Joseph had never been afraid of the dark. As a child, he would be the one to crawl under his cousins’ beds during visits and fight the “monsters.” Even servants knew of his reputation as a fearsome monster slayer and would ask him to inspect cellars before venturing down into their dark recesses. As he grew older, the monsters vanished and were replaced with uncertainty about his place in the world. While Michael went on to a successful career in the military, his younger brother had been tossed carelessly upon a turbulent sea.
Like now.
Within the former brilliance of Dr. Timmons’ home, Joseph lay on a bed in the cleanest room he could find, watching the shadows reveal themselves on peeling walls still full of family portraits. A cold sweat pricked his flesh as shadowy figures crawled down from the ceiling, their voices reminiscent of hissing serpents along dirt floors. He sat up in a blind panic, screaming at them to leave him alone.
“What do you want?” he demanded, scrambling off the bed and quickly lighting a match. He held it up as though its flickering flame would offer protection. “Go away!” he yelled, swearing when the flame scorched his fingers. He hurled the spent match at them and ran downstairs, where they finally cornered him in the library.
They tortured him for hours, taunting him about Anjuli and their unborn children.
When Michael returned the next morning, Joseph was curled under a table in the fetal position, mumbling incoherently about Anjuli. “What happened?” Michael cried, attempting to coax his brother out. “Is there someone here? Did they—”
Joseph tried to tell his brother what he’d seen, but his explanation fell on deaf ears. Michael thought he’d had too much to drink. “It’s an old house,” he said, helping Joseph into the kitchen. “The dark plays tricks on a weary mind.”
“I know what I saw!” Joseph yelled, slamming his fist on the table. “And it wasn’t a trick of my addled mind!”
Michael wisely kept his mouth shut, offering to help open the mausoleum. “I brought rope. But no one wanted to donate a mule.”
“We’ll manage.”
They spent hours trying to pry open the leaden doors, first with rope, then with crowbars found in the gardening shed. Working through the afternoon, they finally broke through after the carriage arrived to pick them up. Seeing no one at the gate, the driver left a note saying he would return the next day and left. Michael ripped it to pieces, infuriated he would have to stay the night.
“All I brought to eat was a sandwich,” he grumbled, returning to Joseph. “Dammit!”
“I hate sandwiches.”
“Well…? What’s inside Dr. Timmons’ tomb? Gold? Jewels of any kind?”
“Neither,” Joseph grunted, peering inside. He stepped over a rotten casket and dried leaves mingling with the stench of decay. The mausoleum was small, but large enough for a family of four. Nestled within their respective vaults were Mrs. Jane Timmons, her son, and an infant daughter, who died six weeks after Dr. Timmons set foot on the property. “There’s another grave,” he called out, stepping outside for some fresh air. “They had a daughter.”
Michael was indifferent to the news. “So, the good doctor had another brat? What of it?”
Joseph’s curiosity was more than piqued and thought it rather peculiar there was no mention of the child in the information packet the runner had sent along with the address. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“Should I be?”
“Doesn’t anything concern you besides Father’s next deposit at the bank?”
“Not really.” Michael left the tools and dusted himself off. “Maybe the girl died of a contagious disease. It happens. He may have kept it a secret to avoid panic.”
“Perhaps.”
Joseph gazed up at the sky, not caring for the way clouds circled the sun. “It looks like rain. If there’s a storm, we’ll be trapped for days.”
“Then we’d better finish our investigation and hope it’s only a sprinkle.”
The storm descended an hour after they returned to the house, bringing stinging torrents of rain that seeped through holes in the roof. Pots and pans were enlisted to slow the inevitable flood that had already made its way past the kitchen. Water continued its steady rise, coursing through the sitting room and eventually finding its way to the family apartments. Joseph and Michael were forced to retreat to the attic, where they cowered in the dark amongst shadowy figures of dress mannequins and piles of discarded clothing.
“Think there will be anything left to find in the morning?” Michael wondered when the rain showed no signs of abating. He curled up in a corner and tried to get some sleep. “I suggest you do the same,” he said to an exhausted Joseph. “When was the last time you slept?”
“Tuesday—No, Wednesday. I think.”
“I have half of that sandwich in my pocket. It’ll just go to waste.”
“I’m not really hungry. Just… cold.” Joseph wrapped a moth-eaten quilt about his shoulders, his teeth chattering. “Aren’t… y-you c-c-cold?” He blew on his hands, his exhaled breaths forming softly jagged plumes.
“A bit.”
“M-maybe we… ought to sl-sleep in sh-shifts.”
