The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Thirty-One

The curtain of night came down and Veronica was still sitting at the hearth, staring into space. Her tears had dried, but her heart was heavy. Why had she gone into that room? Mrs. Twig had told her, on the first day, to leave it alone. Why did she never listen? She should have listened to the horseman on the moor as well, but where would she have gone? Perhaps it was her lot in life to be miserable and confused. Perhaps she was doomed.

The sound of a distant bell insinuated its way into her consciousness.

Veronica turned her head toward the sound in agitation. Oh no! Not again!

The sound of the bell reverberated in the air for a time, then gave way to a sound like a low wind blowing over the moor. Rising out of the wind came a howl, then another and another, until it seemed the land was filled with the lamentable keening of wolves.

It sounded like nothing on earth.

She put her hands over her ears. It was no use, for the sounds were not just outside, but had gotten into her head.

Down below, in the garden, Wolfgang added his voice to the airy, distant choir. Gradually, the sound rose higher and thinner until it dissipated into the sky.

In the emptiness, the bell tolled, bringing Veronica to tears again.

She wiped her face with her hands. Her body felt empty, weak. Though it was dark, the twins hadn't come upstairs yet. She went out to the balcony to see if they were still outside. Of course they weren't. Jacqueline would have carried the dead hare into the house by now. And what did she do with it? Racing through the birch wood, Jacqueline had changed into a wolf so quickly, killed the hare so swiftly, that if Veronica hadn't seen her in her bloody gown, carrying the dead hare home, she would never have believed it possible.

This was why the twins disappeared every month, for three nights. To hide what they were.

The full moon shone through the birches, casting long shadows over the lawn like the bars of a cell door, or a cage, where wild things were supposed to be held. The presence of the moon seemed to fill the garden. How could Veronica trust her perceptions under its influence? How know for sure what was real and what was not? Even the trees seemed to speak.

Veronica peered into the shadows around the wishing well, wondering if the doll in the yellow gown was still hanging over the water. The doll she'd found hanging at the door of the tomb was dressed in yellow, as well.

As she strove to puzzle it out, a dream-like vision emerged: dolls submerged under water, white and frozen, each one symbolizing a child. And above them, a courtly old doll in a yellow gown danced. Mist swirled around, like ectoplasm, and it seemed... Veronica's hair rose at the thought... the lady in yellow stepped into the moonlight... and children rose out of the well.

It wasn't the first time she'd imagined this. Gasping for breath, her mind flashed back to the séance room and its dreadful experiments.

Ectoplasm...

Was it possible that such a substance could be detached, made into forms independent of their producer? Could a sorcerer create spirits?

As Veronica stood on the balcony, children seemed to appear in the yard, all wearing luminous hats of white bark. One boy carried a rowan branch spotted with red berries; a girl carried a bunch of lilies. Another girl, with long, white blonde hair, who looked like a sister to the twins, held the doll in the yellow gown to her heart.

The bell tolled like the voice of doom, and that strange, hypnotic voice whispered in her mind.

It's All Souls Night, when the dead return to haunt the living.

Moving back into her room to see who was speaking, Veronica's mood was jarred when the knocker crashed on the door below.

She went out to the landing and stared down through the shadows toward entryway. Mrs. Twig had just run over to answer the door and stopped short, wary as a dog with its hackles raised.

I must see my children...

The voice that sifted through the door was airy, soft, a woman's voice with a refined French accent. It didn't sound human, but as unearthly as the chorus of wolves howling at the fall of night.

Veronica stepped far enough down the stairs to see Mrs. Twig leaning against the front door, trembling as if whoever was behind that glorified plank of wood frightened her half to death.

A mist began to flow in, under the door.

Mrs. Twig fell to her knees and pushed the carpet against the bottom of the door. She fumbled in her pockets and drew out what looked like a packet of dust and began pouring it along the threshold. The mist curled away, shrieking.

Silence. Mrs. Twig wiped her trembling hands on her skirt and watched the door.

The voice silted in again. How cruel you are to keep a mother from her children, a woman who was foully murdered and buried alive....

Wind buffeted the door. Mrs. Twig jumped back. "Go away!" she shouted. "In the name of the Lord Jesus, go away!"

There was a flicker of silence, then a faint, agonized cry thrilled up the walls of the house. Mrs. Twig closed her eyes and put her arms around her head. The cry rose higher and higher, trailing off into silence.

Veronica hurried back to her room. But this was no sanctuary. A brilliant light filled the windows, blazing up from below.

Dread pouring from her scalp to the floor, Veronica stared at the French doors, then slowly tiptoed over and parted the curtains to look out.

The light appeared to be moving over the grass.

A lady, wearing an ancient yellow gown that sparkled with golden embroideries, stood on the lawn. A crown of birch twigs rose from her head, entangling her long golden hair so that it fell around her head like a veil. Her face, in the midst, glowed like the moon.

"It's Sovay," Veronica whispered.

As if she'd heard her name, the lady in yellow lifted her head. She seemed to see Veronica through the window.

Veronica breathed out a jagged breath. Was it true what Sovay had whispered at the door? Had she been buried alive? About to faint, Veronica grabbed for the bedpost.

Pitiful, childlike moans poured down from somewhere high up in the house, from one of the hundred rooms, or the tower. Bolting back to the parted curtains, Veronica watched the lady in yellow reach up toward those cries, then, groaning, bow low and cover her face with her hands. A dark breeze swirled the train of her gown up around her in a vortex of light and she was gone.

The strange, humming chant that had taken hold of Veronica's mind, stopped.

"What is this Belden House?" she whispered.

Soft shrieks wafted down from on high, like dust falling from the ceiling, or walls crumbling, or something dying.

The long case clock in the gallery gonged four times. Where was the dawn? Please, Lord, let it come. Now!