The Vanishing at Castle Moreau, page 17
“A woman is a powerful creature, Daisy François. Do not underestimate the power you wield.”
twenty-one
Everything magnificently terrifying happened at night. This was a promise, tried and true, made by every frightening novel, every personal experience, and every ghost story ever told.
Daisy cursed this fact as she stood stock-still in the middle of her bedroom. The moon had hidden itself behind clouds tonight, and though her eyes were adjusted to the depths, Daisy still had a difficult time making out the objects in her room. The wardrobe, the bed, the desk were all bulky shapes. The door was closed, locked, yet even now the knob twisted one way and then the other.
Daisy held her arms around herself, fixated on the door. She was alone in this wing of the castle. Desolately alone . . .
There it was again—the rattle of the doorknob. She didn’t ask who was there. Daisy knew there would be no answer. She was alone. Alone with night phantoms.
The phantom woman.
It was a horrible time to recollect the title of Madame Tremblay’s novel. A horrible time to recall the ink drawing of the phantom poised over a sleeping child.
Mrs. Greenberg had told her once that spirits of the dead were not kept away by locked doors, or walls, or even by the prayers of a righteous man or woman. No. They were unstoppable demons of the night, wandering souls, aimless and determined to take the living into their merciless dangling between heaven and hell.
Daisy took small comfort that the door into this particular bedroom seemed to refute Mrs. Greenberg’s superstitions. And regardless of the inadequacies her previous guardian had applied to prayer, Daisy felt her lips move in an urgent plea that God and all His angels would descend on the creature outside her room rattling the doorknob.
The knob stopped moving.
Daisy sucked in a breath and held it.
Silence drifted through every crevice and every crack in the room.
She slowly released her breath, but as she did so, a scraping sound dragged along the floor just outside her bedroom. It sounded like nails against the floor. In her mind’s eye, Daisy could see the image of a ghostly woman being dragged from her bedroom door by an unseen figure, her dead fingernails scraping the wood, her face twisted in agony as the demon pulled her into a hellish unknown.
The scraping ceased.
Daisy held her body stiff. Motionless. As if they would sense the slightest movement.
She hated this place.
Her earlier interaction with Lincoln Tremblay had been a surprise, enjoyable, but this snuffed it out completely. The Tremblays might not have medieval dungeons in their Midwestern castle along the Mississippi, but it had something far worse. It had the ghosts of women who had disappeared.
Like Hester May.
In all that had happened with Elsie, Daisy had almost forgotten the missing Hester May, not to mention the other women from Needle Creek who were yet unaccounted for. All of them had last been seen near Castle Moreau.
It was their spirits that haunted these halls.
If Madame kept her husband’s heart in a treasure box, and pieces of Elsie’s skin in vials, what else was being hidden in the castle? What atrocities were concealed behind its stone walls, wood panels, and rich tapestries? And what of this place’s mysterious occupants? A grandmother and her grandson . . . with the rest of the Moreau-Tremblay line stolen by death? Was it not odd that Lincoln was still unmarried, or that no household staff busied themselves in keeping up the castle’s appearance?
This place was not right. It was unseemly. It was dangerous, and it was now her home.
Daisy jumped as a wail echoed through the hallway outside her bedroom door. A lonesome cry from far off in some other part of the castle, yet still close enough for it to reach Daisy’s ears.
She forced herself to approach the door. Without hesitating, she unlocked it and twisted the knob, creating an opening for the evil outside her room. If the crying was coming from Elsie, Daisy could not, would not, abandon her.
The hallway stretched before Daisy, empty and black. She couldn’t help but glance at the floor and look for scratches from the ghost woman. There were none. It was a deathly still place now.
She stepped cautiously into the hall. Everything in her demanded that she flee back to her bed, but a strong sense of obligation to Elsie compelled her forward. She should have grabbed a lantern, a candle, something to light her path.
