Page 10 of One Last Breath

“She’s looking for them too. If she finds them, it’ll be too late.”

Another chill runs through me. Does she know that I’m looking into the family’s secrets? And what is she worried about? If I find them, it’ll be too late for what? And what are they? Who are they?

“We have to stop her. We have to turn her away, or she’ll fall with them.”

Now I am truly frightened. I wish to flee, but I can’t move, can’t even cry out for help. I know it’s not my own will that keeps me here because every fiber of my being screams at me to run, to return to the house, to lock my room, to resign my position first thing in the morning and fly anywhere else.

Why did I even become a governess? Why didn’t I remain a schoolteacher? I was happy then. Why at fifty years old did I decide to embroil myself in the secret lives of others when I had spent my entire adult life content to worry only about myself?

“But you weren’t content. Not really. You’ve only just begun to admit that to yourself.”

It takes me a moment to realize that the voice that has spoken is not that of my conscious, but that of the woman kneeling in front of the geraniums. Elizabeth.

I try to apologize for my intrusion, to promise that I’ll never return here again, but my lips are as untethered from my will as the rest of me. I can only stand mutely and listen.

“You were happy because you were hiding. But there are some things you can’t hide from, and as age deepens the lines in your forehead, you realize that dying without answers is unacceptable.”

She lifts her head, and I open my mouth to cry out, why I’m not sure. No sound comes out. The only sound is her voice, and the only light is from the harsh moon and the ghostly flowerbed in front of me.

“You still hide, though. You surround yourself with little mysteries because they convince you you’re a good person, but you can’t run forever. The voice of your sister’s blood cries out to you from the ground, and eventually, you will return to that ground if for no other reason than to stop her incessant shrieking.”

What is this? What is she talking about? How does she know about Annie?

God damn it, why can’t I move?

Elizabeth turns her head.

It’s not Elizabeth. It’s Annie. Not the sister I knew and loved, though. The image that stares at me is that of the ghost I first encounter in the Ashford home. It is my sister, but she is pale, nearly translucent. Her lips are gray and bloodless, and in place of eyes, there are only two gaping holes, darker than night, emptier than death.

She opens her mouth and screams.

***

I sit up, screaming at the wall.

I am in my bed in my room. Light filters in through the curtains of my bedroom window. I look at my door and see that it is locked. I am shaking with terror, but I am safe.

I had a nightmare. A bad one. I try to recall what it was, but the images are fading rapidly. I can only remember the harsh light of the moon and the wrought iron gate that separates Elizabeth’s geraniums from the rest of the estate opening soundlessly at my touch.

I release a heavy sigh and run my hands through my hair. It’s been some time since I had a night terror that bad. I still have some of the sleeping pills prescribed to me during my time with the Carltons. Perhaps I should take one tonight.

Oh well. Whatever haunted me in my dreams, it’s not here now. It was never there in the first place. It’s only my mind playing tricks on me.

I throw open the covers and step onto the floor. That’s when I see that I am not in my nightgown. I am in my dress from the day before, a thick woolen sweater pulled over it. On my feet are my walking boots, and a muddy trail of prints leads from the doorway to the bed.

CHAPTER SIX

The weekend keeps me busy enough that I don’t have time to dwell on any mysteries—real or otherwise. There are nine children on the estate ranging in age from three to eight years old. It takes all of my energy to keep up with them, and since they are in school the other four days of the week, they aren’t interested in lessons. I do love children, especially those still small enough to believe that all of life is beautiful and bad things only happen in movies, so I don’t dislike the work, but it is work.

In any case, I’m grateful for it because when Monday arrives, I am sufficiently removed from the events of the prior week to leave them in the background of my mind. I feel a somewhat inflated sense of pride at that, as though I have gained some triumph by keeping my nose out of the Greenwood family’s business.

Well, it is an accomplishment for me. I have a track record of sticking my face where it doesn’t belong, and I really do hope to avoid the urge to do the same here.

When my chores are done for the day, I explore the Glens, the nine-hundred-acre oak forest that comprises the bulk of the estate. The Glens are less flamboyant than the gardens, since they are dominated by one species, but they are peaceful. The spreading canopy shields me from the harshest of the sun’s rays, and the scent that fills the air isn’t cloyingly sweet or fragrant but hearty and earthy and as close to natural as a manicured landscape can be. Even the birds here seem calmer, as though taking advantage of the shade to engage in gentle conversation rather than their typical enthusiastic chorus.

This peace, as is unfortunately the case more often than not with me, is short-lived. I hear footsteps approaching from the right, and when I turn toward the sound, I see a man in a polo shirt and khakis over stained work boots approaching.

He stops when he sees me and says, “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t expect anyone to be here. The family is usually all working, and the servants tend to stay in the house.”

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