The Eternal Guest

6.

A unique and unfathomable despondency had afflicted me. Owsley was forever a specter haunting my troubled mind, but that night he grew solid and manifest. He stood ageless from the shores of the past while I hurtled toward the uncertain future, old and withered. My every action was unworthy of him and fell short of my hopes and aspirations. Years spent on the problems of mortality, and I still had no solutions—no cure—to offer humanity. Or to assuage my own conscience.

That I lingered here in this mausoleum of a house, wasting days, hindered my penance and delayed any hope for atonement.

This was no holiday, but a living death, spending one day like the last. Was it any wonder I questioned the length of my visit? Without action, I was cast upon a still sea, the doldrums of my very being. I needed to rouse myself, stir my idleness to action. Yet, this itself was impossible as my only desire was for the oblivion of sleep, and I'll my thoughts turned to the refuge of my chamber.

So was my mood when I came upon Emrick that I almost went up the staircase to the upper levels without any acknowledgment. Whatever curiosity, whatever annoyance, whatever disdain I held for him, it was minor and trivial compared to my sorrow.

He and Vernon stood whispering in the study's doorway. Their speech was low but urgent. The doctor wore a weather-stained cloak and muddy boots. He saw me and pressed a palm to Vernon's shoulder to quiet him.

I nodded in greeting but would not have spoken had he not challenged me.

"Richard, you look unwell. Have you been eating?"

"Where have you been?" I demanded, my annoyance returning some heat to my blood. "I have waited here too long for your return. I shall be leaving in the morning." Then, turning to the servant, I said, "And there is a woman out there in those woods. I saw her this very night."

But Vernon stayed mute and Emrick spoke instead. "Business kept me. I'm sure you can appreciate that my work is very demanding."

At the mention of his dubious work, my eyes drifted to the bookshelves behind him stacked with ancient volumes, their binds crumbling. These were works so timeworn, it was impossible to guess what relevance they could still hold to medicine. But not all of his interest lay in science, as I had discovered. What foul texts had he been consulting? When mediums and spiritualists failed, what dark paths had he tread? If I were to examine these tomes, would I find titles only whispered of in my college days? Those forbidden volumes of supposed dark magics? Did he possess a copy of De Vermis Mysteriis or the like? Texts that coaxed madness unto madness deeper, until reality was nothing but an unseen shore?

"No less demanding than my own," I replied. "Yet, you keep me here waiting as though I were a supplicant begging favor. Must I remind you, it was you who asked me here?"

To this, Vernon rose a little on his haunches and said, "Is that so?"

"Why else would I be here?"

Emrick stepped into the hallway, putting his servant at his back. "You are right. It is time you see my experiment yourself. But it is late tonight, and I am weary. Dawn is almost at hand. Have some rest, and when you awake, I will reveal what I have achieved. If after that, you still wish to leave, I'll have Vernon drive you to the station."

A rebuke to forestall any further delay burned on my tongue, but in truth, I was weary as well. And hadn't I been on my way to bed before coming across him? So, I bid him goodnight and returned to my chamber.

***

Sleep came quickly but was haunted by dreams of the woman in white.

In them, we were together in the garden. We stood separated by the width of a stone pool at the foot of a fountain. The sculpture was coated in ancient layers of moss rendering its shape a mystery. And the thin stream of water gurgling from its top fed further growth, making it ever more indistinct and amorphous.

She did not speak, but her hands grasped at the air between us, expressing an abstract want or need. Her eyes were sunken and filled with fear, like a deer tracing a hunter through the trees. And her copper hair clung tight to her face, hiding the smears of earth and blood that stained her cheeks and chin. More blood marred the front of her dress—some drops blackened by time, others fresh and glistening red.

"Can I help?" I asked, worried she was injured.

She smiled at me. Or so I thought at first. But after a moment, it was clear she was baring her teeth as an animal might, and I took this to mean she was afraid I might add to her hurt rather than relieve it.

Moving no closer, I examined her for wounds. But none could be seen on her white fingers, and no scrapes marked her arms or legs. A rivulet of blood traced the curve of her breast, but seemingly without source. Her graceful neck, pale and supple, was flawless. The smooth, delicate flesh invited me to nuzzle my mouth to it, but I did not act on the urge.

In that moment of hesitation, she retreated from me, drifting away from the fountain, and out of the gardens. Yet, always, she faced me and beckoned me to her. And I went with her exercising no volition of my own. Like a man caught in a relentless tide, I followed in her wake until the dark and foreboding forest swallowed us both.

And although this vision sputtered, stopping and repeating in the tormented frenzy of a fever dream, it felt more like a true memory than simple fantasy upon waking.