Daisy dragged her hand lightly along the wall as she tiptoed down the hallway, her bare feet cold against the floor. To get to the north wing, she must head down the back hall to the servants’ staircase, climb the narrow stone steps to the third floor before turning left and arriving at the row of suites that included Madame Tremblay’s. Or she could avoid the more frightening servants’ route and instead weave her way to the balcony near Lincoln’s study, then take the hallways to a flight of stairs meant for the family of the castle to the third floor, then across the main hall and past more rooms until she reached the north wing.
Daisy decided to avoid the servants’ route. Something about it made her feel lonesome, less safe. Perhaps it was why Elsie demanded to leave the servants’ quarters that Daisy had originally put her in. Castle Moreau was not a warm place; the servants’ quarters were even colder.
She caught sight of the vast balcony at the end of the hallway. While there was no man-made light to guide her, enough light from outside added shades of blues and grays to make the balcony appear to be some sort of respite or haven. If she could make it there, she would be halfway to Elsie’s room.
Another wail echoed, causing Daisy to stumble. She regained her footing and increased her pace. The wail sounded almost unnatural, a mixture of pain and confusion. It was distant and yet it ricocheted off the castle walls and the floors, making it impossible to tell where it had originated.
Daisy regulated her breathing and focused on coming to Elsie’s aid should it be her who was crying. It had to be Elsie. Daisy refused to allow her imagination to run wild with the idea of a phantom woman roaming the halls.
The brush of cold fingers across the back of Daisy’s neck sent terror through her. The icy touch toyed with the baby curls that had slipped from her bun, trailing across her neck . . .
A primal scream ripped Daisy from her restraint. Her body launched forward and away from the ghostly fingers, even as she spun to peer into the void of the hallway behind her. No one was there. Stumbling forward, Daisy sprinted toward the balcony, not caring if something was in her way or if she made any noise. She could sense the eyes, the presence, the hands of someone behind her, and yet there was no one. Only an invisible, vaporous force that was chasing her through the castle.
Daisy shot a panicked glance over the balcony, catching sight of the massive chandelier with its cobwebs and dust. Her bare feet slapped against the wood floor, and as she ran, all coherent thought fled from her.
She finally reached the study door and flung it open, rushing inside.
He was there, this time not behind the desk. The window silhouetted Lincoln Tremblay’s profile. For some reason, this was the only room in Castle Moreau that Daisy could think of that felt safe. The strength of a man whose own darkness could battle someone else’s and perhaps come out stronger. A champion. A hero.
Daisy barely registered her actions before she threw herself into his arms. Nor did she contemplate what possible good a man could do against a force of evil when he was sitting in a wheelchair, unable to rise to do battle.
twenty-two
Cleo
PRESENT DAY
Deacon was not returning to New York as he’d planned. This much was obvious now as he had remained at Castle Moreau for four days instead of the original two he’d indicated. It was no longer the mission of determining if his grandmother, Virgie, was in need of physical and mental assistance, as Cleo had given him the impression, but it was to handle the new debacle of a literal skeleton in the closet.
Cleo watched Deacon as he paced the castle lawn, speaking into his phone. She stood at the front window by an antique writing desk supposedly belonging to the revered Madame Ora Tremblay, author of The Phantom Woman and other Victorian horror novels. She ignored the furniture in exchange for watching Deacon’s long legs eat up the yard’s patchy grass. He paused by a stone gargoyle statue that stood sentinel beside an iron bench, rusted from age and weather. His right arm was flailing about as he talked, expressive and agitated.
“What’s he going on about now?” Virgie’s presence behind Cleo didn’t frighten her. She was growing accustomed to Virgie’s hovering, if not her mood changes.
Cleo offered the elderly woman a smile, attempting to hide any outward sign that she and Deacon had a secret of their own now. Bones. Human remains, tucked away neatly in a vintage and moth-eaten velvet bag, with a wooden chest acting as its coffin.
Her life was becoming a Gothic novel that rivaled an Ora Moreau classic, and Cleo wasn’t exactly cool with that. She had enough proverbial ghosts haunting her. The truth haunted her. She had not signed up for this. She had signed up to sort through an old woman’s junk pile—and for the record, Cleo reminded herself, she was making pathetically poor progress.
