“It is,” she had replied, and meant it, at peace with her decision, buoyed up by the happiness she saw it bring to those she loved, for there is nothing makes a person so attractive as seeing others enjoy his company.
Once everyone was assembled, Edward gave a short speech, saying how delighted he and Beatrice would be to welcome John into the family. He then proposed a toast to the happy couple and the engagement was official. Cook was seen to have to dab her eyes with her apron, and Hecate’s mother was more animated and jolly than anyone had seen her for quite some time. There was a great deal of discussion regarding how the engagement should be announced in the papers and whether or not the charm of a Christmas wedding outweighed the practicality of an autumn one. John was invited to stay for dinner and Edward treated him to his best port before the evening drew to a close. In the hallway he had held Hecate’s hands in his and kissed her briefly. She had been a little surprised at how much she had liked it and at the sadness she felt as she waved him off.
Now, as she hugged her brother good night, she thought properly for the first time about what it would be like to leave the family home and set up her own household.
“You’re squeezing jolly hard, Hecate,” Charlie complained.
“Sorry,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Get a good night’s sleep.” She reached up to switch off the gaslight.
“Not all the way off,” he told her, sounding much younger than his years, betraying a little of the fear he lived with due to his illness.
She left the light at a glow, the soft beam of illumination falling upon him as he lay down, lighting him like an old master painting.
“Good night,” she said as she left, closing the door quietly as she went. She crossed the landing and was about to go into her own bedroom when something made her stop. At first she thought it was a sound, like the dull thudding of heavy treads upon the stairs. But then she realized it was not a noise as such, rather the shuddering of footfalls through the floorboards beneath her feet. This sensation was accompanied by a smell, sour and dank, putting her in mind of rotting potatoes or an unwashed chamber pot. While her mind was taking in these strange occurrences, instinct flooded her body with fear. The desire to run conflicted with the absolute certainty that she must remain completely still, if she were not to somehow give away her own presence to whatever it was that now crept up behind her. Her hand was on the door handle and she felt unable to release it, as if to do so would be to let go the one thing that kept her anchored, that prevented her being snatched away. It was then that she felt a slithering touch upon her waist. Glancing down she could see nothing, save perhaps a deepening of the shadow in the pulsing gaslight of the landing, but she could distinctly feel pressure at her sides, right and left, as if two unseen arms were pulling her into a foul embrace, gathering her close to the thing that crouched at her back. She opened her mouth to scream. No sound escaped, as a further blackness crept across her face. She could feel it moving over her eyes, into her nostrils, between her teeth.
A Resurgent Spirit! No!
She knew what fate awaited her if she did not act. She recalled in a vivid flash the raving face of the man who had once been Joe Colwall. She thought of the cold menace that emanated from Veronique Fletcher and Viscount Eckley. She imagined what it would be like to be inhabited by such evil, to have it crush her own soul, to lose herself forever to such darkness. Even as she fought to take her next breath, her mouth now stopped by the thickening blackness, she felt increased pressure around her throat. She knew what would happen next. It would only be a matter of moments before she was robbed of air so that she would fall into a faint and be defenseless against the spirit.
She could not let that happen. She would not let that happen.
She forced herself not to give way to panic but instead to think of what her father had taught her regarding protecting herself from attack. An assailant will expect a fight, he had said. Best not to give it to them. Against all her instinct, Hecate allowed herself to go limp. She slumped forward against the door, no longer trying to take a breath, simply breathing out slowly, letting her head sag against her shoulder. She could not know if the spirit was confused or surprised by this, or even, indeed, if it had the capacity for such responses. What she did know was that it appeared to hesitate, to pause in its action, as if having to reassess what was needed, when the fight it was expecting did not come. In that fraction of a moment, Hecate acted. She dropped down and then flung herself into a ball, rolling down the stairs as she wrapped her arms over her head. She was aware of the bruising impact of her cheek and head and back against the wooden treads as she fell. More importantly, she felt the foul phantom recede as she moved out of its grasp. At the turn in the staircase, she grabbed the bannisters, stopping her fall. Turning, she looked up and saw the dark mass undulating and twisting as if searching for her. Hecate hauled herself to her feet, fists balled, teeth clenched.
The shadow became more dense and even appeared to gather into a shape that resembled a figure. As it did so it moved toward her again.
From deep within herself Hecate felt a rage and a strength building that she had not known she possessed. She thought of Hekate and how the goddess had told her to be brave.
“Leave this place!” she screamed at the spirit. “Return to where you belong!”
The spirit reared up, recoiling, its progress stalled.
From the drawing room came the sound of raised voices and running feet and then her father calling her name. Before he had reached the bottom of the staircase, however, Hecate’s momentary relief had already turned to horror.
As she watched, the seething, formless being moved to the left, not down the stairs toward her, but in the direction of the next room, where it slid with terrifying speed under, around, and through the door.
“Charlie!” Hecate screamed, tearing up the staircase and flinging open the door into her brother’s bedroom.
She was too late. Charlie’s body lay motionless, his arms flung wide, his eyes closed, as the last remnant of the spirit seeped into him.
“No! Charlie!” She ran to the bed, taking up his hand, patting his cheek. “Charlie! Charlie, wake up. Wake up!”
Her father came running into the room.
“Hecate, in the name of God, what is happening?”
“A Resurgent Spirit!”
“What? No!”
“Oh, Father.” She turned to face him, her eyes filled with tears of despair. “It has taken Charlie as its host!”
“You saw it?” He strode to the bed, sliding his arms under his boy and lifting him up. “Charlie?” he called to him, heartbreak in his voice. “Can he hear me?” he asked her.
“I don’t know. I don’t know! It tried to take me but I got away and then I saw it come in here, and oh, Papa!”
“Edward?” Beatrice called up the stairs. “Whatever is going on up there?”
Hecate felt her brother’s brow. “He is cold as marble!”
“Dear God, what is to be done?”
Her mind raced, searching what little she knew of the spirits for some guidance, for some hope.
“An exorcism!” she said. “Father Ignatius said in his letters that while most did not work, some were successful.”
“Such poor odds,” her father murmured, but he was already carrying Charlie toward the door at a run, shouting for Stella to go to the street and hail a cab.
In the hallway, Beatrice cried out, her hands flying to her face. “Charles! Oh my boy…!”
Edward watched her clutch at her son as he lifted him carefully through the hall and out of the front door. “My dear, he has taken a turn for the worse. We must find help.”
“Let me call Dr. Francis!” she pleaded.
Hecate gently removed her mother’s hand from Charlie’s sleeve.
“We will get him the help he needs, Mama.”
“Hecate! What happened to your face? You are bleeding.”
