I stumbled into the kitchen, knocking into a table decorated in chopped potatoes and vegetables that lay in wilted piles, flies buzzing and darting around their brown, rotting shapes. The housekeeper stood by the stove, stirring a pot of something gone cold. There were no fires here, either, all of the other servants gone, a chair overturned as if everyone had left at once, without even a look back before they'd tugged their coats off the hooks and ran away.

  The door there was latched as well, but I told myself I could break it down, despite my exhaustion. The fear that had not released me since the deaths of my family, the sadness I had so skillfully pushed away acted now as a fuel, steaming upwards and through me as I hurled myself against the door, hard enough to elicit a promising creak of wood, of metal hinges threatening to tear free from the frame.

  I was dragged backwards before I could make another attempt. Hands grabbed at my skirts, my left arm pulled back until I thought it might twist out of my shoulder entirely. My feet slipped out from beneath me and I landed hard on the floor, my knees and the elbow of my free hand taking the brunt of the fall. And then I slid away from the door, wrenched back the way I came, my fingernails tearing as I scrabbled to find purchase on the gritty floor. And there stood the housekeeper, still in her place at the stove, still stirring, only her arm moving in a stiff, circular motion. She was the last thing I saw before my head slammed into the floor, a bloom of pain at the base of my skull accompanying the thought that I would be dead in a moment. And then nothing.

  ***

  There was the aroma of food when I awoke. A smoky smell—meat, I thought—and I rolled onto my side and retched on the floor below me.

  I had no wish to open my eyes. There was too much pain, a throbbing in my head that made every breath a torturous thing. I vomited again, the bile burning the back of my throat and my sinuses. I clutched the edge of the furniture I'd been laid upon, half of my cheek pressed against upholstery while the other absorbed the chill of polished wood.

  A touch on my head made me jerk upwards. I regretted that, the pain throbbing through my head with the force of a hammer, blinding me as I wavered and collapsed again, nearly falling onto the floor and into the pool of my own sick.

  "Shhh…" someone said, and ventured to touch me a second time. I did not recoil, but I could not form the words that would make them stop. I wanted them to stop, for the room to stop spinning, for the foul burn of acid to fade from my tongue. "Shhh."

  I shut my eyes again and thought of nothing but breathing. In the background, a voice spoke, a monotonous tone reciting something that sounded very much like a sermon. The voice belonged to my aunt, and I imagined her sitting on the other side of the room, a book open in her lap, the words dripping from her lips as fast as her eyes picked them off the page.

  "You should not fight."

  Mrs. Prim, that. I recognized her voice as well, though the accent still was not her own. Again, her fingers found me, tracing the line of my cheekbone, upwards then until she stroked my hair. The touch was unbearable, sending a prickle like a thousand needles stabbing into the top of my skull. I thought I would be sick again, but instead I continued to cling to the sofa, eyes closed, sucking in air through my mouth and sending it out again through my nose.

  Footsteps, away from me or towards me I could not tell. Another voice joined my aunt's, and my uncle joined in with her reading from the book of sermons, his voice only a second behind her own, the discrepancy jarring my thoughts until I dared to open my eyes.

  Brief spots of light filled the corners of my vision, and I blinked and blinked until I could see with some small amount of clarity. A single lamp had been lit and placed on the other side of the room. Aunt and Uncle Debney sat in a shadowed corner, their mouths moving, reading without a book to guide them, the words coming from a memory, I assumed. I could not see my cousins, though Mrs. Prim blocked a large portion of my view of the room. She loomed over me, the dark of her gown, of her hair, of the shadows shifting beneath her skin.

  "You brought us here." She spoke in a tone of thanks, of praise, and again her fingers found my hair, sliding back until they give a quick, sharp press to the wound at the back of my head. The pain shot through me, the spots of light returning to my eyes as I cried out, great heaving sobs along with a shout that tore its way from my already damaged throat.

  I do not know if I passed out or if the pain receded sooner than I anticipated. When I looked up again, Mrs. Prim had moved several steps away, allowing me a view of the entire drawing room, of my aunt and uncle still seated in their corner, of my cousins on the sofa, Madeleine fast asleep with her head thrown back against the cushions while Matthew watched me with his black, unblinking eyes.

