The Eclective: The Haunted Collection

  Maggie’s gaze darted from Mrs. Churchill’s twisted features, back to her mother’s tired eyes. Back before Mother started losing jobs, back when Mother had more meat on her bones and didn’t look so tired, Maggie thought she was a beautiful woman. With her high cheekbones, bright green eyes and thick, auburn hair, Mother was always turning heads. A wave of shame overcame Maggie. This was all her fault. She was the reason Mother was always losing her jobs. She was the reason Mother’s beauty was fading. But they couldn’t stay at this house. Not with an evil man.

  Maggie’s lower lip trembled as she felt her eyes well up with tears. “But I must tell you a secret, Mother.”

  Mrs. Churchill rose with a start and strode toward the counter, busying herself by adding more coffee and creamer to her cup. Maggie knew the woman would try to listen. She’d come to learn that people were always curious about her, always asking her and her mother questions, and always pulling back with looks of horror and derision after they’d learned Maggie’s secret. That’s when Maggie and her mother had begun speaking in code, calling haunted houses ‘dirty’ and ghosts ‘others’.

  Their simple plan had always worked in the past. Mother didn’t want to live in a dirty house any more than Maggie did. But as Maggie studied her mother’s weary eyes and drawn mouth, she feared her mother wouldn’t listen this time.

  Maggie swallowed hard while tugging on her mother’s shirtsleeve. “It’s very dirty, Mother. It isn’t safe.”

  “Maggie,” her mother warned. “Hold your tongue.”

  “The white-haired man is here.” Maggie tried her best to whisper, but her voice rose along with the urgency in her words. “He’s evil. He killed Thomas. He threw him in the cold.”

  Maggie winced at the sound of breaking glass. She and her mother both turned to see Mrs. Churchill sprawled out on the kitchen floor.

  Maggie’s mom raced to Mrs. Churchill’s side.

  Just then Mr. Churchill stormed into the room. “What happened here?” he bellowed as he stood over his wife’s body. “You!” He pointed a finger at Maggie’s mother. “What have you done to my wife?”

  Maggie’s mother rushed to Mrs. Churchill’s side. “She fell, sir.” Mother placed her hand on Mrs. Churchill’s neck and then put her ear to Mrs. Churchill’s chest.

  Mr. Churchill hovered above them and made no offer to help.

  He scowled down at Mother. “Who are you?”

  Mrs. Churchill moaned as Mother wiped a strand of hair out of the woman’s eyes.

  “I’m Rebecca, your mother’s new caretaker,” Mother said without looking up at Mr. Churchill.

  Maggie didn’t like the way Mr. Churchill tilted his head as his gaze roamed Mother’s backside. Maggie had seen other men do the same. Mother had called them perverts. Maggie didn’t know what a pervert was, but she suspected Mr. Churchill was even more foul than a pervert.

  Mr. Churchill snickered. “That old bat?” He nodded in the direction of the elderly woman. “She’s not my mom. She’s my wife’s mom.”

  Mother pulled Mrs. Churchill into her arms before fixing Mr. Churchill with a glare. “Please, help me bring your wife to the sofa.”

  Mr. Churchill grumbled as he bent down and pushed Mother aside. He scooped his wife into his arms and briskly crossed into the living room before plopping her on the sofa.

  Maggie and her mother followed.

  Mrs. Churchill moaned again as her hand flew to her brow.

  Mother sat beside Mrs. Churchill and clasped the woman’s pale hand. “Mrs. Churchill, can you hear me?”

  “W-what happened?” Mrs. Churchill moaned.

  “You fell and hit your head,” Mother said. “Let me look into your eyes.” Mother held open Mrs. Churchill’s eyelids, examining one, and then the other. “Well, it doesn’t look like a concussion, but you’d better lie down for a while. Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m thirsty,” Mrs. Churchill rasped.

  “Maggie,” Mother called over her shoulder, “Fetch a glass of water from the kitchen, and watch out for that shattered glass on the floor.”

  But Maggie stood rooted to the spot. The others had returned and they were glaring at Mr. Churchill. Their bodies were much more defined than before. Maggie could even make out bruises circling the child’s neck.

  “You heard her, girl! Move!” Mr. Churchill bellowed while stomping his foot.

  “Maggie. Maggie.”

