My duties around the parish never changed, and I dispensed them at Papa’s side with the same energy as in the past. It was the journey, however, from vicarage to someone’s cottage and back that changed, and not for the better.
I refused to travel alone and at first reasoned my solitary walks had grown rather dull, but Papa appeared not to be convinced.
“Natty, I need you to undertake small errands every now and then,” he said with a heavy sigh, shaking his head in exhaustion. “And you’ve always done that on your own without trouble. How on earth have things turned so dull all of a sudden that you refuse to do something as simple as taking two loaves of bread to the widow Tuckett and her children? You know her cottage isn’t more than half a mile from the vicarage.”
My hands were damp, but I fought off the urge to wipe them against my trousers or jacket. “Can’t I take the pony and trap? That will help in shortening the time for me to—”
“Absolutely not. The road will take you too far toward Chillerton. The quickest way to the widow’s cottage is through the footpaths. Nathaniel, you know that.”
“Just this once, Papa?”
“Stephen has the pony and trap. Your mother sent him off to Yarmouth.”
“Papa, I—”
“Stop arguing, boy, and take the confounded loaves! Had you not wasted our time idling about and making all kinds of excuses, you’d have come back from your errand by now!” he roared, striking his writing-desk with his hands and making me jump. “Now go, for God’s sake, go!”
I ran out of the room, my stomach turning. I’d sooner face Papa, endure any punishment that he might threaten, than come face-to-face with what surely awaited me on the footpaths.
Dorcas took Papa’s side and scolded me while wrapping the widow’s gifts in clean cloth. None of what she said fixed itself in my mind. I was much too afraid to pay her—or anyone, for that matter—much heed at that moment. That familiar chill had already settled around me like a shroud, and it was all I could do to stand next to the fire, wiping my hands against my trousers and praying silently as I waited.
“It’s not a terrible distance to cover on foot, Natty, especially for a strong, young boy like you,” Dorcas said as I reluctantly claimed the wrapped loaves and moved toward the door. “If you think the walk’s too dull, perhaps a quick run will help.” She grinned as she tapped the side of her head with her flour-dusted fingers. “Something vigorous like that clears the cobwebs, and I’m sure you’ll be feeling much more refreshed afterward. Just be sure not to drop your bundle.”
“Dorcas,” I said in a voice that was strained and thin, “are there special prayers for protection against supernatural things?”
“Supernatural things? Like the Devil, you mean? Why, you ought to know what prayers keep you safe from his influence. Don’t you say them before bedtime?”
I merely nodded in defeated silence before stepping out the kitchen door. I was now alone, unaided, staring at the line of oaks some distance from the rear of the vicarage—the same oaks that shielded the intricate webbing of footpaths from view.
“Where’s my Bible?” I murmured. I cradled my bundle against my chest, holding it as though it were a shield against forces I couldn’t understand.
I ought to have whispered prayers as I ventured forth, but fear scattered my thoughts. I ran through the footpaths with my eyes wide and unblinking, my head turning left and right as I continuously searched my surroundings for telltale signs of the ghost.
I saw nothing, and neither did I feel an unseen presence like before. I could only blame my desperate running and its immediate physical effects for that, however. Once I reached the widow Tuckett’s dilapidated cottage, my world had shrunk to nothing more than the furious rush of blood in my ears and the ragged gasps that burst out of my throat. I leaned against the rotting door and looked back. The sun bathed many of the trails, the trees, and the surrounding shrubbery. All was bright and dazzling—a far, far cry from the more ominous shadows of death that followed me.
A small, thin child opened the door, and all thoughts of ghosts and hauntings vanished under the weight of pity.
“Good day, Miss Mary,” I said, dropping to my knees before the tiny figure. “You look well today.” Better than she usually looked, I might add, my heart breaking. Mary Tuckett was a mere shadow of a girl—unnaturally pale, terribly thin, her skin stretched almost too tightly over her bones because she barely had any meat on her illness-ravaged body. The faded rags she wore did nothing to counter her miserable state.
“I’m not doing poorly anymore,” she replied with a shy smile.
“I’m happy to see that. I’ll tell Papa you’ve recovered from your fever.”
“Did you bring us a gift, sir?” She turned and led me inside the cottage when I inquired for her mother.
Murky rooms and spare, broken furniture welcomed me. The faint smell of rot and spoiled milk pervaded the air, but the more delightful aroma wafting from the kitchen helped soften it. I couldn’t help but think back to my uncle’s interview, and a little surge of anger rippled through me. I’d yet to accept his callousness, his disdain toward children like Mary Tuckett.
“There’s time enough for that,” I breathed, shaking off the irritation before stepping across the kitchen’s dingy threshold. Mrs. Tuckett had called out for me when she heard my voice; she was, at that moment, too busy to greet me properly. I saluted the poor widow with a broad grin and presented her with the loaves.
“God bless you and your family, Master Wakeman,” she said, clasping my hands tightly in hers while her three children gathered around the table to peer at the bread.
“Papa sends you and the children his blessings, and he promises to pay you a visit in the coming week—see for himself how Mary’s health is coming along.”
I picked up little Thomas under his thin arms and swung him around the room. All was going to be well with this family, I told myself though I failed to be convinced, while Thomas shrieked and laughed, and Mary and Constance capered around, begging to be the next ones to fly.
* * * *
I left the cottage feeling a hundred times more cheerful and assured. My hands in my pockets, I whistled a lively and repetitive tune as I sauntered back to the vicarage.
“Life’s too short to be afraid of shadows,” I reminded myself even before I left the widow’s company. My relaxed pace and happy whistling kept my spirits high, even defiant.
