Doe, My Dear
A grieving aristocrat is approached by a medium at his wife's funeral repast. He spurns him, then the dreams begin...
Inspired by the Love And Horror prompt from The Macabre Magazine, a moment from Stephen King's Pet Sematery, and an Agatha Christie short story, using a visual prompt from Labyrinthia Mythweaver. This is far too long for the Macabre Magazine contest (1,500 words maximum), but hopefully it’s worth a mention.
The vicar’s voice sounded faraway. Fulton barely felt the rain that pattered on hats, umbrellas, and his bearded face. The words of the burial service hardly registered as they rose and fell in the cadence peculiar to ministers. The flower-topped coffin sat at the entrance to the mausoleum, the petals lifting slightly in the light breeze. He stood in the stoicism expected of him, staring at it, taking no comfort from the presence of the other mourners who had gathered there.
“…earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection…”
His ears pricked up. If only. He chided himself in his late father’s voice for the impertinent thought, but the droning was intolerable. He was trapped by convention; forced to endure the torture of listening to the vicar banging on about a mere possibility while the reality stood grinning at him under a rainbow of flowers, laurel, and ivy.
“...we may rest in him, as our hope is this our sister Marguerite doth…”
His Doe was in that coffin.
At the last Amen, the pallbearers lifted the coffin and carried it down the steps of the marble-fronted mausoleum. He watched them place it on a shelf above his mother’s resting place, noting the empty space left for him. Fulton lingered long enough to place a hand on the polished oak above Doe’s head. He took a deep breath, letting the tang of mouldy earth and rotten wood in, then followed the last of the pallbearers out.
The presence of so many people at the funeral repast gave Fulton some comfort. Colonel Harper, Squire Hepburn, and Lady Hawthorn-Tebbitt were there, and some friends from his time at Eton and Oxford.
“Such a shame about your filly, old chap.”
He couldn’t place the physiognomy. The mutton chops were reddish, though his hair was sandy. Who did he know with sandy hair? “Thank you for coming.”
“It’s the very least a man can do.”
Algernon Winsdale. That was his name. His father owned most of the land around Canterbury. “You’ve come a long way, Algy.”
“From Danzig, as it happens. I got involved in a spot of bother with some fellows who were hunting a man whose acquaintance I had made there, and thought it best to bring him here. This is Demid Chudin. He was calling for reform and…”
“The Tsar was angry about it.” Chudin held out a hand.
Fulton took it, noting the iron grip, which surprised him, coming as it did from so small and spare a person.
His voice was, as Fulton had imagined it would be, thin and reedy. “I discovered Theosophy while staying in London five years ago. When I tried to start a lodge in Moscow, I was warned I would be arrested if I continued, so I went to New York.”
“How very interesting,” Fulton said, meaning the opposite. There was a gleam in the Russian’s watery blue eyes that he didn’t like.
“As you know, Lord Fairfax, Madam Blavatsky is one of the foremost…”
Ah. He was one of those. “That’s very nice, I’m sure.” These people needed a firm hand, or they’d be running riot with their smells, bells, and things going bump in the night.
“I broke with her set, Lord Fairfax,” the Russian said, his gaze boring into Fulton’s eyes with a frightening intensity. “They were afraid of what I had achieved. The heights I had ascended to. Lord Fairfax, I have not come to comfort you.” He took hold of Fulton’s hands.
Fulton felt his skin crawl as if it wanted to slide right off his body, but he didn’t want to make a scene. Anger flared within him. Damn Algernon for bringing this sideshow performer to an occasion that demanded dignity and respect.
“I have come to help you.”
Fulton sneered. “For a small consideration, of course.”
The Russian smiled, showing clean white teeth. “If you wish to support my work, I would be grateful for whatever you give me, sir. But no, I said I’d help you, not sell you something. So you pay me nothing and you see your wife again.”
For a moment, Fulton froze. A fork had opened before him. He could either throw this impudent fellow out of his house or take a chance on a stranger’s promise. Decorum demanded a civil response. Morality expected a firm one. “That is not a promise any man can keep.”
The Russian’s smile widened. “I can, Lord Fairfax. Give me one chance to prove it. If I keep the promise, you will help me with my work. If I break the promise, you will send me away in disgrace, and I will never be welcome in society.”
Convention intervened. “This is not the time or the place for such… discussions.”
Chudin bowed, put his hand in his pocket, then held it out. “Take my card, Lord Fairfax.”
