© 2005-2006 Ann Marie Bradley

"Night Visitor"

"Hurry up, lady. I ain't waitin' 'round here all night." The old man threw Elizabeth's trunk and carpetbag from back of the carriage, barely missing a murky puddle at the edge of the road. "This is far as I go."

She leaned farther out the carriage door and peered up at the shadowy figure already climbing back into the driver's seat. "Surely you're mistaken, sir."

"I hate to do it, ma'am." His voice still held fear, but softened a bit. "But I have a wife and six kids."

"I can't possibly find my way on foot." She shivered and wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Dusk was quickly turning to night, and a thick blanket of fog drifted across the road and into the trees.

"Jist follow the road a quarter mile, then turn right at the big willow tree, go a hundred yards past that and you'll be there."

"But, my luggage? I can't be expected to manage that trunk." A cold wind whistled through the carriage and she shivered again.

"This the best I can do, ma'am. I daren't go closer to that cursed place, and if you be smart, you'd go back where you come from."

Elizabeth gave a small lady-like grunt and struggled to get her voluminous skirt through the carriage door. "Going back is out of the question. I've traveled five hundred miles by train and stagecoach to get here."

The driver snapped the reins, and the horses lurched into motion, turning the creaky vehicle back in the direction they had come. "Good luck to you ..."

Elizabeth watched the driver and carriage disappear in the fog. "Wait!"

She glanced about the dark, and an involuntary shiver crept down her spine. Miles from town. Lord only knew how far from Giselle plantation.

The chill night air penetrated her thin wool traveling dress and crept under her many petticoats. She clutched her shawl tight with one hand. In the other, she clasped her reticule, grabbed the small carpetbag and started down the road. Hopefully her trunk would be safe till someone from the plantation could retrieve it.

A full moon, nearly stolen away by the ghostly white fog, peeked through the mist now and then to guide her steps. The only whisper of a sound was the rustle of dried leaves beneath her shoes. A cold breeze stirred the crisp fall air and shook more leaves from the tall trees surrounding her. Two hours ago, she'd thought the stately trees lining both sides of the dirt road lovely with their rainbow hues of foliage. But in the moonlight they looked more like giants, their bulky arms stretched to the sky. The far-off hoot of an owl broke the deathly quiet, and Elizabeth quickened her steps.

She kept to the center of the road, stumbling over ruts and fallen twigs. "What kind of man leaves a woman alone in unknown country at night?" Her weak, tremulous whisper sliced through the fog. She glanced over her shoulder. "And, just what does he mean by cursed?"

She would write Sharman's Livery Stable a note of complaint tomorrow morning. How dare that man hire out to drive her if he knew all along he wouldn't go the whole way? Just her luck, the stage had been three days late. Mr. Gilman had promised someone would meet her. No doubt they couldn't keep an able-bodied worker away from the plantation all that time, just waiting for her in town.

As she walked, she glimpsed patches of hills and cotton fields during breaks in the fog. She felt rather than saw the road beneath her feet.

Her arm trembled under the weight of the bag, and she stopped a moment to catch her breath. The wind picked up, and she shivered.

The barest outline of a giant willow stretched in front of her. Its branches loomed specter- like in the fog. "The willow. Which way did the driver say to turn?" She surveyed the area.

"Right," she answered herself. "Right at the willow." Just a hundred more yards! A new burst of energy spurred her on.

The wind sighed and moaned, as if to mock her. Her arm muscles ached from carrying the heavy bag and her fingers and toes were frozen, but she hurried the final few feet.

The mist rolled away, and she spotted the two-story brick mansion sitting proud on a slight rise. A riot of ivy intertwined around massive stone pillars that supported a wrap-around veranda.

Of what had the driver been afraid? This house? How could one be afraid of a picture- perfect house? It was very old of course. But stately and well-kept. Perhaps the old man fabricated the ghost stories to scare her--run the Yankee back up North.

The shell driveway crunched beneath her shoes as she picked up her step toward the house. The clear, sweet fragrance of late blooming roses climbing a trellis beside the porch reached her nostrils even before she ascended the wide stone steps. Elizabeth drew in a quick deep breath, drinking in the welcoming scent. She quivered with excitement and anticipation as she reached for the ornate brass knocker on the heavy oak door.

A sixtyish, dark-skinned servant answered her knock. For a moment, a strained, uneasy silence lingered between them.

Finally she blurted, "I'm Elizabeth Ogden. The new governess. I'm expected." He moved aside and allowed her to enter.

"You're late. Family is all in bed." He held a single candle in one hand and reached with the other to take her bag. "Follow me."

She followed him up the grand staircase, to a landing, and then down a long corridor. A young servant girl trailed behind them. When they reached Elizabeth's room, the girl hurried ahead and lit a lamp before stirring the dwindling flames in the fireplace to life, then darted out without a word.

The butler placed Elizabeth's bag on the huge four-poster bed in the center of the room, and turned to follow the maid. "You'll meet the children in the morning."

"Wait. Can you tell me why the driver refused to bring me all the way here?" She gave him a half-challenging, half-defiant glance. "I can't make any sense out of it. Why is he afraid of this house? I see nothing somber or sinister. The exact opposite, it seems dignified and friendly."

"This house is over a hundred years old." The old man shook his head and edged toward the door. "It resents outsiders. The house feels things..." He broke off abruptly and hurried back down the hall.

"That's absurd!" Elizabeth gazed about the spacious room. The lone lantern light filled it with a soft glow. It was pretty and well appointed. What memories did it hold? So the house was over a hundred years old. A hundred years of life--and death. It had stood through the Civil War, brothers killing brothers in a divided nation. Honor, duty, reform. Ghosts? But this was 1878, no use looking to the past. She needed a good night's sleep.

