Chapter 15
I awakened with a start, my eyes snapping open in the darkness, my heart already racing.
I lay there for a long moment, listening, glancing around my empty bedchamber. The fire had burned down to embers, casting an orange glow across the furniture. Shadows pooled in the corners, deep and impenetrable.
Then I heard it—a scratching sound.
I sat up quickly, the covers falling away from my shoulders. I strained to locate the source of the sound.
It came again, louder this time.
I looked around, squinting in the dim light, scanning the floor, the walls, the darkened corners where something might be hiding.
A mouse, perhaps? Or rats in the walls?
I pushed the blanket away and leaned over one side of the bed, peering into the darkness beneath. There was nothing. I slid to the other side and looked there as well, but found only empty space and gathering dust.
The sound came again.
My head jerked up toward my door.
The scratching was coming from the corridor just outside my room, I was certain of it now.
It came again, longer this time, the unmistakable sound of something—or someone—dragging nails down the wooden surface of a door.
I hesitated, my imagination conjuring the image of Dr. Ambrose’s wife standing on the other side—her eyes hollow and black, her mouth overflowing with that gelatinous blood that had dripped onto her nightgown, and vines coiling around her body.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself from the bed. Every instinct screamed at me to stay where I was, to pull the covers over my head like a frightened child and pretend I had heard nothing, but I could not pretend the sound did not exist when it was so clearly, viscerally real.
I stood there beside my bed for a long moment before finally crossing to the door. Each step was like walking through deep water, my muscles fighting against the movement. I reached the door and placed my hand on the handle, my palm slick with sweat.
Another long scratching sound came from the other side, nails digging deep into the wood, scoring the surface with desperate intent.
I took a deep breath and slowly opened the door.
The corridor was empty.
I paused on the threshold, staring into the dimness, seeing nothing but the dark outline of doors along the hall.
Cautiously, I left my room and turned to look toward the other end.
There—standing by Dr. Ambrose’s door—was his wife.
Her hand was pressed against it, her fingernails digging into the wood as she frantically scraped at the surface.
Back and forth, back and forth, the sound echoing down the corridor with terrible urgency, trying to get inside, locked out of her own bedchamber and desperate to enter.
I took a step closer, my breaths coming in rapid, shallow gasps that did not seem to bring enough air into my lungs.
“Mrs. Ambrose?”
She did not turn. She simply continued scraping at the door, her movements growing faster and more frantic. The panic in her actions was palpable, radiating from her spectral form in waves I felt against my skin.
I stared at her, frozen, unsure what to do. Should I try to speak to her again? Should I flee back to my room and lock the door and pretend I had seen nothing?
I forced myself to continue forward, one hesitant step at a time, my eyes fixed on her.
She was wearing the same nightgown as the first time I had seen her.
My eyes drifted upward, taking in more details.
Her tangled hair hung loose around her shoulders, obscuring her face as she bent toward the door.
I leaned to one side, trying to get a better view of her features as I approached, but her hair blocked them entirely.
“Hello?” I called out softly.
Again, she ignored me, lifting her other hand now and digging both sets of fingernails into the door with ferocity, scratching so hard gouges appeared in the wood, creating deep furrows that should not be possible from something without physical substance.
I froze as she began to sob. The sound started as a whimper, then grew louder, more desperate, until her spectral form shuddered violently.
Her scratching became more frantic—then she screamed.
The sound pierced the silent hall with such force that I instinctively covered my ears, pressing my palms hard against my head. It did nothing to quiet the sound, as though it resonated within my skull.
“Nicholas!” The woman wailed, her voice raw with anguish and terror. “Please! Please, let me out!”
I stumbled backward, my hands still pressed against my ears, my mind reeling from the realization. She was not trying to get into the bedchamber.
She was trying to get out of somewhere.
I turned to run back to my room, to put distance between myself and this manifestation of grief and desperation—and stumbled to a halt. The woman now stood directly before me, mere inches away, close enough that I could see her face clearly for the first time.
