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She was in a room filled with doors, and yet she could not find her way out.
Ethel had watched as the sun melted away into a star-spangled night sky. The few lights that glimmered along the streets of Charlottetown gave way to a city of safe shadows and quiet manners. Few were out tonight, and so the crickets sang with intent to be heard, like a middle child given the floor.
Beulah was asleep when Ethel arrived. She had been napping upon the chaise in the porch and stirred only when Ethel had shaken her awake. Al was in the barns, unhitching the horses when the two women went inside, and Eden Hall was like a belly fit to consume them.
“Why are you sitting outside? You could catch a cold.”
Beulah coughed and wiped at the circles beneath her eyes. “I wanted to wait for you.”
You were afraid.
Ethel led the poor woman upstairs, squeezing her shoulders and lending support as they went up to Ethel’s bedroom. Beulah was afraid of ghosts, of the thing she had seen in the dark, and Ethel couldn’t blame her. It was a relief, of sorts, to know that someone like Beulah could believe in ghosts, and yet even so, Ethel shook her head. She needed some time to think. Despite the day she had, Ethel kissed Beulah’s brow and tucked her into bed, and then she closed the bed curtain in her room and wandered to her desk.
Suspects: Al Carlow, Dolly Arsenault, Beulah Murphy.
Ethel gazed at the paper on her desk, and the ink that was drying upon it. She scratched out Beulah’s name but then rewrote it again.
Motive? Possible affair.
Evidence.
She could hear Beulah snoring already and mumbling something in her sleep. Ethel crossed out her name.
Evidence? Gunshot wound. Bullet removed. Missing—Gun.
No forced entry. Killed on the second floor.
Why is the gun missing?
Ethel underlined the last sentence, and then did so again.
Why is the gun missing?
What had happened to the gun? The constable had said that the bullet retrieved from Ernest’s wound had matched a revolver that was missing from the cabinet.
But then why did a burglar not bring his own weapon?
It was true that Ernest had inherited a vast collection passed down from his father and great-grandfather, but as much as he was apt to polish and care for his guns, Ernest hardly ever had them loaded.
So why would someone have taken a gun on a whim, and why would it have been loaded?
Did Ernest hear a kerfuffle upstairs and take the gun? If so... where did it go?
Ethel sat up and walked to her bedroom door. Already asleep and snoring, Ethel spared a glance at Beulah before she left the room and vowed to be back post haste.
The house lights were still aglow, though they were only lit in the main chambers and on the stairs. Ernest’s study was dark, as it had remained so for days, though the light from the foyer cast its sunny veil to shimmer upon the outline of the room’s contents.
If the culprit was Dolly, then why? For money? Ernest wasn’t frugal with her, and their marital chambers proves that. Now, as it was, if Dolly was never set free, Ethel would inherit his estate, and the thought of that made her shiver.
What would I even do?
She went to the cabinet and paused. Who would I have to ask?
The guns were lined in rows behind a shining panel of glass. At the foot, there was another display box that had been built onto the structure’s main frame. Inside, laying upon a carpet of forest green, were several small pistols, displayed to show the barrel of the gun, and its handle.
Ethel recalled the delicate details and polish of the silver-clad revolvers, the satin glow of the red brass flintlocks and steel pistols. They had been a source of pride for her father, whose family tree was rooted in a history of weapon and arms dealing. They would have meant nothing to her if not for the memories of her father. But even so, glancing up towards the rifles that stood like soldiers behind a slab of glass, Ethel noticed a handgun missing. It had been the Colt Cowboy Gun, as Ernie had dubbed it. Ivory handle, dark, polished steel with roses running down the barrel. It was a gun a cowboy’d use, young Ernie had said. To keep the bad guys in line!
It was flashy, and modern—
And missing.
Ethel sighed. A ghost wouldn’t need a gun, she thought.
It sent a shiver down her spine and caused her skin to prickle. Though the lights were still on in the main foyer, there was a flicker behind her, and she turned, fear spreading panic to her limbs until she backed away towards the cabinet and called out.
“H-hello?” Her voice was soft and meek, and sabotaged an unequivocal reply. Perhaps it was Beulah, or Al? Or Adella? Ethel hadn’t seen the girl for days...
There was no reply. Silence filled the space around her like a glaze of hot pitch. Her heartbeat rang in her ears and was the only sound she heard until something thudded away.
THUMP! THUMp! THUmp!THump!Thump!thum-thum-thum-thum-p!
Ethel sprang around, catching at the latch of the gun cabinet before throwing open the doors. The glass rattled in the wooden frame, but as she pulled a rifle free and aimed it at the foyer, the silence had returned.
Ethel trembled, finding little solace in staring down the length of the firearm. She had cocked the gun to chamber a bullet, hoping that if someone were out there, they would heed and beware. Her father had never abided a loaded gun—not outside of wartime. Ernie followed suit, if only out of respect, but the sound was threatening enough, and surely, whoever was there, didn’t know that the gun was empty.
She left the den, the butt of the rifle held up snug against her shoulder. The end of the barrel shook, but as Ethel’s eyes scanned the foyer, she saw nothing but the large front door, the dining room across the hall, and the steps towards the upper landing.
I have to turn off the gas, but... Had it been her imagination? Without the light to push it back, would the darkness attack her? She could call for help, for Beulah, but the poor woman was scared enough of phantoms.
Ethel lowered the gun but kept it at her side as she wandered over to twist the valve. She took in a breath and held it, refusing to baulk at the stygian tide that overcame her vision. She wanted to sprint up the stairs, or better yet, wake up to her room and to Beulah snoring away beside her. Instead, she faced the dark, and like the sea, it was suffocating.
