Under the Night

Part One

                                                                             Belldale, New Jersey

                                                                                       February 1897

Midnight. There was nothing but miles of blue-black shadows swirling through the sky. Pale stars winked sleepily as the moon glowed gently, like the warm, motherly face of a goddess. Things creaked and groaned at this hour that didn't during the day, yet only one person seemed to notice it.

A tall, large-boned figure filled the room. Red hair tumbled down the back, and a sharp, beaklike nose and square jaw pointed toward a faint glimmer of light. Her outline was so hard and firm, it could have been featured on a coin. But pale-blue eyes bulged from her head-- giving her a look of permanent surprise.

"Oh, dear," purred her elegant contralto, "I fear I've forgotten to braid my hair!"

This figure belonged to the honorable interior decorator and steel heiress, Ida Spinner Pumphrey. Some nights she stood in front of the parlor window, watching for ghosts. The weather seemed to call for them; dark-gray clouds gathered to grumble like old men. Lightning sliced the pale sky in half, and her eyes to pieces.

"Who is it?"

There was a slight buzzing in Ida's ear. Then a hum. A soft, child-like whisper, before a figure filled the corner. It was thin and gold-white, but Ida scarcely saw it before it flitted under a heavy curtain. A slight bulge indicated a child-sized figure, but the giggling was what made Ida's stomach churn.

"Mrs. Fincher!" she shrieked, "Finchy! Oh dear, dear, dear....!"

The housekeeper dashed into the room, gripping the train of her long nightgown.

"Ah, what is it, ma'am?"

Ida aimed a finger at the scarlet curtain as she sank behind the armchair. Mrs. Fincher walked over to the curtain and pulled it back, causing a silvery gleam of moonlight to glide across the parlor.

"There! It's nothing, ma'am."

"Nothing!" huffed Ida, "Hah-hm! I saw something move, Finchy! Didn't you?"

"No. I didn't. You might want to go to bed, ma'am."

Ida frowned at Finchy. Occasionally she regretted hiring the middle-aged dame, and tonight was one of those nights. Mrs. Fincher was a tall, sinewy, brown-haired woman with a small, tight mouth set over a heavy jaw. She carried a wicker basket under her arm, even as she worked.   She didn't say much, and when she did, it was dull, clipped, almost mechanical. Most would call her the ideal housekeeper, but Ida didn't like this...this...apathy toward her person.

"I saw a ghost," Ida snapped, stepping forward, "Th-That must have been it! I have been haunted by the scepter of my ancestress...!"

"Please go to bed, Mrs. Pumphrey. You'll feel better in the morning."

"I-I certainly will," Ida sighed, wobbling across the hall, "Good night, Mrs. Fincher."

The housekeeper nodded, raising an eyebrow.

I wish I could say the same, without gagging!

XXX