Fulton pressed his lips into a thin pink line. “Excuse me.” He turned and went to speak to his butler, who was presiding over the drinks table. Anger hardened his voice as he instructed him. “Jenkins, there’s a man over there that I want removed forthwith. It’s…” he turned around to indicate the Russian, who was gone. He could see Winsdale speaking to Lady Hawthorn-Tebbitt.
Jenkins’s tone was always somewhere between obsequious and paternal, a fact that Fulton had always attributed to his advancing years. “Milord?”
“There’s a foreign gentleman I want removed from this house. His name is Demid Chudin and he is a charlatan. He seems to have realised that he is not welcome. He may well have left already but if you see him, tell him to leave.”
“Yes, milord.” Jenkins left his station, directing a footman to take his place, and, catching the eye of another footman, walked briskly around the room, then out with him.
Following his own sweep of the room, and seeing no sign of Chudin, Fulton went over to the wine table, picked up a glass, and was promptly taken by the arm by Colonel Harper.
“I just want you to know how sorry I am for your loss. Lady Fairfax will be dearly missed.”
Fulton nodded in the sure and certain knowledge that he would be hearing variations on this theme for the rest of the tedious evening.
Sleep eluded him. Memories of Doe chased each other around his head. Their wedding day. The births of their children. Her smile. The quiet ways she had of completing him in ways he hadn’t noticed until she was gone. Fulton got up and walked down to the church, drifting in and out of waking dreams, the cold ground hardly noticeable against the soles of his bare feet. Before he knew it, he was at the iron door of the mausoleum. The door was open. A single candle burned in the middle of the crypt, its low light barely illuminating the chamber. Fulton went down the stone stairs and turned to look at Doe’s coffin. Beside it, in the next alcove, lay a bearded figure in a black suit. He couldn’t make out the face, though it looked familiar. He bent down to pick up the candle, then lifted it up to see who it was.
He woke up in bed with a thumping headache. He swung his legs onto the floor, and for a moment, Fulton was too dizzy to stand. When he opened his eyes, he saw dirt on his feet. He flung back the bedclothes. There was dirt all over the sheets. A white shape caught the corner of his eye. Sitting on his bedside cabinet was a calling card, on the front of which was the name Demid Chudin, with “Spiritual Adviser Theosophical Society London” on it. He turned it over. The society’s address was on the back. Fulton shuddered, remembering the Russian’s watery blue eyes. It was a cruel trick to use his jiggery-pokery to lure a grieving husband to the crypt, then leave his card on the cabinet like that. There was nothing for it but to confront this charlatan and make him stop tormenting him.
After breakfast, Fulton ordered his carriage to be brought out to drive him to Wellesley railway station. He stared at the card, burning the address into his memory. He sat silently on the train, acknowledging no one, using his black arm band and crepe hat band as a shield from unwelcome questions.
Two hours later, he was standing at the door of the lodge, a terraced town house with a fan window above the black door. He rang the bell. A small wispy maid answered and showed him into a reception room where an elderly woman in deep mourning sat, a black net veil partially obscuring her jowly face.
The Russian put his head around the door. “Ah, Lord Fairfax, you’ve come. Welcome. Mrs. Ponsonby, are you happy to have Lord Fairfax join us to call your Stanley?”
The lady looked up. “Oh… I suppose so. If you don’t mind, my lord.”
Fulton nodded curtly, annoyed at being pulled into the Russian’s schemes. He followed the lady into a dark room, bedecked with red velvet drapes, and lit by one candle. Incense burned in a small bowl, creating a sweet smoky haze.
Chudin sat down and looked expectantly at Mrs. Ponsonby. “Did you bring them?”
She put her handbag on the table and took out a battered copy of Robinson Crusoe, a pocket knife, and an old cloth cap. A photograph of a young man in a soldier’s uniform followed, encased in a silver frame, which she leaned against the pile.
“Then we’ll begin. Lord Fairfax, could you please remove your hat?”
The maid took his hat, gloves, and cane, and left the room.
“Let us hold hands. Close your eyes and concentrate.”
The séance began, with calls to the spirits, then to Stanley Ponsonby, who was specifically asked to appear. The temperature dropped, and Fulton felt the other two shiver as goosebumps pushed the hairs up on his arms. He opened his eyes a little, feeling the clutch of the old lady’s hand on his. Chudin’s grip was loose for a while, then he threw his head back and groaned. Issuing from his mouth, like steam from a boiling kettle, was a stream of glowing vapour. It rose in a column above the pile of Stanley’s things, then resolved into the shape of a young man in uniform who faded at the knees. His voice sounded distant, as if he was in another room. “Mother?”