Roland, please, if you’re there, guide me.
What if he’s there but he’s angry, Ethel?
She held the railing and her skirts with the gun beneath her arm.
Who killed Ernest Arsenault? Was it Al? Beulah? Dolly?
The stairs creaked and groaned. On the second floor, the grandfather clock began to chime. Ethel paused and looked downstairs like a drowning woman measuring her depth and time. She saw shadows in the dark, winding along the floor in lithe circles like a kraken’s limbs. The moon shone down through the windows, blinking from behind a veil clustered with clouds and whispering trees.
The clock struck again... and again and again, and yet she continued in sync of its harmonious chime as it roared hollow throughout Eden Hall.
Who killed Ernie, Etty? Was it Al? Was it Beulah, or Dolly?
I’ve heard the noise within the walls...
What if the Devil killed Ernie?
She gained the second floor, her chest heaving not from the climb but by the thoughts that were clamouring in her mind. The gun was heavy and weighed down her steps. She wanted to be in her room. Safe. But was it safe? If not for Beulah, Ethel wouldn’t have thought so.
The sole lantern that was lit upstairs, glimmered like a light in a marble. The green wallpaper, only just lit by the infant flame, was illuminated at its core, and lit up like a lime. It was situated halfway down the hall, between her room and Beulah’s vacant quarters. The brass knob that controlled the flow of gas was polished like a new coin, and as Ethel slipped along the floor in her stocking feet, she gasped when the light went out.
She had been staring right at it, and it was like a scar across her vision. Ethel stopped and held up the gun, turning to watch the stairs as she held her breath. The walls were nothing but tar, the portraits and mirrors voids of black water. But in the murk and mire of the second floor, Ethel saw a body in the darkness.
“Don’t move!”
It stepped out from the door to the upper landing, its form nothing but a pitched-soaked blur that slipped along the floor like a ribbon of grease. Ethel backed away, poised on the balls of her feet like a hare who would outrun the wolf. Her teeth were chattering, and her eyes watered as it continued to move like a serpent upon the water.
Was this the thing that killed Ernie? Was this the—
She saw Roland in the darkness. His square chin, beard, and moustache. He was wearing a long coat, with his collar undone, but his hair was longer and unkempt.
It was Roland!
Roland...
Roland had come through the door!
Ethel wept, the weight of the gun becoming too much as she stared at the man in front of her.
“Roland... is it you? Have you come?”
He stopped, and the dark began to shift as his features emerged in gradient ebony. “I didn’t mean to do it, Ethel. I didn’t...”
She refused to blink for fear of him vanishing, but as her eyes watered and his form became blurry, a fierce despair poured out from her mouth. “Roland... What did you do?”
You boarded the boat. You died at sea. You left me alone without even a last name to remember you.
You came back...
...and murdered my brother.
He was a sable vacuum, and though his face and form were outlined in a line of white, as he drew forward, Ethel held up the unloaded gun.
“Ethel, I’m coming to you.”
Her muscles spasmed as her finger hovered over the trigger. Though the gun was empty, she was unable to touch it. Never point a gun at someone unless you mean to shoot them.
Her father’s words. They ran circuits in her head. The implication of raising a gun meant she may be tested to use it, and she was. His movements were measured, but he drew forward like a lion stalking its prey. Ethel winced, her heart breaking in two. “Don’t come any closer!” she hollered. “Why did you kill him? What had Ernest ever done to earn your wrath?”
He didn’t answer but, with a jolt, sprang forward like a bolt of lightning. The darkness that was his form yawned as he neared, and the rifle was like a spear he was trying to avoid. He darted left to break her aim, but Ethel’s finger pulled the trigger as he tried to get within reach.
The gun roared thunder. The light from the blast illuminated the room for the single second it took to see the blood fly through the air. A guttural thud from the man falling shook the portraits on the wall and shattered the glass of the grandfather clock as he fell against it.
Ethel lurched back against Beulah’s bedroom door. The force of the gun blast was like a push from a strapping young man, and she grasped her shoulder where the buttstock had sat.
Her vision was gone, the faint lines obliterated by the sudden spark of light. Ethel fumbled in the dark, hearing the rapid breaths of a foe fallen. “Oh God,” she gasped, dropping the gun as its weight became an anchor.
What have I done?
“Are y-you.... all right?”
There were coughs and sputtering, clinks of glass, but as she tried to focus her eyes, Ethel reeled back. A hand in her hair shoved her sideways, and as she fell into the wall, ornaments crashed and broke on the floor.
“Where’s the gun?” he blurted with his breath hot on her face. He smelled of gin and limes.
Ethel squirmed, her heart a mad badger in her chest. He was larger than her but slumped and relied on the wall for balance. As the warmth of blood splattered on her cheek, Ethel moved, running towards the stairs as he fell, and his body made a slapping sound against the carpet.
The hall was a blur, and as if she were in the belly of a giant at the bottom of the sea, the darkness disoriented her. Glass shards stuck in her feet, but as Ethel sprinted to the stairs, hobbling on bloody stockings, something grabbed at her skirts. She lurched, her eyes wide as white medallions, and her heartbeat pounded against her heaving chest. Though the grip was weak, the weight of the man threw her off balance, and stumbling to right herself, Ethel screamed as her legs tangled in her dress and sent her over the bannister of the upper floor landing.
There was the sound of somebody calling her name, and the screams that poured from her own mouth. Both were dwarfed by the words that bore welts on her brain.
Why are you killing us, Roland?
Why did you kill my brother? Why did you shoot him!
The pain of the unforgiving floor devoured her.
In the distance, she heard a voice. “You shot him, Ethel. You.”
I... killed...
Me?