“There’s no need,” Michael grumbled, unable to find a comfortable position on the hard wooden floor. “We’re the only ones here.”
“Th-think that if y-you want.” Joseph fell into an uneasy slumber where images of a screaming Anjuli tormented his dreams. He woke at a sudden crash downstairs. “Michael!” he hissed, kicking his brother’s shins. “Wake up!”
“Wh-what is it?” Michael snorted. “Is it morning?”
“No! There’s someone downstairs!”
“Impossible! It’s flooded.”
“Maybe—”
Another crash was followed by the unmistakable sounds of boots on treads. Joseph flung off the quilt and sought a weapon. “Do they sound friendly?” he whispered, feeling around for something hard and deadly. All he came up with was a wooden ruler. “Tell me they’re friendly.”
“I don’t want to find out,” Michael whispered back, crouching into a defensive position. “I didn’t bring my pistol!” He dragged Joseph to the farthest corner of the attic, shoving him behind a pile of trunks. “Don’t make a sound!”
“I can fight!”
“No! They may only be thieves. I say we let them take what they want and leave. No need for bloodshed.”
“Kind of out of their way for ordinary thieves, don’t you think?”
Michael urged him to stay hidden while he sought a hiding place under the rusted frame of a wrought-iron bed. “Remember! Not a sound!”
I gripped Joshua’s hand as the attic door burst open on Michael’s scream. In that instant, I was snatched from my brother’s protective presence and hurled back into my body. All I knew was pain. The pain was such I pleaded with those around me to end my suffering. When they answered, they offered nothing but coldly clinical replies and the reassurance that my husband would be with me soon.
I did not know of whom they spoke.
Names escaped me.
Even places.
Once, I thought I was back in Rhode Island, and saw it was my mother who tucked me into bed and not a nurse. I even mistook the attending physician for my father. Days passed. A week. No one would tell me what happened. They rolled me into surgery where I lost blood I could ill afford to lose.
I suffered from excruciating headaches.
Nausea.
I woke one night and started vomiting. The nurse recoiled in disgust. A man visited me, but I did not know who he was. He was vaguely familiar, with sadness brimming in his blue eyes and a voice dulled with grief. They sent him away, telling him I needed to rest. When I improved somewhat, they moved me to another room. It was brighter, with a view of the Thames, but all I wanted to do was sleep.
And that’s all I did during those first few weeks.
I slept, woke when they told me to, ate what they set in front of me, and went back to sleep. When I was lucid enough to ask what happened, they looked at each other and offered half-truths and lies. I had been assaulted and suffered a minor stroke. They didn’t think there would be any permanent damage.
When I tried to speak, I was horrified to discover I could not.
“That’s only normal,” the doctor said, assuring me I would have my voice again. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
I wanted to be alone.
I buried my head under my pillow and wept. The nurse would come in the mornings and dose me with something I suspected was morphine. It killed the pain and made me lethargic. Eventually, I no longer cared I couldn’t speak and began to sleep my life away. When I tried to refuse the next dose, the nurse forced it down my throat.
“Don’t fight it,” she muttered, prying my mouth open and filling it with the bitter-tasting powder. “You’ll be out of here soon enough.”
Those words were incomprehensible in my current state, as I was drugged beyond all reality. I did not see the man with the blue eyes again and thought it was just as well. Something about him brought forth a feeling of resentment, as though he was somehow responsible for all this.
One night as I slept, I was wheeled downstairs and woke, disoriented by my surroundings. I did not recognize the nurse on duty and fought her, receiving a fist to the jaw for my efforts. The blow rendered me unconscious and when I again opened my eyes, saw I was in a moving carriage wrapped in a blanket. I quickly became aware I was not alone. I knew the nurse, but did not know the two men who sat across from me. One wore a black bowler hat and nudged his friend when they realized I was awake.
“Ah, Miss Gibson!” the man in the bowler chuckled. “You see fit to grace us with your presence.” He peeled off his gloves with deliberate slowness and asked a question I didn’t know how to answer. “Where is the sari?”
The man sitting beside him wore a turban and soon grew impatient. He reached across and slapped me so hard my mouth filled with blood. I spat it out, shaken by the blow. “Answer him!” he hissed, raising his hand for another.
“You’ll never get it out of her that way, Zalim,” his companion warned quietly. “Best wait till we can get her… comfortable.” He flung a handkerchief at me. “I never wanted to do it this way, Miss Gibson. But you forced my hand.”
Shaking badly and frightened, I screamed silently for Joshua.
But, as the carriage ventured beyond the stifling confines of London and into the desolate countryside, I knew no one was coming to save me.