She shivered and crossed the room to the fire. Her stomach rumbled reminding her she hadn't eaten since early afternoon. Thank goodness someone had seen to her comfort and left a dinner tray with a glass of wine to chase away the chill. She shed her damp traveling suit and changed into a warm flannel nightgown, then attacked the tray of food.

Ten minutes later, stomach full, body warmed from the fire and wine, she climbed into bed. An involuntary sigh escaped her lips as she relaxed on the bed. Her eyelids drooped and she fell into a deep sleep.

A soft whimpering awakened Elizabeth. She sat up with a jerk, her eyes and ears straining. She clutched the cover to her as though it were a shield of iron. A strong smell of cinnamon accosted her nose.

"Who's there?"

In answer, lace curtains billowed out from the window and a cold breeze blew across the bed. I know that window was closed. She wrestled free of the thick down quilt and hurried to check. A stream of moonlight shone across the floor and guided her way. She found the window closed, the latch secure. Her heart contracted with fear.

A frightened child's voice called out, "Mama?"

"Who's there?" She swung around in search of the little girl. "Where are you?"

Silence. A rush of deathly cold air brushed her arms, and a wide shimmer of light appeared on the bed. Elizabeth shivered partly from the cold, partly from fear.

A second later, the small imprint of a child appeared on the bed, inside, the thin form of a little girl about five years old. She wore a ruffled nightdress spotted with bright red stains. Elizabeth went still with shock.

The girl shifted and Elizabeth gasped. The bedding was visible through the child's form. The blood seemed to drain from Elizabeth's body. Terror clutched her heart, and she clamped a shaky hand over her mouth to suppress a scream.

Tears streamed down the transparent child's face, and thin little arms reached for Elizabeth. "I want my mama."

Elizabeth's heart thudded and a sick, sinking sensation crept into her stomach. She wanted to run, but her feet wouldn't move. She couldn't stop a small gasping cry. There was no use calling for aid; it was well past midnight and the entire household was asleep. She'd have to confront the ghost herself. Perhaps it was a mere trick to scare her away. But why? If they hated Yankees that much, why had the Gilman's hired her?

She inhaled deeply and her pulse steadied a bit. "I--I'm Elizabeth Ogden," she wavered. "The new governess."

"Mama said to wait here and she'd come tuck me in," the little girl said with a sniff. "But she hasn't come, and I'm afraid."

Elizabeth fought with herself to keep calm and remain still. It was no use. She couldn't stifle her sense of panic. Her voice low, she replied, "But this is my room."

At Elizabeth's words, the girl began to cry in earnest. Wind moaned down the chimney. The thick mist shrouding the countryside penetrated the room.

"Mama! Where's my mama?" Her small face looked more ashen, and a hint of appeal glinted in her eyes.

Elizabeth felt the little girl's hurt in her own heart; sympathy replaced terror.

"Who is your mother, child? Where has she gone?"

The little girl took solid form. "Mrs.--Mrs. Marshall," the child stuttered. "She went downstairs to help Papa, and told me to wait here. But she's been gone so long."

Confusion filled Elizabeth's mind. Her employers, the owners of this house, were named Gilman. "Is your family visiting?" She edged closer to the bed, eager to prove to herself the child was real.

"We live here." The child hugged a pillow to her chest. "I'm very tired."

Elizabeth tucked the covers around the little girl and lay down beside her. She'd find out the truth in the morning. Perhaps the girl was the daughter of a servant.

The little girl scooted close, her small, soft arm wrapped around Elizabeth. Slight though the contact was, it sent a peculiar tingling through Elizabeth. She stared down at the little angel nestling against her. The child had stopped sobbing, but big teardrops glistened on her dark lashes and porcelain-like cheeks. She poked a tiny thumb between her rosebud lips and closed her eyes. Elizabeth touched her fingers to her own lips and blew the child a kiss. "Sleep little one."

Elizabeth slept soundly until a tap on the door heralded the arrival of the young maid with a breakfast tray. The girl dipped a quick curtsy. "Mrs. Gilman wishes to see you in the library as soon as you've dressed and had breakfast, miss." She glanced about nervously, replaced the tray from last night's meal with the breakfast tray, and scurried back through the door.

Elizabeth sat up in bed, quickly looking beside her. Alone. Why did her arm feel numb as if someone had lain on it?

The memory of the previous evening's events, the little girl's visit, the atmosphere in the room, seemed fantastic in the comforting warmth of the morning sun. She splashed water on her face, hurriedly ate the eggs and toast, and then dressed, steeling herself to meet Mrs. Gilman and find why someone had tried to scare her away.

The butler met her at the foot of the stairs and showed her to the library. "Miss Ogden," he announced before taking his leave and closing the door behind him.

Elizabeth jumped at the sharp sound of the door's click. She stared at the woman sitting before her on the sofa. She looked older than what Elizabeth expected the mother of young children to be. Her dark hair, streaked with silver was piled atop her head in a sharp bun. No fashionable ringlets adorned the sides. An unknown pain showed in her eyes and her skin seemed stretched too tightly across her cheekbones.

After introductions to the three little boys seated by Mrs. Gilman's side, Elizabeth asked about the little girl she'd seen in her room.

"There are no female children in this house. Only my boys."

"But last night? I saw her."

Mrs. Gilman's face drained of color. "Miss Ogden, there has been no little girl in this house for many years. The last time was during the War Between the States, when a young man, his wife, and their small daughter were brutally murdered in the night.

Elizabeth's terror rose again. She gripped the chair arm until her knuckles went white. "What was their surname?"

"Why--Marshall, I believe."

The End