The daylight added to my confidence now, when before I didn’t even notice it. Somewhere birds twittered as though in echo of my silly little songs, and my heart clung to the charming chorus, all the more buoyed by so much light music around me.
Sometime during my walk, I stepped on the dried shell of a snail. The crunch from underfoot wasn’t at all loud, but it might as well have echoed through indeterminate distances.
The earlier spell had broken, and I stood in the middle of the footpath with my ears throbbing from the heavy curtain of silence that draped over the area. None of the birds chirped. I’d stopped my whistling. There was no breeze, no movement of leaves, branches, or small animals.
The icy prickling returned, trailing down the back of my neck and past my shoulders. My heart beat rapidly as I stared ahead. No one stood in my way. I turned to the side—left first, then right. Nothing. I swallowed, calmed myself, and slowly turned around.
The ghost stood there, several yards behind.
Just as it appeared to me in the churchyard, the figure merely stood still in the middle of the path. Silent. Watching me behind those closed, white eyelids. I took one step closer. It didn’t respond. I took one step away. It did nothing.
“You don’t frighten me,” I said, though my voice betrayed me with a tremor. “You won’t frighten me.”
The thing remained unresponsive, mocking me with its silent presence. I couldn’t remember how long I stood there, daring it to speak—to move—with a gaze. It seemed to welcome my challenge and simply remained where it was, still and watchful. Our confrontation turned into a macabre child’s game, with both of us daring each other with a long, steady look, refusing to blink and turn away.
In the end, it was I who conceded. My eyes felt as though they were burnt, and I was forced to blink for relief and turn away. The thing remained standing. Exulting, I was sure, over its triumph.
I turned around and continued my walk, not at all knowing if it began to follow my progress with silent footsteps. I imagined it creeping or gliding along the footpath, maintaining the distance between us—a ghastly shadow of myself in the form of a dead woman.
I swallowed again and attempted to whistle. I floundered several times because my throat felt constricted, and my heart continued to beat furiously despite my efforts. I slid my hands back inside my pockets and affected the same careless stride as before. I hoped to rekindle my earlier defiance. My mind refused to remain calm, however.
I began to fancy something approaching me from behind. Something with footfalls that couldn’t be heard, its burial dress dragging behind it in a whisper of rotting cloth. I could feel it reaching out to me with a cold, white hand. My neck felt the light grazing of dead fingers as it tried to touch me, stiff fingertips trailing down my back to my arm, closing around my elbow and…
“No!” I cried and broke into a full run. “No, no, no!”
I stumbled twice and fell on my face, but panic and terror pulled me back to my feet and pushed me forward.
In my blind hurry I turned into a narrow, unmarked passage through the trees.
It wasn’t another footpath—only a bald patch of ground in which I’d foolishly got myself caught. Around me branches drooped, crisscrossing each other and forming a stiff, wooden web. They tangled with my hair and my clothes, and I was soon struggling against their hold.
Leaves fell here and there as I wildly flailed my arms and cried out.
In my half-mad state, I was convinced the thing was directly behind me, reaching out and moving forward, closing the distance with every second I fought against the branches that held me fast.
“Dear God, help me!”
I threw myself forward, blindly and violently, not at all caring where I’d fall. Branches snapped, my clothes tore, and my scalp ached.
“Stop! Stop it!” I cried out one more time, and I was tumbling headlong into space and down a short slope.
The world spun, my body throbbed in pain, and within moments I rolled to a stop and lay on my side, curled up and gasping. Nothing greeted my ears but the gentle whistling of the midday breeze and an occasional fluttering of birds’ wings. With some effort I raised my head and looked around me with tear-blinded eyes. I’d fallen onto a road.
Once I recognized where I lay crumpled, I raised myself up, wincing from the pain that now wracked my body.
Scratches appeared on my hands, with tiny beads of blood forming on some. Leaves, cobwebs, and dirt peppered my clothes. I pulled a few twigs and leaves from my hair with trembling hands.
I glanced behind me and saw nothing standing among the trees from where I’d fallen. I was once again alone.
My legs shook as I stood up, and I was forced to lean against the sloping ground to steady myself. As I waited to calm down, I looked around once again and caught sight of something small and light lying on the grass, on the very spot where I’d fallen.
I picked it up with some effort and held it against the light.
It was the defaced miniature I’d found in the church of St. Bertram. Shock once again overtook me.
“This is impossible,” I panted as I stared at the thing.
Hands trembling, I turned it around and inspected it. I ran my fingers over the violated surface and felt familiar scratches gouged into it. “No, no—this can’t be. I left this in St. Bertram’s. I saw it lying where I left it.”
I shook my head in disbelief as I muttered again and again. I couldn’t understand it. I swore that I left the miniature behind. I closed my eyes for a moment, and I could see—with such clarity—the pew where I set the object down, the position of the miniature itself on the dark, polished wood, the way the sunshine filtered through the church’s windows and spilled over the area. I could also see the interior of the church as I took my casual inventory of St. Bertram’s religious paintings, walking from wall to wall, a good distance from the pews and the miniature.
I was certain—and I’d stake my life on it—I never took one step closer to that specific pew, and that I never pocketed the miniature after my brief and unsuccessful search of the solitary widow. I left Shepley Abbey empty-handed and returned empty-handed. I knew it. I was sure of it. The clothes I wore that day had been washed a few times since, and Dorcas never once brought anything unusual to my notice.
Yet there it was in my hands—disfigured, faded, and mocking. Like the ghost, it had followed me back to the Isle of Wight. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I flung it into the shrubbery and limped as quickly as I could back to the vicarage.
“I’m not going mad,” I whispered again and again. “I’m not.”