  Maggie thought she heard her mother calling her, but the others were moving their mouths. Though no words came out, they were trying to tell her something, she knew it.

  “Is she dumb?”

  “No.”

  “The kid looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

  Finally, the girl with the bruised neck pointed toward Mr. Churchill. Maggie’s gaze followed to his dark aura.

  That’s when Maggie saw them. Really saw them. The dark shroud Maggie once thought was an aura, was not an aura at all. Maggie’s mouth fell open but she was too shocked to even scream. Black winged creatures with sharp fangs circled Mr. Churchill’s body like bees swarming a hive.

  Mother stepped in front of Mr. Churchill and clutched Maggie’ shoulders. “Maggie. Water.”

  Maggie nodded and ran into the kitchen. She was relived to be away from the living room, away from Mr. Churchill.

  Maggie returned to the living room, walking a wide circle around Mr. Churchill. Those black things were still swarming him. She could hear them now, growling like rabid animals. Luckily, he stood far enough away from the sofa where his wife was lying down. Far enough that he could still gawk at Mother’s backside.

  Maggie really didn’t like Mr. Churchill.

  Some of the color had returned to Mrs. Churchill’s face. Mother had propped some pillows behind her back. Mrs. Churchill sat with her hands folded in her lap while she glared at her husband. Maggie handed the glass to her.

  Mrs. Churchill took a sip of the water and then threw the glass at her husband. “You killed my cat!”

  Mr. Churchill ducked as the glass narrowly missed his head. The beasts swarming him howled and hissed. When Mr. Churchill stood, his face was as red as a ripe apple.

  He spoke through a frozen smile. “Sugarplum, we’ve been through this before. “

  “You killed Thomas!”

  He shook his head and took a step forward. “You hit your head. You’re not thinking straight.”

  “Get out of my house!” Mrs. Churchill raised a shaky finger and pointed toward the kitchen door.

  The beasts swarmed Mr. Churchill’s ears and hissed, the sound reminding Maggie of sibilant whispers.

  If it was at all possible, Mr. Churchill’s face turned an even brighter shade of red. “I just unpacked my things.”

  “Well, pack them again.” Mrs. Churchill’s bottom lip quivered as her eyes watered over with unshed tears. “And this time, don’t come back.”

  * * *

  Maggie retreated to the corner while Mr. Churchill stormed out of the house.

  Mother cleaned up the broken glass then sat beside Mrs. Churchill.

  After Mrs. Churchill had reassured Mother that she was well, she tossed her legs over the side of the sofa and looked directly at Maggie.

  “Come closer, child.” Mrs. Churchill crooked a finger at Maggie. “I need to get a good look at you.”

  Maggie warily eyed Mother for permission. When Mother nodded, Maggie slowly walked toward Mrs. Churchill. The woman was no longer scowling, and her smile, though slight, seemed genuine.

  “You have circles under your eyes. Don’t you sleep?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  When she wasn’t woken by the sound of Mother sobbing beside her, or when she wasn’t worrying where she and Mother would live, or when the others weren’t appearing in her room in the dead of night.

  Mrs. Churchill leaned toward Maggie and clutched her hand. Mrs. Churchill’s hand was clammy, but Maggie did not pull away. Something in the woman’s
touch was soothing.

  “You see things other people can’t see,” Mrs. Churchill said.

  Maggie looked to her mother again, whose eyes were wide with what looked like shock. Maggie didn’t know how to answer Mrs. Churchill, so she simply nodded.

  “Do you see…” Mrs. Churchill’s voice broke. She heaved a sigh before continuing. “Does my mother have a light?”

  Maggie’s jaw fell open. How did Mrs. Churchill know about the light? Maggie had only shared that secret with her mother.

  Mrs. Churchill squeezed Maggie’s hand and gave her a reassuring smile.

  Maggie glanced at the old woman. Her jaw had gone slack and she was no longer stroking Thomas. She stared vacantly out the window. If the woman had a light, Maggie didn’t see it. Maggie shook her head. “I don’t see one.”

  Tears streamed down Mrs. Churchill’s face. She swallowed before casting a glance at her mother. “And Thomas. Is he with her?”

  “Yes. “

  Mrs. Churchill wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I see her stroking him sometimes. I loved that cat.”

  Thomas stretched his legs before jumping onto the sofa beside Mrs. Churchill and climbing into her lap. He lovingly purred while rubbing his face against her arm.

