Made of Glass
This story is a story that is living in my brain. I am considering doing a sort of manga thing with it, but in the meantime I thought I'd go ahead and write it up. With any luck, I'll know where to stop, because it's segeways into the slightly more twisted, steampunk side of my brain and there will be....grotesqueness :D Isn't it wonderful?
This is the first five pages, cleaned up a bit but not edited. Kinda boring, but you can see where I'm going with it :D
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My knock on the door yields no answer, so I shrug and I enter, dragging my rolling suitcase along behind.
It’s taken me ages to find this place-if I wasn’t so damn stubborn, I could have just stayed at a Holiday Inn-but already the trip and the pain and the pounding rain was worth it.
With a sight of satisfaction, I drop the handle and let the suitcase thud against the floor with an agreeable thwack.
I’m in a hallway, or what would be a reception area in real hotels. It’s wider than it is long, and open on either end to dim hallways lit by old-fashioned gas lamps. No doubt replaced and cleverly disguised light bulbs.
Before me stood a charming, squat desk, carved out of oak and so old that the varnish had darkened the wood to a deep black. A reception register lay in state amidst a clutter of pens, inkwells (for show, I was sure) and a card that said: “If No Service, Ring Bell.”
Beside it sat a chubby silver bell.
So, shrugging, I hit it.
The sound echoed through the dim stillness, and it was like I really realized-finally-how quiet it had been before I rang that bell. The whole place smelled of moth and the peculiar scent of old wallpaper that had been shut up for too long. Everything is shades of soft, dusty rose, with deeper, maroon roses interspersing through neat, geometric lines. The furniture’s all white and crème with red embroidery and chipping gold clawed feet.
Charming, all in all. But more importantly, relaxing. The massive sash windows behind me rattle as the rain drives against them, and I slick my hair back with a sigh.
On the second sharp ring, a woman appears.
She looks like she belongs here, but too glamorous to be the reception lady. My age, young, a wealth of dark curls and a fashionable sundress finished off with wicker pump heels. She’s going out-a handbag slings from her arm and she’s wearing sunglasses.
No raincoat.
“Excuse me-?”
She starts, apparently she hasn’t seen me, and turns around properly. Then she smiles, and pulls off her sunglasses to exhibit dark eyes and smile lines.
“I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t see you there. How long have you been waiting? I’m afraid our reception lady is home with the flu, and I didn’t realize we’d been booked-“
“Oh, you haven’t.” I tugged at my purse strap. “I’m afraid I didn’t book in advance. My name’s Miranda Winter, I’m traveling through Georgia on my way to Florida, and I was going to stop for the night at Valdosta, but I’m afraid the rain-“
“Oh, it’s understandable. Don’t worry; we have rooms. Slow season, even for Georgia.” She smiles and steps around the squat desk to the other side, pulling out one of the quaint fountain pens and actually dipping it in an inkwell. “Miranda Winters, wasn’t it?”
“Just Winter.”
She nodded and inked my name in on the dusty, Victorian-print register. All by hand. I couldn’t see a computer anywhere, unless I counted my own laptop, digging into my back. How strange, but it did keep with the ‘theme’ of the disused plantation. I guess not many stopped here for a stay except for over-wealthy patrons, and the whole place is kept up on old money and Southern charm.
“There, dear. Here, let me get you a key. I’ll walk you through the place.”
“If you’re going out, it’s fine-just point me in the direction and I can figure it out from there. Don’t let me keep you.”
She shrugs and rattles open a drawer from the desk, rummaging through until she holds up what looks like an old-fashioned skeleton key. “I was just going out for a bite to eat anyway. The cook’s shut up for the night and I’ve been here all day. Easier than making it myself, you know.”
I just nod, leaning over to scoop up the handle of my (smaller) suitcase. I left the big, two-week-stay-in-Florida suitcase in the trunk of my car. Unless my trunk leaked, I wasn’t going to drag that monster up the steps and over the uneven, whitewashed porch.