“Nothing to say?” Virgie quipped when Cleo failed to answer her inquiry. She stood next to Cleo, her curly white head barely reaching Cleo’s shoulder, and followed Cleo’s gaze on her grandson. “If I hadn’t seen the news, I’d say he was arguing with his ex-girlfriend. But apparently she’s dating some foxy son of a gun from Paris now.” There was humor plus a little bite in Virgie’s tone.
Cleo chose not to comment on that either. Discussing Deacon’s love life was remarkably uncomfortable, especially with his well-toned body creating ruts in the lawn as he hiked back and forth between the gargoyle and a maple tree.
“So, do you have designs on him?” Virgie would not stop talking. This Cleo knew, because the woman had discovered Cleo couldn’t do two things at once. If she was engaged in conversation, then she’d leave Virgie’s things alone so she could concentrate on Virgie’s conversation. Which was usually pointless, or nosy, or sassy, or all of the above lumped together. “Well? Do you?” Virgie pressed, her eyes innocently wide behind her black, round glasses.
Cleo glanced at her. “Umm, no?”
Virgie’s pink lips smiled a little. A nice smile touched with disbelief. “Impossible. Any female in her right mind would have designs on Deacon Tremblay. If not for his name and money, then for his handsome face. Have you seen my grandson?”
Cleo choked.
Virgie patted Cleo’s arm. “There, there. I know it seems odd for a grandmother to remark on her grandson’s looks, but he’s so much like my Charles was, and a bit like my grandmother Ora Moreau’s husband. Did you see his portrait in the east wing? He too was handsome as all get-out. Throw all those genetics in along with my Charles’s one-hundred-percent French and we have a smashing bloodline of fabulous men.”
Cleo couldn’t argue. She had seen the portrait of Ora Moreau’s husband. She had also seen a portrait of Charles. And, yes, Deacon was . . . remarkable.
“I knew it.” Virgie was studying her and must have seen something in Cleo’s expression. “You like Deacon.”
Apparently they were middle school girls now. Cleo tried not to let her mouth quirk into a smile of embarrassment and in doing so give Virgie more ammunition for her goading. “Yes, your family has very handsome men in it,” she conceded.
Satisfied, Virgie looked back out the window toward Deacon. “I’m proud of him. He has been a rascal in the past, but he’s maturing now. It’s a shame my son and daughter-in-law aren’t with us any longer. Dratted plane crash. They had to follow in John Kennedy Jr.’s footsteps.”
Cleo vaguely remembered hearing about the airplane crash that took the life of JFK’s son, as well as the lives of his wife and sister-in-law. Deacon’s parents had suffered a similar fate. Until now, she hadn’t known. Hadn’t thought to question why it was that only Virgie and Deacon were left in the Tremblay line. But then avoiding the idea of parents altogether was her preference. With a father who’d never been named, and her mother . . . Cleo bit back a sudden onslaught of tears. The thought of parents was a trigger for her. She grappled for her grandfather’s thumbprint and rubbed it absently, drawing comfort from his dysfunctional legacy of strength.
Virgie hefted a quiet sigh. “I miss them.”
Cleo could relate. She missed her mother too. The mother she’d found lying in the fetal position after overdosing. The mother who had left Riley in a Graco Pack ’n Play in dirty diapers. The mother she shouldn’t miss but did anyway. Just like Grandpa. She shouldn’t miss either of them. That was why Grandma couldn’t handle her. Cleo had been loyal to the wrong people—the people who’d hurt her and Riley, who didn’t deserve her love.
“Anyway, you have mail.” Virgie held out an envelope.
A pit settled in Cleo’s stomach. A letter? Here? No one knew she was here. There was no reason she should be receiving mail. No reason at all.
“Are you going to take it or shall I add it to the pile of magazines you wanted to go through next?”
Ignoring Virgie’s sarcasm, Cleo took the envelope gingerly.
“It’s not going to bite you.”
Cleo met Virgie’s eyes and noted a wariness in the woman’s study of her. Virgie was trying to read her, to understand her, and that she was curious about the origin of the letter was obvious.