Mrs. Ponsonby’s eyes opened. “Stanley!” She stood up and reached out to embrace him. The moment her hands touched the apparition, it faded and vanished back into Chudin’s mouth.
He gasped, convulsing.
Fulton got up and placed his hands on the man’s shoulders.
Chudin panted, sweating, his breathing shallow. He glanced wildly around. “What happened?”
Mrs. Ponsonby collapsed and fell weeping into her chair. “I am so sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear it. I just wanted to hold my Stanley again.”
Fulton took a handkerchief and wiped Chudin’s face. The man was drenched with sweat.
“Please don’t do that, madam,” Chudin said shakily. “The manifestation comes from within me. The spirit uses a part of my essence to show itself. When you touch the spirit, you’re touching a part of me that is too delicate to be handled. Had you stayed in your seat, you would have been able to converse with him for a while. I can’t bring back the dead. I can only show them to you.”
“Oh.”
“And now I’m too depleted to continue. I am sorry, Mrs. Ponsonby. I’ll ask Sarah to get you a cup of tea.” He looked wanly at her, his watery eyes pleading.
“Oh.” Tears were streaming down her face.
Chudin picked up a small silver bell and rang it.
Sarah came in.
“Sarah, could you please make these people a nice cup of tea while I refresh myself?”
“If you will be kind enough to follow me,” the maid said, leading them back to the waiting room.
An awkward silence grew. Mrs. Ponsonby sniffled, dabbing her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. Fulton sat upright in his armchair, trying to process and make sense of what he had seen. It had seemed so real. The sweat was real enough. The figure had looked eerily like the photograph, and there was no evidence of trickery that he could see.
Sarah came in with a tea set and some biscuits, then returned a moment later with Stanley’s possessions, which she placed on a chair beside Mrs. Ponsonby. “The master has asked if you can make a donation towards his work.”
“Oh.”
The maid looked her right in the eye, holding her gaze. She held out a small silver dish.
Mrs. Ponsonby looked at Fulton, as if to enlist his aid, then picked up her purse.
“A guinea would be welcome.”
“A guinea?”
“I don’t know no doctors what come for free, and the master’s in a bad way.”
“I’ve got eight shillings and thruppence ha’penny,” the lady quavered, “and I’ll need a shilling and a half for my coach fare home. I’ll give you six shillings. Ooh, I feel so queer.”
The maid thinned her lips as the older woman dropped the coins in one at a time, then drew the strings of her handbag tight, tears gathering in her eyes.
Fulton put his hand in his pocket. “I will give you half a crown.”
The maid nodded and accepted the money, then left the room.
Mrs. Ponsonby sniffled. “I really do feel strange, like something has been pulled right out of me, but if I don’t come back here, I’ll have that dream again.”
Fulton turned to her. “What dream?”
“The one where I’m walking barefoot through a hot sweaty forest all tangled with bushes and vines to a pile of earth between the roots of a huge tree. There’s a cross carved into it, and ‘S. P. 1894 RIP.’ I can see more writing on the tree, and I walk around so I can read it. I never get to read it. I always wake up in my bed with dirt on my feet—and all over the sheets.”
“And you only have these dreams at night?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And you’re walking through this forest during the daytime.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Fulton pursed his lips. “Interesting.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, my lord, do you have dreams like that?”
“Last night. Did you meet this fellow somewhere before these dreams began?”
“Yes, I was at a funeral for Sir Ronald Howe, and got talking to Mr. Chudin.”
“And he said he could help you.”
“Yes. And he gave me this card.”
Fulton nodded.
It was a week before he had the dream again. The recumbent figure’s face was unclear, but Fulton knew it must be him. On the following Friday night, Algernon Winsdale arrived at his door with Demid Chudin at his side.
“It’s a little late for house calls, Algy,” Fulton groused.
“It’s never too late to see a friend,” Winsdale countered. “I’ve brought a friend to see you. Come on, old man, you know you need to do this.”
“I have seen how dangerous it is,” Fulton argued. “And costly.”
“Digs in St. John’s Wood don’t come cheap, old man. And you wouldn’t want to see poor Sarah starve, would you?”
Fulton stood, resolute. “That’s not my problem, old man.”
