Clara

34

Violet arched her back and her grip on my hand tightened. It looked as if she had had a seizure or been hit by a jolt of electricity. Something came tumbling out of her mouth—that dratted dirt again. I should have thought of that before we sat down in this pristine room. It stained Violet’s blue shirt on its way down to the white rug. The girl gasped, and then that uncanny thing happened, where it looked as if something was moving under her skin.

When she relaxed again, Violet had become someone else.

“Where am I?” The male voice sounded from Violet’s soft lips. Mrs. Arthur had frozen stiff beside me, and I had to squeeze her clammy hand a little to make the woman speak.

“I…It’s me, Daniel. You are home,” she said faintly.

“Lizzie?” the man uttered, utterly surprised. “Why are you dragging me back?” he chided. “I never asked for that.” Even if he sounded a little annoyed, I noticed with some envy how Mrs. Arthur’s ghost was not screaming at her or making horrible death threats. Perhaps because he had died of old age, and not because his wife had killed him—even though I felt sure she would have had ample reason to do so.

“I am sorry—I am so sorry, Daniel.” Mrs. Arthur sounded like a little girl. I supposed this was how she spoke to her husband while he was alive. Many foolish women fell into that trap and acted much like toddlers for treats, checks, and cuddles—especially if they were the younger second wife. “I wouldn’t have brought you back if I didn’t have a very good reason. It’s the will, Daniel. It’s gone. The one we signed with the maid and the cook? I can’t find it anywhere, and now your…children say that it never existed.” Her voice had veered into a whine.

“It existed,” the man said through Violet’s mouth. A little more dirt followed the words.

“I know that.” Mrs. Arthur sounded impatient. “But where is it, Daniel? What did you do with it?”

Violet’s lips split into a grin. “I flushed it down the toilet.”

“You did what?” The woman was halfway off the couch before I managed to yank her back. I had no idea what her plan was, but it might very well have been throttling my niece. When she landed back in her seat, tears came welling from her eyes, making grooves in the layer of makeup clogging her pores. I did feel sorry for her, though. She was the kind of woman who had dedicated her life to securing a certain type of man: old, wealthy, and stupid enough to think that their love was real. Thanks to my mother, I knew these women on sight, and I did not begrudge them their ambition. It took a lot of grit and stamina to marry up in this world—not to mention to caring for an elderly spouse long enough for them to sign their will. It was a filthy job, but it could pay well, and Mrs. Arthur had been close to her payday. The husband was dead and the casket in the ground, so the job should have come to a satisfying end—but didn’t.

I certainly understood the tears.

“You are still young,” the fool, Mr. Arthur, consoled his crying wife through my nine-year-old niece. “You can marry again, Lizzie, and start another life—and the kids, they need it more…” I didn’t think the prospect of beginning the whole process over pleased Mrs. Arthur one bit, though. The woman was inconsolable and sobbing beside me, and I was just about to call the séance to a close when something highly unexpected happened. Violet’s back arched again, and that strange motion under her skin recurred. My belly started to ache when I heard the hissing noise come slithering.

“What is happening?” Mrs. Arthur sounded scared.

Violet turned her head and looked straight at me; her eyes were brimming with hatred. “Clara, you murdering bitch!” Timmy shouted. “So you think you can run away from me? You can never run away from me. I will always find you!”

“Get out of here!” I hissed at him. “Get out before I chase you out!”

“What?” He laughed. “Are you going to ki—” I slammed my hand down on the wildly flickering candle. It stung badly, but it was worth it, as my long-dead husband shut his trap before he could incriminate me further.

“Oh my God, what was that?” Mrs. Arthur was sobbing uncontrollably, pulling at her unkempt hair.

“Just a…bad spirit,” I assured her. “Put your head between your knees and breathe!” I let go of her hand and rushed to switch the light on.

When I returned to the couch, Mrs. Arthur still sat with her head between her knees, panting loudly. Violet seemed to have regained her senses and looked at me questioningly, no doubt disturbed by our hostess’s odd behavior.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” I told her. “Mrs. Arthur just had a little shock, that’s all.”

“Why?” Violet asked.

“Because she isn’t used to this sort of thing.”

“I think it worked, though.” Violet was looking at the food on the table, and the thick layer of mold that covered it all.

“Oh, it worked,” I assured the girl. It had just worked a little better than expected. I was annoyed at not having considered this. Of course Timmy was always around. Of course he would do whatever he could to torment me—and Violet was an open channel, ripe to be taken advantage of.

Next time, I silently swore to myself as I helped Mrs. Arthur up from the couch, I would be better prepared. I would kill the flame at once if Violet started to change. I would make sure to stop that thieving bastard as soon as he reared his ugly dead head. I didn’t have to change my plans; I merely had to be vigilant.

“Aunt Clara, I think I’m going to be sick,” Violet said, before vomiting dirt all over the snowy-white rug.