“Thank you, Virgie.” Cleo smiled thinly and moved away from the window. In fact, moving away from this room and taking refuge in her bedroom upstairs seemed preferable right now. With a glance toward the now-closed panel wall, she hurried from the study. Leaving Virgie behind in the same room as the hidden skeleton didn’t worry her too much. The woman had lived in the castle for many years—as had generations before her—without the skeleton being exposed.
Cleo padded up the flight of stairs to the balcony, glancing at the chandelier and wondering when so many of its crystals had fallen off and if they’d ever hit anyone on their way down. Maneuvering through corridors, she made her way to her bedroom, shutting the door and leaning back against it.
Murphy was curled at the end of her bed, and he opened one eye.
She shook the envelope at him. “Who did you blab to that I was here?”
Unmoved, the cat closed his eye and resumed his nap.
Cleo sank to the floor, her back against the door, and lifted the envelope to read the return address. Her fingers shook, and images she didn’t want to recall flooded her mind. They’d found her. It was obvious. Cleo wasn’t sure how to process the panic and nauseating anxiety that surged through her.
She could run. Again.
Was it the phone Deacon had provided her with? Had they somehow traced it back to her, and if so, how? How was it even possible?
The handwriting on the envelope was so familiar and it tore at Cleo from the inside out. She bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood.
Open it.
Easier said than done. Her index finger slipped as she pushed it under the envelope’s flap. The ensuing paper cut caused Cleo to yank her finger back and suck on it for a second. She could feel her hand trembling as she pulled it from her mouth.
“Get it together,” she coached herself. Attempting again, this time she opened the envelope. The paper inside was yellow lined paper, the ink from a ballpoint pen. The handwriting . . . Cleo dropped the letter as if it had burned her. She scooted away on her backside, staring at it numbly.
Murphy jumped from the bed, a hiss escaping him at Cleo’s sudden movement. She rubbed her hand across her eyes. Maybe if she opened them, it would be something different. Someone different. But when she did so, the letter lay discarded a few feet away, the writing a shaky, thick blue ink with looping letters, the words impressed on the paper where the writer had pushed the pen hard against it.
“It can’t be,” Cleo whispered. “Oh, God . . .” she breathed. A prayer of sorts? Maybe. A request to understand the impossible? Most definitely.
Carefully, Cleo drew the letter toward her.
“Dear Cleo” was written in bold letters, practically screaming at her from the top of the page, followed by “Come home.”
That was all it said.
“Dear Cleo, come home.”
But the writer of the words . . . Cleo drew in a deep, stabilizing breath. He couldn’t have written this. He couldn’t have! Grandpa was dead. He’d died three years ago. How he had sent her a note—and to her hiding place at Castle Moreau—was as unearthly and as terrifying as it could get. Hearing word from beyond the grave was never meant to be so tangible. But there it was, in blue ink and with shaky handwriting:
Dear Cleo,
Come home.
—Grandpa
Virgie’s screams catapulted Cleo to her feet, and her sudden surge upward caused her to fall against the door, light-headedness almost taking her out completely. The letter from her grandfather stared up at her from where she’d dropped it, but Virgie’s distress shoved Cleo into action. Her adrenaline was already soaring, and when she opened the door, Murphy darted out between her legs, his angry yowl telling her he wasn’t happy that his peaceful afternoon had been disturbed.
Cleo raced back toward the room in which she’d left the older woman.
“No! No!” Virgie cried. “Leave it be! No!”
Cleo stomped down the stairs, dodged boxes and piles of stuff in the large entryway, and charged into the study.
Virgie was grabbing at Deacon’s arm, clawing at him, her face wild with panic. Her white hair was in disarray for how perfectly styled it’d been only minutes before when she was bantering with Cleo. She was pulling backward on Deacon, even as he was pushing forward—in the direction of the paneled wall and the secret alcove.
“I said leave it alone!” Virgie shouted, her voice high-pitched and wobbly.
“Grand-mère!” Deacon tried to extricate himself from her grip as gently as possible. He cast Cleo a harried look.