The Russian looked him in the eye. “Do you not want to see your Doe again?”
Fulton’s fist sent him flying across the room till he was halfway through the open doorway before he realised he’d swung it.
“Fulton!” Winsdale’s hands gripped his left arm tightly. “What did you do that for?”
Fulton answered in a low growl. “Get him out of here right now.”
Chudin scrambled to his feet. “I am sorry to be the cause of such distress, Lord Fairfax. Nonetheless, the question remains. Do you want to see your wife or not?”
He spat out his response. “I will not be blackmailed by your supernatural jiggery-pokery, let’s make that clear. And stop abusing that poor old woman. She told me about her dreams. The same ones you inflict on me to force me to take part in your séances.”
Winsdale, who still had a tight grip on his arm, said, “I was not aware of this.”
Fulton turned to him, his lips a thin pink line. “It’s how he operates, Algy. Makes the acquaintance of someone he thinks he can milk like a cow. He plants the suggestion in their minds, then leaves. You then have a dream in which you’re walking barefoot to the grave of a loved one. I saw the body of a man who looked a lot like me lying in the alcove next to my wife’s coffin. Mrs. Ponsonby saw writing on the trunk of a tree that might well have marked her own resting place beside her son. The idea is to remind you that you’ll have to wait until you’re dead to see the dearly departed again, unless you’re willing to pay Chudin here to breathe them out in front of you. Is that not so?”
Chudin rubbed his chin. “It is, Lord Fairfax. And is it not reasonable to provide a demonstration of my abilities before I ask you for anything?”
Fulton growled, his fists curled. “Is a man not entitled to privacy around his intimate matters?”
Resentment hardened Chudin’s tone. “You would have no reason to believe me otherwise.”
Feeling like a trapped rat, Fulton tugged his arm from Winsdale’s grip, turned around, and walked the few paces the back of the room. He stood staring at the wall for a moment. An idea knocked at the door of his mind. He let it in and entertained it, then bowed his head and took a deep breath before he returned to the men. “I’ll do it, Mr. Chudin. I’ll do it right now. I believe you’ll need some of Lady Fairfax’s possessions. You stay here with Mr. Winsdale.” He ran up the stairs, into his late wife’s dressing room and seized her favorite bonnet, her favourite book, and a photograph of her snatched from his dressing table. He brought them into the drawing room, having instructed his servants to go to bed and tidy up in the morning. “On second thought, I know a better place to do this. Come.”
He led the men out of the house, walked down the gravel path, and out past the road that led to the village. A dilapidated cottage loomed ahead of them. “The door will open with a good shove. We used to play here when we were young.”
“I see.” Chudin’s voice sounded weak. Hesitant. “Lord Fairfax, I am not sure that you are in the correct frame of mind for doing this.”
“Nonsense!” Fulton replied jovially. “I want to see my wife again. Don’t you want to show her to me? You were so eager to do so, you came at night with my friend to ensure you were admitted to my home.”
Chudin lagged behind, and began to back away. “I understand that you are angry with me for intruding on your personal business.”
“I’m absolutely bloody furious,” Fulton replied. “And those dreams that ended with dirt on my sheets—that was despicable. But, Demid—I shall call you that since we are on such intimate terms—I will forgive all that for the chance to commune with my good lady wife, if you would be so kind as to facilitate this.”
Winsdale took the little Russian by the arm. “What are you afraid of? He’s not planning to murder you, I won’t let him.”
“Like you didn’t stop him when he punched me in the face.”
“Come, come, that’s all water under the bridge. Let us do this séance thing and let bygones be bygones.”
“This does not feel right,” Chudin said, turning to walk away.
“Now look here, Demid,” said Fulton, “you’ll either come into this cottage and carry out the séance or I will make sure your name is mud all over the country.”
Fear sharpened the Russian’s tone. “Now who is blackmailing?”
Fulton’s smile was thin and dangerous. “I am merely demanding that you make good on your promise. You said, ‘If I keep the promise, you will help me with my work. If I break the promise, you will send me away in disgrace, and I will never be welcome in society.’ And Algernon heard you say it.”
“I already proved it,” Chudin said, turning away.
Fulton shouted at his retreating back. “Then why did you come to my house tonight?”
Chudin stopped, then turned around. “If I do this, you will not cause trouble for me.”
“My dear fellow, I shall help you with your work. You have the word of an English peer of the realm.”