The woman silently took my laptop case, which I relinquished willingly, and led the way down the left hand hall. It turned out to be a shotgun hallway-empty, except for gas lamps, and opening out onto the grand living space in the back of the house. She led me through room after room, all elaborately decorated. Even a music room, with piano and full-sized harp, lap harp, fiddle, violin, everything. All was perfectly dusted and in ideal condition, with little sign of wear.
Through the ballroom was a grand, sweeping white staircase that looked like it came directly out of a movie set. Her heels clicked as we climbed it-it must be real marble and polished to perfection.
As we draw alongside the actual sleeping suits, she finally speaks again.
“So what made you come to the Spanish Moss? Not many people go out of their way, now that so many modern hotels are popping up alongside the highway.”
“I thought about it,” I admit, “But I’ve heard about this place, even did some reading online. Sounds like a wonderful place to visit, so I thought I’d risk getting lost to see some of the grand old south in its finest form.”
“Not it’s finest, but thank you for the compliment. We love this place. But let me guess-it wasn’t the architecture that drew you.”
I squirm inwardly, but answer coolly.
“No, although that is an attraction. I’m an amateur ghost hunter, and-“
“Ah. Family ghosts.” Her tone is noticeably cooler than it has been before. “You’re not the first.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended-I promise I won’t go poking around. I’ve just heard such interesting stories-“
“Oh, it’s all right.” Her tone was still frigid, and we drew up alongside room 108. “We’ve just had so many ‘professionals’ trooping in and out and setting up EVPs and camcorders and TV crew-will you believe that our old cook called TAPS in? She was convinced she heard voices in the old drawing room down the hall. She didn’t tell me until I came home to find the camera crew and six black trucks occupying my driveway and begonia bed.”
I cringe a little, hoping I’m not flushing. “I promise I’m not anything like that destructive. I just like poking around a little, and listening. Just a few camera shots and recordings, maybe an EVP, if my equipment’s been set up. I won’t, if you’d rather not.”
She shrugs, and unlocks my door. “I’m leaving for the night, so I suppose it doesn’t matter to me. We have a few security guards, so you won’t be alone. But any ‘footsteps’ you hear might be them, clunking in for some coffee.”
I drag my suitcase in, and then turn to take the key from her. “Is anyone else here?”
“Yes, a couple on the story up from you, and a family on the story down. You have this whole story to yourself.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t ask your name-are you the owner-?”
“Oh, no, my brother is. I’m Emily Fairchild, and the estate is owned by the Halliday’s.”
“Still?” the word slips out of my mouth and I instantly shut it again, hoping my immediate interest doesn’t insult her again.
But she just smiles, if in a slightly weary way. “So you know the history of the place then?”
“Some.” I admit, taking my laptop bag from her and tossing it onto the canopied bed. “I know the Halliday’s bought the land in the seventeen hundreds, when Georgia was just expanding out of being a penal colony. Sugar production and refinement, wasn’t it? They came over from England and set up shop here after-after they lost the land in England.”
She hums in agreement, and, to my surprise, doesn’t leave. “After the family scandal, yes. The head of the family was dead, and the eldest son wanted to uproot and move away from all the gossip.”
Encouraged, I nod. “Didn’t a girl die?”
She smiles, slightly crooked. “Abigail Chase. Disappeared, really, but everyone blames the second son.”
“Gregory Halliday.”
“Yes, my brother-in-law’s actually named after him, you know.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Yes. The charges were absurd, really. Whatever happened to her, Gregory didn’t do it. He had hemophilia, and had sustained serious damage in his knees that left him mostly wheelchair bound. It’s more likely that the sister, Anne, had something to do with it, if the family is to be blamed at all.”
“Hemophilia?” I repeat. This is the first I’d heard of this development. “It runs in the family?”