  Maggie smiled before looking back up at Mrs. Churchill. “He knows.”

  Mrs. Churchill looked down at her lap. She raised a shaky hand and began palming the air. Thomas leaned into her hand and purred louder.

  “He likes it,” Maggie said.

  Mrs. Churchill answered with a strangled cry. More tears streamed down her face, but she continued to palm the air.

  Mother clutched her knees as her wide gaze traveled from Maggie to Mrs. Churchill and back again.

  After several tense moments, Thomas finally jumped from Mrs. Churchill’s lap and wandered into the kitchen.

  “He’s gone now,” Maggie said.

  Mrs. Churchill fixed Maggie with a hardened stare. “Mr. Churchill said it was an accident.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  Mother finally cleared her throat and leaned toward Mrs. Churchill. “I’m sorry about all this.”

  “Why are you sorry?” Mrs. Churchill’s voice rose several octaves. She waved a hand at Maggie. “You have a very special child.”

  “I-I know,” Mother stammered.

  Mrs. Churchill’s shoulders fell. “I knew my mother didn’t have much longer.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Mother said with an edge of defeat in her voice. She slowly came to her feet. “Maggie and I should go.”

  “Why would you go?” Mrs. Churchill gasped before reaching up and clutching Mother’s hand. “I need you here, Rebecca.” She turned kind eyes toward Maggie. “I especially need you, Maggie.”

  “Me?” Maggie barely choked out the word.

  “You said it yourself. I have a dirty house. Who better to clean it?”

  Maggie’s knees felt weak. Could she and Mother really have found a place to stay? A home where they wouldn’t be judged for Maggie’s strange sight? This was too good to be true. She shook her head. “The others don’t always talk to me.”

  “But they will, child.” Mrs. Churchill’s smile widened. She reached out and clasped Maggie on the shoulder. “Give them time.” She stood and smoothed a hand down her wrinkled dress before pushing a few loose strands of hair behind her ears. “Rebecca,” she said to Mother in a voice that left no room for argument. “You and Maggie must stay. I’ll double your salary.”

  “Double?” Mother gasped. “But what if your mother—”

  “My mother’s passing will be even more reason for you and Maggie to stay.” Her eyes began to water again and her lower lip trembled. “Please.”

  Maggie looked at her mother. Her hesitant smile was reassuring. Maggie looked back at Mrs. Churchill and nodded.

  Mrs. Churchill leaned over and wrapped Maggie in a strong hug. Thomas was back, purring as he rubbed against Maggie’s legs.

  The house was dirty, very dirty, but if Mrs. Churchill was willing to accept Maggie, maybe she would learn to like living there.

  #

  When Tara West isn’t trying to think of something witty to say, she’s busy arguing with the voices in her head.

  Find her at her blog tarawestauthor.wordpress.com or follow her on Facebook and Twitter

  Safe

  Emma Jameson

  London, 1858

  To those who ask why I done it, why Benjamin Barrow, son of a respectable rag and bone man, took to thieving from corpses, I says, “For the bleeding steven, hey?” and leave it at that. I don’t spill all I know to every Champagne Charlie I meet down the pub. For one thing, half the blokes in this world are thicker than a fresh corpse and less diverting to talk to. For another, I’m an educated man, and that makes all the difference. I can read. Show me a newspaper, open a bleeding book and I’ll read out any page. I can do sums and recite most of “Daffodils” by William bloody Wordsworth. So expecting me to reveal me innermost clockwork to any old sod with a pint in hand is like expecting the PM to visit Wapping of a Sunday afternoon. Expect all you please, it ain’t bloody happening.

  But you—you’re not quite the mutton-faced fathead, that much I see. So permit me to whisper the truth in your shell-like. I didn’t get in the business of grave robbing just for the money. I got in it for me principles.

  Listen. There are urchins no higher than your elbow what thieve in the streets. Cut the purses of rich and poor alike, without a care for them what is inconvenienced and them what is ruined. And down a certain lane you’ll find fresh young girls hanging out windows, cherries peeping above the lace, cooing to anything in trousers. The brothel-master trains them up to be regular Whores of Babylon. And don’t be soft in the head—boys are hidden inside those houses as well, awaiting men of a certain appetite. Me, I never fancied thieving from strangers nor selling me own sweetmeats. But me education ended suddenly, when I were thirteen. Father went up to Jesus and suddenly there were no one to pay the fees. I apprenticed at the smithy and got on well, too, but after six months a bigger boy took me place. Couldn’t find work tending bar, t’was too much competition. Couldn’t feed meself on what a boot boy earned, nor stomach the monthly beatings. All that made thieving from them what shuffled off this mortal coil the perfect situation.