Chudin eyed him with the air of an old bull at the knacker’s yard, the light from the half moon picking out the lineaments of his moustachioed face. Fulton pushed the rotten wooden door, which scraped across the cracked tiles.
Chudin opened his carpet bag and lit a candle. A big fat spider slid down a silken thread, landed on the floor by his feet, and scuttled away.
Fulton led the way up the mouldy, rickety stairs to a room where a rough square of wood sat on four feet. In the dim yellow light of the candle, it looked cavernous. A rusty old bed with a dirty old patchwork quilt lay against the back wall. “Thirteen people died here. Mostly infants in the first few days of their lives. And the last resident, Mrs. Appleby. I can’t think of a better place to hold a séance, can you? Let’s sit down.”
Chudin took a seat with his back to the window and placed the candle in the middle of the table. He took a pastille of incense out, put it in a brass bowl, and lit it. The flame flared, lighting his wide-eyed face. “There are many spirits here. I can feel them.”
Fulton put the bonnet, the book, and the photograph in a triangular formation around it and laid his hands on the table.
Winsdale took off his gloves and held their hands while Chudin spoke the summoning words.
For the first time, Fulton concentrated, his mind fixed on the image of his Doe. His lips formed the word.
Chudin cried out.
Fulton opened his eyes and saw the man’s head thrown back, a thin stream of glowing vapour rising from his open mouth to resolve into the shape of Lady Marguerite Fairfax. She stood in midair, her long dark hair loose on her bowed head, in her white burial gown, fading from her belly downwards. “My darling!”
She raised her head and looked at him. “Fulton, my love. Why have you called me?”
He felt a little faint, as if his blood was being siphoned away. “I had to see you, dearest. I know this man Chudin has been calling you.”
“He torments me, Fulton. Asks about our intimate moments. Personal things I’d never tell anyone. I feel violated. Make him stop and let me rest.”
“I will, my love.” He squeezed Chudin’s hand, willing the faded shade of his wife into sharper relief. “How can I make him stop? If I send him away, he will do it again.”
“There is a way, but I would never ask it of you.”
“I will do it,” he promised.
Her gaze grew sorrowful. “The children.”
“They’re at boarding school, and my brother will take them in if need be.”
She dropped her gaze. “If you are certain.”
“I am.”
“Pull Winsdale’s hand across to hold Chudin’s. The circle must not break.”
He complied, hooking Algy’s fingers over Chudin’s hand, sealing their grip with his own.
“Kiss me.”
He lifted his left hand and rose, his fingertips brushing the silk of her shroud.
Chudin trembled, his captured hand shaking.
She bent down to him, the smell of her perfume filling his nostrils. He could feel firm flesh beneath his hand as her lips touched his.
Chudin shuddered, convulsing and crying out.
Keeping a tight grip on both men’s hands with his right hand, Fulton slipped his tongue between his wife’s cold lips and slid it in while she wrapped her arms around him. She warmed in his embrace, becoming more real. He felt himself fading, and let go of the men, sinking deeper into his Doe. Caught in a whirlwind of passion, they rose together, drawing strength from their love—and the two men below.
Fulton awoke on the floor, cold and weak. He struggled to get up, and lay there panting, his head pounding. Rolling onto his side, he got onto his hands and knees, noting the black-clad legs of a man in front of him. Grasping the leg of the table at his side, he saw a limp arm hanging down. There was a carpet bag just in front of him. He tipped it over. A small silver flask fell out. He opened it and sniffed it. Brandy. He took a swig. Warmed by its healing fire, he stoppered it and got to his feet. Chudin lay slumped in the chair, his head thrown back, his eyes and mouth wide open. He looked around to see Winsdale, his head down on the table. He put a hand on his neck. It was warm. Winsdale stirred a little. Fulton put the bottle to his lips. “Algy, wake up, old man.”
Algy’s eyes fluttered open. “It’s still dark.”
“We have to go.”
“What about…?”
“He’s dead, old man. Time to go. I’ll meet you downstairs. Go on.” As Algy left, he rooted around to find a box of matches and another candle. He put his wife’s book and photograph into her bonnet and dropped them onto the chair Algy had been sitting on, then poured the brandy onto the table, lit the candle, and placed it on its side. The brandy ignited.
Seizing his wife’s bonnet, he carried it downstairs, and staggered like an inebriate back to Fairfax Hall with Algy as the old cottage burned behind them.
Yes, it’s a long ‘un. I hope you enjoyed it, fright fans. Let me know what you think of it in the comments.
Love this!!