“The mother was Russian, related to a whole dynasty of women who’d passed it down for ages. It was dormant in Alexander, but active in Gregory, which is why Gregory never married. Anne probably carried it, however, because the women always do, and passed it on. Dormant for a generation or two, but it’s still in the family and still manifests. My Gregory, my brother-in-law, has type A hemophilia.”
“I’m so sorry-“
She waves a hand, perhaps regretting having said so much. “In this day an age of medicine, it’s not so hard to take care of it. Do you have everything you need for the night?”
“What-oh, yes, this will do splendidly, thanks so much. And thanks for talking to me, I love hearing about old scandals and romance and such.”
Impulsively, I stick out a hand. After a moment, she reaches out and takes it. I assume that’ll be all, and prepare to shut the door, but it isn’t all, and she’s still on the threshold.
“You know…” She muses. “Tell you what. If you’re interested, I’ll come back after a nice, unhealthy dinner at a McDonalds or Subway, and I can tell you more about the family ghosts. You have eaten, haven’t you?”
I gawked at her. “Well, yes, but are you sure-?”
“Why not.” She grins, friendly again. “Might as well tell you, since the Wikipedia article got it all wrong. Maybe you can phone TAPS and tell them what they missed out on. See you soon.” She waves and trots down the hall, disappearing into the half-lit gloom of artificial gas lights, and leaves me to ponder my incredible good fortune.
I decided to take a nap in her absence. I am little on edge after she leaves, perhaps spooked at the idea of sleeping in a haunted house. Well, Ms. Fairchild said it wasn’t haunted, but someone had been so convinced that it was that they’d hired in TAPS-and TAPS had accepted the case. Maybe it was Ms. Fairchild that wasn’t being entirely honest. Maybe there were paranormal phenomena haunting the halls of the old plantation house.
Of course, as soon as these thoughts began to drift through my head, I can’t sleep, squishy, pleasant mattress and canopy or not.
It is so quiet. The little golden clock perched on the television set chirps out the passing time: fifteen minutes, twenty, twenty-five-
I sit upright and grab my laptop case, opening it hurriedly. Ghost hunting is one of my more stupid pursuits. I’d watched Dateline and horror movies as a child, and I know I am a yellow-bellied coward. But there is just something to incredibly…inviting about the idea of ghosts. Of real ghosts, haunting real places…I’d researched websites on the Halliday murders, because six deaths had been linked to the Halliday family: three when they had lived in England, and three after they fled here to America. Of course, the only truly suspicious occurrence was the disappearance of one Miss Abigail Chase, that Emily Fairchild had mentioned earlier. But the stories had built up and the Halliday’s had become quite the local legend in their time. Here in Georgia, their servants had apparently spread tales far and wide of blood rituals and devil-worshipping. Of course, those servants had been summarily dismissed from service, but the more fantastical-minded gossipmongers had only seen that move as a sign of affirmation to all accusations.
The internet connection here is wireless (like everywhere else in the universe, I am sure: orphans in Africa have to hike six miles for water, but could link up to check their Spam filters in under ten seconds) but spotty. I have to move around the room a few times before finally settling in a window that gives me the best connection. The rain has died down, and now the glass is warm and sticky against my neck, the night black.
Wikipedia, then ‘Halliday Murders’ then ‘Enter’.
It’s a short page; urban legends only get so much attention, and folk lore gets less. Still, there’s a short list of the supposed ‘victims’: names, ages, date of disappearance, location of disappearance, and if they were found or not.
Abigail Chase had been found in England-her body had prompted the family to leave for their estates here in Georgia just to get away from the scandal. Two other bodies had been found: one Miss Eliza Smith, here in Georgia, and one Mary Adams, in Georgia as well. Both had been found actually on the Halliday property, although the bones of Mary Adams had been discovered twenty years after the death of Alexander Halliday, who had survived both his brother and his sister. Eliza Smith was discovered in the far sugar cane field, naked and slashed horribly. She had been decapitated, and her hair shorn away entirely. Both hands had been missing, as well as one eye and part of her nose. Mary Adams was discovered thirty years after Eliza Smith, shortly after Alexander Halliday died and the new owners of the Halliday estate came to appraise the building and (now disused) grounds. She had been found frighteningly close to the plantation house itself, buried under the gazebo at the duck pond.
