attempt to signal again to the maker of the fire, for I did not know to whom I signaled, friend or foe. Although the fire offered me hope that I was not entirely alone, a strange feeling had begun to sweep over me that perhaps there was no one besides myself that I could trust or turn to.
One afternoon, while calling the Hounds in for supper, I noticed, in the parting of the fog, a figure standing out beyond the gates, at the very end of the drive. I waited for it to move, thinking at first that it must be Dr. Mead come to visit, but the specter stood as still as a statue, gazing up at the widow’s walk. I strained my eyes to bring its form into focus. It appeared to be a woman—or the ghost of a woman, for what woman would come out to the Manor in such weather?
Perhaps in my isolation I had lost my sense of reason, but I felt that I must know whether this apparition was real or not. I leashed one of the Hounds and made my way to the front gate.
“Can I help you?” I yelled into the mist.
The figure turned in my direction and walked slowly toward me. As it neared, I saw to my great relief that it was made of flesh and bone and that it was in fact Dr. Mead’s nurse, whom I had met at his office. She stood stoically before me, wrapping a scarf tightly about her neck against the dampness.
“Miss Moreland,” she said, nodding as a means of introduction.
“Yes. I remember.”
“I have come in the doctor’s stead to inquire after your welfare.” She held out a small basket from her side and presented it to me. “Dr. Mead sends you turnips and apples. Enough for a simple soup.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the basket. “Tell him that I am fine, and grateful for his kindness.”
Miss Moreland made no response, her eyes staring beyond me to the Manor.
“Is the doctor well? I haven’t seen him in some time.”
“Yes, he is well,” she answered nervously. “He is very busy, with little time for errands . . . in places such as this.”
“I see.” The details of my first meeting with Dr. Mead’s nurse came to mind, and I was suddenly wary of her. Her expression in the dimness was even more strained than I remembered, her skin sallow and weathered, yet there was a sincerity in her manner I could not deny.
“Do you wish to come in, Miss Moreland? I could make tea.”
“No.” She appeared to bristle at the very suggestion. “I will not step across the threshold of that dwelling. I will come no farther than the gate.”
“Why is that?” I asked, steadying my voice, for something in her tone sent a chill through me. The Hound was growing restless at my side, but I was glad of his presence and did not release him.
“Surely you have not lived here these many years and not felt its pull upon you?”
“It is only a house, Miss Moreland. You speak as if it were a living thing.”
“Some believe it to be so.” At that moment, a veil seemed to drop before her eyes, and again she stared past me to the Manor as she spoke. “This house. Your mistress. They have destroyed others. They could destroy you.”
“What do you mean?”
“They sent him to his death.”
“Captain Barrows?”
“No storm took him. Of that you can be sure.”
“The captain did not die on the lake?”
“He did not.”
“How, then, Miss Moreland?” I was eager for her reply. Perhaps she would tell me what the doctor could not.
“Some thought he went mad over her,” she said, “wandering the beach late at night, building fires and sleeping out in all weather. They say he threw himself off the cliffs in despair. He would not have been the first in his family to do so.”
“I did not know.”
“There is much you do not know, miss.”
“Can you tell me more?”
She nodded. “When the captain’s body was found washed up on the rocks, the coast guard declared his death a drowning, another casualty of the storm. Dr. Mead did not disagree.”
“But you believe he should have?”
“If he had looked further,
One afternoon, while calling the Hounds in for supper, I noticed, in the parting of the fog, a figure standing out beyond the gates, at the very end of the drive. I waited for it to move, thinking at first that it must be Dr. Mead come to visit, but the specter stood as still as a statue, gazing up at the widow’s walk. I strained my eyes to bring its form into focus. It appeared to be a woman—or the ghost of a woman, for what woman would come out to the Manor in such weather?
Perhaps in my isolation I had lost my sense of reason, but I felt that I must know whether this apparition was real or not. I leashed one of the Hounds and made my way to the front gate.
“Can I help you?” I yelled into the mist.
The figure turned in my direction and walked slowly toward me. As it neared, I saw to my great relief that it was made of flesh and bone and that it was in fact Dr. Mead’s nurse, whom I had met at his office. She stood stoically before me, wrapping a scarf tightly about her neck against the dampness.
“Miss Moreland,” she said, nodding as a means of introduction.
“Yes. I remember.”
“I have come in the doctor’s stead to inquire after your welfare.” She held out a small basket from her side and presented it to me. “Dr. Mead sends you turnips and apples. Enough for a simple soup.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the basket. “Tell him that I am fine, and grateful for his kindness.”
Miss Moreland made no response, her eyes staring beyond me to the Manor.
“Is the doctor well? I haven’t seen him in some time.”
“Yes, he is well,” she answered nervously. “He is very busy, with little time for errands . . . in places such as this.”
“I see.” The details of my first meeting with Dr. Mead’s nurse came to mind, and I was suddenly wary of her. Her expression in the dimness was even more strained than I remembered, her skin sallow and weathered, yet there was a sincerity in her manner I could not deny.
“Do you wish to come in, Miss Moreland? I could make tea.”
“No.” She appeared to bristle at the very suggestion. “I will not step across the threshold of that dwelling. I will come no farther than the gate.”
“Why is that?” I asked, steadying my voice, for something in her tone sent a chill through me. The Hound was growing restless at my side, but I was glad of his presence and did not release him.
“Surely you have not lived here these many years and not felt its pull upon you?”
“It is only a house, Miss Moreland. You speak as if it were a living thing.”
“Some believe it to be so.” At that moment, a veil seemed to drop before her eyes, and again she stared past me to the Manor as she spoke. “This house. Your mistress. They have destroyed others. They could destroy you.”
“What do you mean?”
“They sent him to his death.”
“Captain Barrows?”
“No storm took him. Of that you can be sure.”
“The captain did not die on the lake?”
“He did not.”
“How, then, Miss Moreland?” I was eager for her reply. Perhaps she would tell me what the doctor could not.
“Some thought he went mad over her,” she said, “wandering the beach late at night, building fires and sleeping out in all weather. They say he threw himself off the cliffs in despair. He would not have been the first in his family to do so.”
“I did not know.”
“There is much you do not know, miss.”
“Can you tell me more?”
She nodded. “When the captain’s body was found washed up on the rocks, the coast guard declared his death a drowning, another casualty of the storm. Dr. Mead did not disagree.”
“But you believe he should have?”
“If he had looked further,
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