growing colder still , until each one of his fingers seemed a sculpt of ice .
I turned my head to look into his face , and just as I did , he opened his eyes and stared into the empty darkness above the table . " Do not release your hands !"
He had not raised his voice , and yet it suddenly seemed very loud . " Whoever comes , whatever is seen or heard , the circle must remain unbroken ."
Everyone drew in their breath and the temperature in the parlor dropped so severely that , as their breath was released , it rose into the air a visible vapor . The air itself had gone cold .
I am not sure if the apparition that followed formed itself of our cast-off breaths , or if it came afterward of its own making , but suddenly , it was there .
A woman , floating above the dark shine of the table , whose flesh and garment was of the most ethereal grey . Her eyes were dark , and she appeared tormented ; there was nothing about her that was pretty .
She turned , slowly in the air above us , meeting each of our gazes in turn . When she came to me , I was glad she seemed unable to speak , for I felt her gaze judged me most harshly . I did notice , now that I had an undistorted look at her , that the entire side of her gown was stained in dried blood . It had a very violent appearance , quite at odds with Lord Gorey ' s account of her passing . It must have been an incredibly fitful sleep ! It was a profound relief when her eyes released me , and moved on to the lady beside me . None of us seemed able to move , we only clutched the hands we held .
I could not see her face when she at last found the eyes of her husband , but I saw his . He stared at her , almost in horror , I thought , but then his face crumbled into grief , and something like ... guilt ?
" Esme ," he said , his voice a hoarse whisper . He
fumbled open the iron-bound case on his lap , and it was only then that I realized that he had broken the circle . We were no longer holding hands ; the spirit of Lady Gorey was no longer confined by our living humanity . Lord Gorey pulled a strange device from his case , and , rising from his chair , he climbed upon the table and ran to meet the specter of his late wife . I thought at first he meant to embrace her — a foolish desire , as a ghost is nothing more than slightly congealed air — but instead he slammed the device into her chest .
Corporeal mechanics met incorporeal form and joined in an ominous crackling of red light , and then ... and then , Lord Gorey was holding his wife in his arms . No longer ethereal , but still grey as death , she lifted her hand and touched his face .
Touched him , as any living woman might touch her husband . " Esme ," he sighed , " Esme , I never meant …" He buried his face on her bloody shoulder , and slowly — so slowly — she raised her hand off his face . I thought she meant to stroke his hair , but then her eyes looked down the table over his shoulder , and instead of coming down to comfort , her hand stiffened into a point ... directly at Miss Benedicta Basilio . Miss Basilio ' s face whitened until she resembled a specter herself . Benedicta stood and cried , " What have you done ? What evil invention is this ?" Lord Gorey lifted his head , his face contorting at the sound of her voice .
And that was the moment it happened : calmly , quietly , the late Lady Gorey snapped her husband ' s neck . I heard the crack most distinctly .
The ladies around the table rose up like a flock of screaming crows , each over-turning her chair in an attempt to flee . I , myself , could not rise ; my hand was still most solidly caught in J . W . Wells ' ice-cold grip . He seemed completely entranced — a
growing colder still, until each one of his fingers
seemed a sculpt of ice.
I turned my head to look into his face, and just
as I did, he opened his eyes and stared into the
empty darkness above the table. "Do not release
your hands!"
He had not raised his voice, and yet it suddenly
seemed very loud. "Whoever comes, whatever is
seen or heard, the circle must remain unbroken."
Everyone drew in their breath and the
temperature in the parlor dropped so severely
that, as their breath was released, it rose into the
air a visible vapor. The air itself had gone cold.
I am not sure if the apparition that followed
formed itself of our cast-off breaths, or if it came
afterward of its own making, but suddenly, it
was there.
A woman, floating above the dark
shine of the table, whose flesh and
garment was of the most ethereal
grey. Her eyes were dark, and she
appeared tormented; there was
nothing about her that was pretty.
She turned, slowly in the air
above us, meeting each of our gazes
in turn. When she came to me, I was
glad she seemed unable to speak, for I felt
her gaze judged me most harshly. I did notice,
now that I had an undistorted look at her, that
the entire side of her gown was stained in dried
blood. It had a very violent appearance, quite at
odds with Lord Gorey's account of her passing.
It must have been an incredibly fitful sleep! It
was a profound relief when her eyes released me,
and moved on to the lady beside me. None of us
seemed able to move, we only clutched the hands
we held.
I could not see her face when she at last found
the eyes of her husband, but I saw his. He stared at
her, almost in horror, I thought, but then his face
crumbled into grief, and something like... guilt?
"Esme," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. He
fumbled open the iron-bound case on his lap, and
it was only then that I realized that he had broken
the circle. We were no longer holding hands; the
spirit of Lady Gorey was no longer confined by
our living humanity. Lord Gorey pulled a strange
device from his case, and, rising from his chair,
he climbed upon the table and ran to meet the
specter of his late wife. I thought at first he meant
to embrace her—a foolish desire, as a ghost is
nothing more than slightly congealed air—but
instead he slammed the device into her chest.
Corporeal mechanics met incorporeal form
and joined in an ominous crackling of red light,
and then... and then, Lord Gorey was holding his
wife in his arms. No longer ethereal, but still grey
as death, she lifted her hand and touched his face.
Touched him, as any living woman might
touch her husband.
"Esme," he sighed, "Esme, I never
meant…" He buried his face on her
bloody shoulder, and slowly—so
slowly—she raised her hand off his
face. I thought she meant to stroke
his hair, but then her eyes looked
down the table over his shoulder, and
instead of coming down to comfort,
her hand stiffened into a point... directly
at Miss Benedicta Basilio.
Miss Basilio's face whitened until she
resembled a specter herself.
Benedicta stood and cried, "What have you
done? What evil invention is this?"
Lord Gorey lifted his head, his face contorting
at the sound of her voice.
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