Haunted by Lynn Carthage Page A

life’s blood from them, their eyes still twinkled and I raised their mirth even as they subsided under the thick, bitter veil that these peasants call Death. I dandled them to Banbury Cross, I brought that London Bridge down, and all the seamstresses raced at the children to shake them up with pins and needles (a fancy I could easily imitate). We let ashes, ashes bring us to the floor in giggles, and throughout it all, they found me merry and joyous.
    Children love a beautiful face with a pleasant smile. What is more wholesomely good than that? Nothing, not even their own mother’s crude grin, set in a homely face. I bought their trust with the coins of my bright eyes, the currency of my lovely smile.
    Sweet young Tabitha is an eager purchaser.

    I stopped, my heart racing. It was one thing to see my own name in that dreadful handwriting, but it was terrifying to have her refer to Tabby. She had earned my sister’s trust . . . enough that Tabby permitted her to place the straw into her arm. Tabby didn’t scream or cry to wake up Mom; she probably just made a face until it was over. My little defenseless sister, and I was doing nothing to help her.
    The pages continued . . .

    I do not choose to feast on my own kin, yet taboo is a luxury best reserved for those who aren’t starving. You can help me.
    You have freedom, motion, the ability to leave the manor and its grounds: you can help me procure others . . . and therefore save your sister. Perhaps.

    Oh my God.
    She meant for me to help her get other children.
    In return for Tabby’s life.
    No way, no way, no way, no way, no way, no way, no way, no way.
    No goddamn way.
    But . . . if it saved Tabby?
    She wanted me to . . . to, what? Go into town and snatch a child? Pull a kid into the car and drive off?

    I never before considered my own family as a source of blood; never small Louis or his cousins who hooted through these halls until they learned the somberness that our very stones radiate.
    You may ask, Phoebe, if any of our family ever wished for some of my secret elixir? No, indeed, they all cringed away from my Ponce de León discovery. They feared me, though I never touched their children. But I offer it to you. You may drink with me, in return for obtaining more appropriate sources.
    The village is likely full of expendables, as it used to be. Simply invite one—a very young one—to come visit. It is considered an honor to visit the grandeur of our estate.
    Now and again, children come in packs peeking through the windows, their hands pressed against the glass as if they are imprisoned in reverse—they never come alone. They are too old for me to win them over, especially since they are poisoned by what their parents tell them by that possibly obsolescent fireplace, and certainly too many for me to grab. Perhaps if I could determine which is the slowest, learning a lesson from my overgrown topiary wolf, who knows which hen has a lame claw.
    The mere thought of it exhausts me. I do live, but not as robustly as I once did. Sleep claims far too many hours of my day. The house puts me to bed and orchestrates my dreams: bird calls, hornets’ fury, decayed leaf bones, ghosts.
    I call upon you to save me. I need to be coddled, as the servants used to do, plumping a pillow under my head, bringing chilled cloths for my brow. Bringing me . . . well, you know what I ask for. Or would you prefer I take Tabitha?

    I left the pages there. It didn’t matter. Like she’d said, Mom and Steven would think I’d written it, with my big imagination and my teacher-endorsed creative writing talent.
    My head was so dizzy, my gut so filled with spinning nausea, that I stumbled a little on my way out of the room. The evil I faced was so much more powerful than anything I could fight.
    I couldn’t convince Mom and Steven there was danger here.
    I couldn’t therefore get Tabby out of danger.
    I was going to have to watch Madame Arnaud