, the outline of the door of the Gold Room glowed red. To Cleo’s eyes it seemed to pulse like a heart. Tendrils of smoke curled out from under the door to crawl along the hall.
The scent of it, fetid, carried and soiled the air.
“Don’t go that way, Son. We’re not ready to go that way.”
The pulsing took on sound, the drum, drum, drum of a heartbeat.
“She exists to feed,” Sonya said, “and her feed is fear and grief. Night after night, year after year, she gobbles the weeping, she drinks the tears. She feasts on every shiver and shudder of the living for the dead.”
“Are you awake?” As Cleo started to reach out, Sonya turned left toward the servants’ quarters.
Now she heard that cry of pain again, and the moans and sobs that followed. Dark closed tight here, and though Sonya walked on, Cleo switched on her phone flashlight to help her see.
They went up the short flight and through the door that kept this wing separate. Cleo’s skin prickled from the colder air, but Sonya seemed unaffected as she walked, barefoot, toward another door.
When she opened it, Cleo caught the smell of sickness, of fever and sweat and vomit. She heard the creak of a bed as if someone in it tossed restlessly.
“Can’t help.” Sonya sighed it. “What was and is. Can’t help poor Molly O’Brian. She traveled from Cobh, away from family and home, but found one here. She took pride in polishing the wood and the glass. Help came too late to save her.”
A tear slid down Sonya’s cheek as she closed the door.