Her eyes were not hollow pits of darkness as I had feared. They were her own eyes—green, like mine, shot through with red veins and swimming with tears. Her mouth quivered, blood-stained lips parting to speak. She reached for me with both hands, her fingers stretching toward my face.
“Help me,” she pleaded, the scent of rot and decay clinging to her. “Please, help me. I cannot get out.”
I backed away slowly, watching as her hand trailed up to her throat. She squeezed, eyes going round and wide as blood spilled from a gaping wound that appeared beneath her palm. One by one, vines slithered out between her fingers, spilling from her neck.
My own throat seized tight, my fingers gliding over the ribbon there as something squirmed beneath. I pressed hard against it, desperate to still whatever had climbed beneath my skin. I clawed at it, unable to pinpoint the parasite.
Look what he’s done, the voice said, watching the scene unfold through my eyes.
The movement beneath my palm stopped suddenly, and I scrambled back, shaking my head as the ghost reached for me again.
A scream tore from my lungs before I could stop it.
I squeezed my eyes closed, unable to look at her face any longer, unable to bear the desperate pleading in those eyes that were so much like my own.
Somewhere behind me, a door creaked open.
Heavy footsteps hurried toward me.
Warm, firm hands slid around my waist, and my body was being spun around, pulled away from the ghost—and into the arms of a monster.
I opened my eyes to find Dr. Ambrose staring down at me with concern etched deep into his features. His hair was disheveled from sleep, his bare chest peeking out beneath a robe he had pulled on in haste.
“What is it?” he demanded, his hands gripping my arms to anchor me to reality. His eyes searched my face, then swept down my body, assessing me for injuries. “What happened?”
I tried to speak, but no words came out. My mouth opened and closed uselessly, my throat too tight with fear and shock to form coherent sounds. My whole body began to shake so violently my teeth chattered.
“Camellia!” he said firmly, his hands moving to my shoulders, shaking me gently, but with enough force to break through the paralysis that had seized me. “Answer me! What happened?”
I stuttered incoherently, my words tumbling over themselves in my panic. “Y-your wife… you…”
I struggled free from his grasp, backing away, my hand raised as if to ward him off. “I k-know what you did to her.”
He stared at me, genuine bewilderment in his features. “What are you talking about?”
I shook my head violently, the words spewing from my lips like venom. “You killed her!”
His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. Something dangerous flashed in their amber depths as he stalked forward.
He reached me before I could think clearly, caging me against the wall, bracing his hands on either side of my head.
I shoved at his chest with both hands, trying to push him away, but he caught my wrists.
“I did not kill my wife,” he said, his voice dropping low, taking on a menacing quality I had never heard from him before.
I stilled, my struggles ceasing as I searched his eyes, looking for any sign of deception, for guilt or malice or some confirmation of what I had accused him of, but there was nothing, no hint of deceit within them, only grief—desperate and bleeding—and hurt so profound it made my chest ache to witness it.
He's lying, the voice said, pressing forward against my skull. He killed her. You saw the blood. He put the vine in her!
I wrenched my hands free with a forceful twist and tried to duck under his arm, but he simply moved with me, his hands trapping me more effectively than any physical restraint ever could.
“Let me go!” I shouted, fighting against him with renewed panic. I had to get away. I had to leave. I could not stay a moment longer in a house with a man who had experimented on his own wife.
“Calm down,” he commanded, pressing his body against mine to stop my furious movements. The full length of him pinned me to the wall, immobilizing me completely.
I breathed deeply, and it caught halfway down, my lungs briefly reconsidering their obligation.
The warmth of him was suffocating. He was too close.
It was too much. My mind screamed in warning, but my body ached to press against him, to peel back his flesh and dissect his insides until I learned how he made so much warmth.
“Look at me,” he said firmly.
I refused, squeezing my eyes shut, turning my face away.
His hand came up, fingers gentle but firm as they guided my face back toward his. “I had nothing to do with her death. Do you understand?”
I forced my eyes open and glared at him, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached.
“There was blood…” I whispered, my voice strangled by my body’s betrayal. “So much blood and the vine… you put a vine in her!” My voice broke on the words, tears spilling down my cheeks. “How could you?”