  "Stop," I said, and paused long enough to cough. "Please."

  The pleading would do nothing. I knew this, and yet I repeated the word, over and over, the small voice of a child, wanting my mother, my father, wanting to sleep and know that I would be safe again.

  I was tired, so tired, yet I could not close my eyes. A dread filled me, not that I would die in my sleep, but that the torture would never cease, the pain, the exhaustion becoming a constant thing.

  Mrs. Prim bent over me, her face near enough to mine that I had only to look upwards and see the shadows leak from her eyes, thick and almost oily before they shivered and dissipated into the air around her. Behind her, a flicker of movement. Matthew's hands left his lap, reaching upwards to tug at his collar. His clothes are rumpled, and I realized that he was still dressed in the same shirt and trousers as when he confronted me in the study, a few droplets of blood from when I struck him spattered across his clothes.

  They were all the same as when I last saw them, their hair and clothes unaltered. And there was a gauntness there, as well, exaggerating the smudges of darkness beneath their skin. I wondered when they had last eaten, when they had last laid down their heads to rest. My attention returned to Mrs. Prim, or the figure I recognized as once belonging to her.

  "Please." It was all I could think to say. But she smiled at me, her expression flickering, like the blurred image of someone unable to remain still while having their photograph taken.

  She stepped back again, only enough to allow me sight of the sofa, where my cousins sat. Madeleine still slumbered, her mouth partially open, eyelids twitching. Beside her, close enough that their legs pressed together, Matthew continued to work at the fabric of his collar, the movements more frustrated now, tugging at buttons until they tore free, until his nails began to dig at his skin, scratching and scratching until there was the bright red of blood streaked across his fingertips.

  I struggled to sit up, my own tears filling my eyes, clear and warm and tasting of salt as they rolled down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth. It was a horrible cry, sobs shaking through me, blending with the illness that tightened its grip on my abdomen. I shrank into myself, mere child that I was, crying for the loss of my parents, for this horror that would not leave me be. And it would never leave me, I understood. While Matthew tore at the flesh of his own throat, while my aunt and uncle spoke on, seemingly unconcerned as their eldest child fought to take his own life, I could not find the beginning nor the end of it. Always and always it would continue, and I would not think to ask myself until years later whether I had marked the start of it, or only tripped into matters beyond my ability to control.

  "No." I gripped the sofa, arms trembling with the effort of remaining upright. I said it again, and I watched as Matthew's movements hesitated, as Mrs. Prim's brow tightened with confusion. In response to my outburst, the entire room seemed to pull inward, the walls creaking around the edges of the windows and the door frame, plaster tearing and crumbling to powder that rained down on us as the wallpaper creased before the shadows broke through, splitting the paper and leaking down like water.

  The pressure in my own head increased. Beyond the pain of my injury, the voices clamoured to be heard, mingling with the tones of Mrs. Prim, with my aunt and uncle, all of them reaching a crescendo until I slapped my hands over my ears and screamed, screamed until I heard nothing, felt nothing but the grating of my cry in my chest and my throat, until the spots returned to my eyes and I feared I would faint away if I didn't stop to breathe again.

  And then I did stop.

  My hands over my ears, my mouth open. But Matthew sat with his hands returned to his lap, his fingers… his collar stained with his blood. Aunt and Uncle Debney looked around the room, blinking as if just woken from a long sleep. And Mrs. Prim…

  She lay on the floor in a heap, hands twitching, jaw convulsing around words and cries that would not sound. Beneath her skin, the veins rippled, and then blood began to pour from her nose, from the corners of her eyes and her mouth. But not blood. No, not at all. Shadows as viscous as treacle ran into puddles on the floor, soaking into her hair, the collar of her gown before they leached into the rug, into the floor, flooding everything beneath her and sinking, soaking further until it was gone. All of it gone, and still I sat there with fingers cradled around my ears, wishing I could claw at the voices that did not disappear from my head, but only grew quiet, only for a time.