Duck pond.
I sit up and stare into my rented room. The creamy rose wallpaper and rich, plush furnishings blur together until I have to blink a few times to clear my eyesight.
The plantation grounds were not the same as they had been all those years ago, I knew. A hundred plus years changed the shape of the land, as well as the owners and the property lines.
I’d seen the duck pond, driving in. The gazebo was painted white and tiled with old-fashioned Italian cotter tiles. In the slashing rain, the whitewash had glowed and provided a sort of beacon to the driveway.
Now, I shivered at the thought. Maybe it wasn’t the same gazebo as Mary Adam’s gazebo, but if it was…
My laptop screen flickers and I sigh as I loose connection yet again. The laptop goes blank and then the blue screen sputters to life: Configuring Updates Stage 1 of 3 Please Do Not Turn Off Your Computer.
I hate that screen. My laptop is haunted by a recalcitrant brownie that delights in configuring updates just when I get interested in my research.
Doesn’t matter, I suppose, because I have work I need to do for college essays anyway, and I’m just wasting time on the computer when I could be accomplishing student backlog.
I’m writing, my pen scratching across notebook paper. I prefer to type. My computer is humming happily, keeping me company and at Stage 3 of 3 Please Do Not Turn Off Your Computer. The clock turns out to be a coo-coo clock, and frightens the hell out of me when it strikes eight o’clock. It’s black outside now, and I’m actually getting sleepy. Writing about the Irish Potato Famine will bore the ghost stories and haunting right out of your mind. Even the occasional creak and the clatter as pipes turn on and water heaters click on and off cease to make me jump.
I’m relaxed, cool, unconcerned, right up until there’s a knock at my door and I startle so hard my pen dashes a thick black line across my page.
For a moment I stay there, sprawled on the bed in a sea of History 101 books and papers, my laptop configuring and my heart thudding.
But then the irrational panic passes and I remember Ms Fairchild and all the ghost stories come floating back.
Sure enough, Emily Fairchild is standing at the door, smiling, damp from the rain and the heavy humidity.
“I’m sorry I ran later than I thought I would. Traffic problems, and I had to pick up some dry cleaning while I was in town. Oh, and get my over-night bag; you’ve got me thinking about the Halliday ghosts, you know, and I think I’ll spend the night in the old library with the genealogies.” She glances over my shoulder into my room. “You still interested in some ghost stories?”
I nod, dismissing the pile of books with a wave. “History class. It can wait. Do you want to come in, or-?”
“Oh, no. I was thinking, you see, and remembering all the crazy stories about this house, as well as the absurd architecture. You won’t believe some of the things built into this place. I thought I’d bring you along on a tour, tell you some of the haunted hotspots, and show you some of the oil paintings as illustrations. You game?”
I can’t help but like Emily Fairchild. I must be grinning like a child in a candy store at the prospect of such a suggestion.
“Can I bring my camcorder?”
“Gonna have to say no to that, we don’t usually allow photography and recordings of the building. Almost everything here is antique, including antiques from Anne Halliday’s personal collection. Marketability, you understand.”
“Notepad?”
“Be my guest.”
I scoop up my history notepad and rip out the written-on sheets, and cap my pen. “Where are we starting?”
"The Painted Hall. Come on."
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HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU Stop
This is not your birthday present stop An email will be sent stop With your Bithday Song where I make all my characters sing Stop And your birthday story Stop Hint-Adrian, Javair, Saldon, Cahir Stop
See you soon Stop
Irene V Stop
:D