Page 33 of Fragile Wicked Things
I struggled to force her inside, but she fought me off and flung me aside. Thomas ignored her pleas and headed off, gun aimed towards the stables, while I set off after Auntie, but I remained helpless against her. Then, she stopped fighting and stood still. It went quiet again. Rochester and Thomas also stopped, and I could see Thomas lowering the gun. In an instant, a veil of fog drifted in and covered the grounds turning everything we could see only moments before into shapes and shadows and, eventually, obscured our view of the men. Auntie became agitated.
A shriek sounded from the stables, then another and another until it grew into a monstrous growl. Did the creature that lurked in the center of the maze escape? As unexpected as the horrifying sounds began, they ended suddenly. Auntie and I stepped forward until we were on the driveway in front of the car. Its headlights shone through the mist.
"My boy!" Auntie called out.
We saw nothing in the thick fog.
"Stay here," I said.
After letting go of Auntie, I went into the fog, each step forward slower than the last. I turned back to Auntie, but she disappeared. A heavy fog surrounded me, obscuring all visibility, and my breathing grew rapidly. Ahead of me, I could make out only shapes and shadows, darting this way and that, moving towards me. I called out to Rochester and Thomas, but no one answered. A mist was only water, but a heaviness bore down on me, pressing on my shoulders, and I felt long, bony fingers around my neck, squeezing me. I struggled against it; a claw scratched me, and I let out a scream. My cries were drowned out by demoniac laughter—low, suppressed, deep and uttered next to me. With the mist now more intense, nothing appeared near me that I could see, but I felt it there in the fog with me.
A beast ran past me, its hooves pounded the ground with such force that it knocked down the creature next to me. Auntie screamed. Then something thumped.
"Auntie! Auntie! Are you all right?" I said.
No answer. I ran back in the direction I had come from; the headlights gleaming through the mist. Auntie lay on the ground, a horrible gash to her neck, blood gushing out. Rochester's horse stood next to her. Auntie moaned.
"Edward! Thomas! It came out here. Auntie's hurt."
I rested her head on my lap and tore fabric from my skirt, pressing it against her neck wound. Within moments, it was soaked in blood. Her heartbeat weakened, her breathing short and rapid. Footsteps came towards me and when I looked up, I saw Thomas and Rochester.
"Granny?" Thomas said. His body went limp as he knelt next to her.
Rochester shoved me aside, pulled off his bow tie and held it against Auntie's neck to stop the bleeding. "Jane, run inside, lock the door and call for an ambulance. Then stay with Catherine," Rochester said.
By the time I had finished placing the emergency phone call and ran upstairs, I found Catherine sitting in the dark by the window, her hand pressed against the glass.
"I was right to worry about the beast. Did you see it?"
"No, not directly. The creature attacked us. Maybe it was a wolf."
"A wolf? Are you sure? The grounds are inhabited by ghosts—Rochester's ghosts. He swears his wife and child followed him here and sometimes I see it when I look into his eyes; black, empty."
The simple task of breathing became suddenly difficult, unnatural to me somehow. Rochesterhada wife and child who were taken from him. Everything about him had been realized—the darkness that controlled him, his unhappiness and his combative behavior toward me. Catherine brought me here, and forced us together, in the hope that I could make him forget, or at least bring some happiness into his miserable life. Who was I to do such a thing when happiness escaped me always?
"They torture him," Catherine continued, "just as she does. I used to believe it wasn't true, just his imagination, his guilty conscience for surviving whatever took them away, but then you saw her that night outside your window, the beast with the red hair. I heard her laughter tonight. She's coming for me, Jane. She wants what is hers. She crossed an ocean to find him."
"Whom do you speak of?"
A red light flashed against Catherine's silhouette, and the sound of a siren grew louder. "I've made a terrible mistake. It's not safe for you here, Jane."
Ten
Two weeks after the accident that left Auntie immobile, having suffered a spinal injury, she still hadn't spoken a word. Her doctor could find no physical explanation for the muteness and mused it could be due to trauma, but that was beyond his level of expertise. He sent for an expert from a nearby hospital, but an appointment had yet to be confirmed. I spent two hours a day at Charity Hospital, sharing the responsibility of caring for Auntie with Thomas. Away from Thornfield, society functioned in a conventional state, the hospital being no different with its segregated wards, separate food services, and often I received looks of disdain from one of the white nurses. Thomas and I had to edit our friendship in public. I was there on behalf of Rochester to care for a servant he considered family.
Rochester never went to the hospital all the days I went, and when I wondered about this out loud, Thomas explained Rochester took care of the hospital bill and brought experts from other cities to examine Auntie, so he knew Rochester cared about his grandmother. It was clear to me then that Rochester remained desperate for a happy outcome and that, just as death followed me, it did him. Could this be the hospital that Rochester's wife and child were brought to—after what exactly? A car accident? If Rochester drove the car that night, did he relive the accident, choosing a different action for a different outcome?
It was mere speculation on my part, pushed to the compartment of my brain that gave too much consideration to Rochester. It was natural to have my mind wander while my body went through the tedious task of feeding Auntie mushy peas, the kind a mother would give her baby and, just like a baby, Auntie spit it out. Holding the spoon to her lips, I wiped away the excess, tapping it into the bowl and turned to Thomas, shoulders sunken, head to my side in a plea for help.
"Granny, it's dessert you want, ain't it? Puree blueberry pie. Mmm mmm, I can just taste how good it is." Thomas brought a non-existent spoon to his mouth, took a bite of the imaginary blueberry pie, smiled and patted his stomach. Auntie looked away and tears sprung to her eyes. "Oh, come on, Granny. I know you're a stubborn, feisty old woman, but you have to eat to keep up your strength."
"Maybe she has an upset stomach. She doesn't usually give us a hard time," I said.
"No, not like she does, Mr. Rochester."
"Mr. Rochester?" I asked.
Both Auntie's eyes and mine widened at the mere mention of Rochester's name—mine in surprise that Rochester had been there at all, but in hers, I saw terror. Her lips trembled and she opened her mouth, a dry mumble escaping in what had been her first attempt at speech.