  ***

  Mrs. Prim did not awaken for three days. When she did, she claimed to possess no memory of what had occurred. No one did. The injuries to my cousin's throat were deemed to be my fault, the result of a fight that must have transpired between us. The servants did not return, only the housekeeper remaining in her role.

  All of it, all of the chaos, the uproar, was due to me. That was what they told me, how the servants must not have been able to stand to work in a household where a girl trailing such scandal as myself had been bidden to reside.

  And in the end, wouldn't it be better if they found another place for me to stay? What with Matthew attending school towards the end of the year and the search beginning for a governess for Madeleine… Well, the burden would be too great. Aunt Debney declared to have had enough of familial obligations, that she'd done her part as your nearest relation, but there was nothing of my father in me, my mother and her sister having ruined me at too young an age for me to have any chance at redemption.

  "Only wickedness," she muttered, gazing at me with bright, clear eyes, her mouth a rosebud of disapproval and relief.

  There was no one to say goodbye. Uncle Debney was off at the bank for the day, an excuse of illness used to explain the absence that had kept him home for several days. Matthew and Madeleine, I did not doubt, were no less than thrilled to see the back of me. My aunt had given no indication of where I was to go next, or that she would continue to communicate with me in any manner. But the new maid was sent up to pack my things, saying nothing to me, only glancing at me from beneath her cap and flinching slightly when I made a move towards the part of the room where she worked.

  A cab arrived to take me away, not the family's carriage. The housekeeper walked me to the door, but did not accompany me beyond the threshold. I was left to clamber up into the vehicle, clutching my bag—a cumbrous thing half my size—against my side. And then I was off, trundling towards the center of London, without a word as to my destination.

  They had abandoned me, I understood. The family meant to protect me, to lend me succor during my grief had instead turned me out into the world, wiping their hands of me. And yet I could not blame them. For was I not at fault, as they'd said? Even as the cab travelled forward, I knew the darkness trailed behind me. And it would find me again, or so the voices said, their soft, sibilant whispers weaving their way through my every thought.

  Acknowledgements

  * * *

  * * *

  I have a number of wonderful people responsible for bringing even a short story like this one to life. To Ash Navarre and K.S. Villoso for beta reading and editing, to BookWol for giving it that final once-over, you have my neverending thanks. And to my husband and children for putting up with me while I’m in crazy writer mode, you have no idea how blessed I am to have you.

  Also from World Tree Publishing and Quenby Olson:

  The Half Killed

  * * *

  * * *

  Dorothea Hawes has no wish to renew contact with what lies beyond the veil. After an attempt to take her own life, she has retired into seclusion, but as the wounds on her body heal, she is drawn back into a world she wants nothing more than to avoid.

  She is sought out by Julian Chissick, a former man of God who wants her help in discovering who is behind the gruesome murder of a young woman. But the manner of death is all too familiar to Dorothea, and she begins to fear that something even more terrible is about to unleash itself on London.

  And so Dorothea risks her life and her sanity in order to save people who are oblivious to the threat that hovers over them. It is a task that forces her into a confrontation with her own lurid past, and tests her ability to shape events frighteningly beyond her control.

  February 2018 RRAWR Book of the Month!

  Available now on Amazon

  Coming soon from World Tree Publishing and Quenby Olson:

  With My Own Eyes

  * * *

  * * *

  Dorothea Hawes possesses an unusual gift. Spirits speak to her, tracing their ephemeral fingers along the edges of her thoughts, treating her to glimpses of other people’s fears and desires. It is a gift that puts her in demand, and brings her to the attention of Rachel Trask, a troubled woman desperate to make contact with the spirit of her deceased son. But it’s not until Dorothea has already pushed through the veil that she realizes Rachel’s sadness may be due to more than mere mourning…

  Available now on Amazon

  Table of Contents

  Quenby Olson

  Dedication

  The Family Blood

  Acknowledgements

  The Half Killed

  With My Own Eyes

 

 

  Quenby Olson, The Family Blood: A Sundered Veil Short Story

 

 

  Thank you for reading books on GrayCity.Net
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