CHAPTER ONE
June 1841
Wolffe Hall, Yorkshire, England
Wednesday, nearly midnight
She jerked up in bed, wide awake, breathing hard and fast. The dream—this was the second time she’d had the identical dream. She was herself in the dream, and she was surrounded by a hazy sort of pale light that kept her from seeing anything clearly. It was as if she were in the middle of a long, foggy tunnel with a low humming all around her that slowly changed to a low voice that spoke quietly at first, all around her, then the voice became gradually harsher and louder, yelling at her. Then she came awake, sweating, terrified, and still not understanding what it was all about. The same sounds were in both dreams, and she realized this time the sounds were words, only they were garbled and distorted as if coming from a long way away, and she couldn’t make them out.
She pinched her arm—yes, she was awake. She was still breathing hard, her heart pounding. Had P.C. had the same dream again? She had to go to her, but suddenly, she was so afraid she couldn’t get spit in her mouth because the once-warm scented air was turning icy cold. She would swear she could see the air shimmering in the dim light cast by the half-moon from her window. What was going on?
She felt the first tremor, only a slight shuddering, and she saw her small writing desk slide across the floor.
What was going on here? She had to get to her daughter.
Miranda lit a candle, threw on her bed-robe and her slippers, and ran into the wide corridor, yelling her daughter’s name. She threw open P.C.’s door, but P.C. wasn’t in her bedchamber. Miranda ran back into the corridor and skidded to a stop when, suddenly, her candle went out, as if an invisible hand had pinched the wick, throwing the hallway into impenetrable darkness.
“P.C.!”
No answer. There didn’t seem to be another living person in Wolffe Hall, as if she were completely alone, but how could that be? It made no sense. She called out for the Great, her mama-in-law, the servants. No answer. And always as she made her way in the dark, feeling along the wall, she called out as she went, “P.C.!”
“Mama! I’m here. Where are you?”
Miranda got herself together. “I’m here, love, walking toward the top of the stairs. I yelled your name—where were you?”
“I was trying to find you. Then I heard you shouting my name. Didn’t you hear me?”
She shook her head. She hadn’t heard a thing. Her daughter ran into her, and she hugged her against her side. “The dream came again, but now it’s more.”
P.C. had her arms tight around her mother’s waist. “It’s scary, Mama, really scary. Did your candle go out too?”
“Yes. I couldn’t find you, and it simply went out.”
“Mama, it’s coming. Listen.”
Miranda felt something in the air itself, something black and cold, and it was building and building. She and P.C. heard a low growl of the voice, that same voice, so far away, but screaming the same words over and over.
“Mama, can you understand the words?”
Miranda got herself together. “No, I can’t, but it will be all right, P.C., because we’re going to leave. We’ll be able to see the moon through the downstairs front windows. Be careful. Come slowly, all right?”
“It’s like we’re the only ones in the house, but you know we aren’t.” P.C. panted out the words, pressing closer to her mother. “Mama, what about the Great and Grandmama?”
Miranda looked back up the stairs. With no light, the stairs quickly disappeared into inky blackness. “We
have to try another candle.” Miranda ran into the library and fetched one of the Great’s candles. The flame flickered, but held. The air was so cold both of them were shivering violently as they walked back up the stairs, Miranda cupping the candle.
When they reached her mother-in-law’s bedchamber, Miranda turned the doorknob, but nothing happened. She twisted, but still, nothing. She pounded on the door, but there was no answer.
P.C. whispered, “Mama, where is she? Why is the door locked?”
Miranda pounded on the door again, threw back her head, and yelled, “Mama-in-law! Where are you?” And there it came, the voice from their dreams, not screaming, but low, a whispery faraway voice, muffled, as inside a tunnel, blurred, unintelligible. The same sounds over and over and it was coming from everywhere, closer and closer, like a circle drawing in tighter and tighter, swirling around them. It was becoming louder again, but they still couldn’t understand. Now the voice was shouting, but it was all confused, deep, guttural sounds.
Then silence, utter silence.
They ran to the Great’s door. It was locked too, but Miranda yelled, “Sir! Lord Great!”
But there was no answer.
Mother and daughter huddled in the dark hallway, wondering about the servants, when they felt a small tremor as if from an earthquake, something neither of them had ever experienced, but instinctively recognized. Then the house began to shudder and shake around them. “Mama, we’ve got to get out of the house, now.”
Miranda knew she was right, but what about the servants? She took P.C.’s hand, and they raced to the bottom of the third-floor stairs. Both of them shouted, “Suggs! Mrs. Crandle! Marigold!”
No answer.
Again, Miranda felt like they were alone. It was terrifying because it made no sense.
The air was colder now than it had been an instant before, and the slight tremors were coming more frequently. No hope for it. Miranda grabbed P.C.’s hand. “We’re getting out of this cursed house, away from that cursed voice.”
She clasped her daughter’s hand as they ran back down the hall to the main staircase. They paused, listened, but there was no sound of another person, nothing, only silence, dead silence, and the cold air and the growing tremors.
It felt like the hall would be ripped from the ground itself so violent was the shuddering. They had to get out, now. This was real, and it was terrifying.