  Is that a lip-curl I spy? A shudder? Oh, no, luv, t’will never do. Let me disabuse you, as they say in the best circles. Let me enlighten your poor provincial mind.

  A grave robber is a robber only in the most academic sense. Who is injured by the grave robber’s actions? The family of the dearly departed? Not bloody likely. Believe me, them vultures never plant an exalted stiff without taking their own portion first. Is Society injured? The Rule of Law? Show me how. Piles of bones get planted with riches they don’t need. But I need ‘em. As for the fresh corpses—those newly-dead blighters that doctors and surgeons occasionally paid me to resurrect—I got no patience for them what bleat, “It injures their dignity.” Go dig up a corpse. Haul him up by his neckerchief and stare into his empty eye sockets. The dead got no dignity. Whatever made them human has passed beyond this veil of tears. At least I always thought so. But I’m getting ahead of me story.

  Picture it—me, Benjamin Barrow, handsome and dapper and no more than seventeen, though me downy whiskers were in and I could pass for twenty. Dressed in clothes bought off Monmouth Street what fit good, except through the chest and shoulders. Vigorous, I was, and strong as a new ox. Met a man called Mr. Crook in a bar called The Earl’s Knob. He said he needed a doughty young fellow to perform the sort of tasks what sent ordinary men running. I asked, is it lawful? Mr. Crook gave me a mouthful of yellow teeth.

  “Does it matter?”

  It didn’t. So I turned up at Lichgate Cemetery just as the church bells rang one o’ the clock, the first hour of a bleak new day. Tall, thin and dressed all in black like the gentleman he weren’t, Mr. Crook awaited me.

  “Where a
re your tools?” Mr. Crook carried a spade, a small pickax and an unlit lantern.

  I shrugged.

  “Take mine, then.” Looking happy for the excuse, Mr. Crook handed the spade over, shifting the lantern to his other hand.

  “I got matches for that.” I dug in a pocket.

  “Never mind. There’s a full moon, and starlight besides.” Mr. Crook pointed at the sky. “We shall hold the lantern in reserve as long as possible. Learn to have a care, Barrow, if you wish to prosper in this line of work.”

  That first night on the job gave me a right case of the shivers. In them days, Lichgate were divided in two parts—three, if you count the Potter’s Field. But Mr. Crook’s game weren’t to dig up paupers or condemned men with stretched necks. Following information passed on by a friend in the funerary business, Mr. Crook led me direct to Lichgate’s posh half, where the gold was planted.

  Mind you, in them days I was so green, I’d not heard of the men who undertake burials, providing coffin, headstone, even paid mourners. In our family it were always the women what done it: washed and dressed the dead, laid the body in the parlor for viewing, baked the cakes and poured the whiskey. An uncle nailed the lid on the coffin, but otherwise death was women’s business. I suppose if me mam and me Auntie Flora died on the same day, God forbid, me old dad might have hired one of them funerary sorts to take over. Elsewise, never. But the rich ain’t like us. Need white coffins and white hearses and matching white ponies to bury little girls. Expect stiff beaver hats and bombazine scarves to plant men of good fortune. Want paid weepers and moon-faced children to fill out a scanty crowd or prettify a homely family. What with all the foolishness they spend their steven on, makes you wonder how they earned it in the first place, don’t it?

  Then there’s this rubbish about decorating every corpse with baubles. The rich never heard the maxim ‘you can’t take it with you,’ I reckon. Mr. Crook and his cohort, Mr. Dross, hated the thought of gold and silver and cut jewels sealed underground while their masters or mistresses rotted. They boasted about liberating rings and necklaces and filigreed snuff boxes like they were rescuing maiden ladies from African elephants. Mr. Dross took inventory of the items each corpse was buried with. A few days after the grave had settled, Mr. Crook crept along by night to dig up the treasures, splitting the proceeds with Mr. Dross sixty-forty.