*
*
THE REAPER OF SOULS
October, 1988.
The hands on Farnham Manor's turret clock showed a quarter past eleven PM as two vehicles broke through the darkness and drove along a curved access road. The gravel crunched under the tires of the large, private ambulance and the luxurious Vauxhall Senator sedan as they moved up to the stately entrance of the old manor.
Three men wearing black uniform-like suits stepped out of the vehicles the moment they were brought to a halt. Two of them went to the rear of the ambulance to open the square hatch in case the patient needed to be transported to the local hospital. The third man, who had been the chauffeur of the sedan, hurried around to the rear passenger door and opened it.
A bearded fellow in his mid-sixties wearing a tan overcoat, a gray hat and spectacles featuring a dark-brown frame soon stepped out and hurried over to the manor's entrance. Though he moved with some urgency, a gust of wind still caught his coat and made it flutter out behind him. Once at the entrance, he didn't need to use the knocker as the oak double-doors opened wide for him the second he reached it.
Inside the opulent lobby, Matron of the Manor Cecilia Winters greeted him by reaching for his hands to give them a grateful squeeze. "Good evening, Doctor Stanbridge. I'm thankful you could get here on such short notice."
In her early sixties, Cecilia Winters could perhaps be described as the mature or grandmotherly type, but only by those who judged her by her somewhat old-fashioned hairdo, traditional dress, soft features and gently rotund shape. In reality, she had an iron will and ran the manor and her staff like a Sergeant Major.
Doctor Neville Stanbridge nodded as he took off his hat - revealing a world-class comb-over - as well as his overcoat. Underneath the warm garment, he wore a gray blazer jacket, a tan shirt, a brown necktie and brown corduroy pants. "Oh, think nothing of it, Miss Winters. So… Miss Seacombe is poorly, is she?" he said as he polished the lenses of his spectacles that had managed to catch every single one of the scattered drops of rain.
"Rather, I'm afraid," Cecilia said and stepped aside so the doctor could begin the long ascent up the grand staircase to the manor's upper floors. "Miss Giles is with her, as is Sir Rupert, their barrister," she continued as she escorted Neville up the staircase.
The doctor let out a grunt as he digested the news. He and the Matron of the Manor soon moved across the carpeted landing and ascended the next flight of stairs. "Pardon me for being so indiscreet, Miss Winters, but Helen Giles is in fact Miss Seacombe's… how shall I put it…"
"Wife in all but name, Doctor," Cecilia said matter-of-factly. "This is their home, but as poor luck would have it, she was away on business in the City. She hurried back this afternoon."
"Ah. Quite." Neville's cheeks gained a reddish tone as he spoke. "If Miss Seacombe has summoned not only her wife but yours truly with such urgency, perhaps she feels this could be it."
"Perhaps, but I certainly hope it isn't. I will admit that Miss Seacombe has grown even more frail lately," Cecilia said and held out her arm to show the doctor the way to the master bedroom at the far end of an elegant hallway on the second floor.
They walked on in silence until they reached the bedroom door. Doctor Stanbridge came to a halt and put his hand on the iron door handle. "Miss Winters, you've known Miss Seacombe for decades. If I deem it necessary that she needs to be hospitalized tonight, how do you suppose she'll react?"
Cecilia chewed on her lips. "Not well, Doctor. The fire that helped Miss Seacombe build a worldwide business empire still burns within her… if her time has indeed come, I suspect she wants to spend her remaining hours here rather than in a cold, impersonal hospital ward."
"In short, she's as stubborn as ever?" Doctor Stanbridge said with a smile.
"That would be an apt description, Doctor."
Neville Stanbridge let out a brief, muted laugh as he depressed the door handle. "Well, all right. Let's see what happens, shall we?"
Stepping inside the master bedroom - that was already as quiet as a tomb despite the presence of five people - Cecilia couldn't tear her eyes away from the forlorn, sickly figure in the large bed.
Emily Seacombe had been larger-than-life in her prime, but the cancer that had done its worst to break her made her seem like an eerie wax mannequin lying motionless amid the white bedlinen.
While the doctor went over to shake hands with the barrister and at least try to comfort Helen Giles, Cecilia let out a long, somber sigh. Nobody should die at fifty-seven, especially not someone who had been such a potent force, but that was exactly what would happen to the shrewd businesswoman.
"Miss Winters," Helen said as she moved over to Cecilia who had remained at the door. Her eyes had turned red and puffy from the vast amount of crying over the course of the late afternoon and early evening, but she remained an attractive woman. It wasn't the right time for extravagant clothes, so she wore a simple, monochrome outfit; similarly, her makeup was barely there at all. She could do little about her bottle-blonde hair, but it had been pulled into order by a colorful barrette.
At thirty-three, Helen Giles was twenty-four years younger than her celebrity wife. The tabloid press had viewed Helen as a classic gold-digger when she and Emily Seacombe had started dating, but Cupid had seen to it that it would evolve into an unbreakable, fourteen-year marriage - almost unheard of in the business circles they traveled in. "Would it be possible for you to make some tea and perhaps prepare a few light snacks? Doctor Stanbridge says-"
A series of rattling coughs by Emily meant that Helen had no time to finish her sentence. She ran back to the bed and knelt next to it. Grabbing her wife's hands, she caressed them gently while the fit receded.
Cecilia's lips had been reduced to pale-gray lines in her face as the tension and concern continued to mount. "Of course, Miss Giles," she said quietly although the other member of the brief conversation had already moved away.
Exiting the bedroom, she closed the door behind her with the softest of clicks so she wouldn't disturb anyone. A deep sigh escaped her as she set off for the kitchen located in the basement of Farnham Manor.
Only a few paces into that journey, she was forced to come to an abrupt halt. Her heart had chosen that exact moment to perform a frantic gallop in her chest that rendered her unable to do anything but moan and lean against the wall for support. Golden stars appeared in the corners of her vision a short minute into the fit, indicating she was close to the point where she might faint.
Sensing a presence nearby, she looked up in the hope that Doctor Stanbridge had found her, but it wasn't the elderly physician - instead, it was a robed figure lurking in the shadows no more than sixty feet from where she had stopped. The figure almost resembled a still frame from a movie as it observed her while standing stock-still and remaining completely silent.
Concentrating on getting the fit to cease, Cecilia tried to count the far-too rapid pulse to get an idea of the heart rate, but the breakneck speed meant she lost count almost at once.
She didn't have access to cold water so the first remedy she tried was to take a very deep breath and hold it while she clenched the musculature surrounding her rib cage. It didn't work. There was nothing she could do but to stand there and pant in an attempt to keep up with the manic drummer inside her chest.
The fit lasted for nearly a minute and a half before the electric currents controlling her heart reset themselves and left it beating at its regular tempo like nothing at all had happened.
Closing her eyes helped a little, but the golden spots remained in her vision for each panting breath she took over the course of the next minute. She had a task to carry out, so she pushed herself off the wall and followed the Oriental carpet to get back to the grand staircase.
-*-*-*-
Ten to midnight.
Farnham Manor's large kitchen was located in the cellar of the stately home. In the Halcyon days two decades earlier when Emily Seacombe had hosted huge gatherings of actors, recording artists, fashion models, high-society celebrities, sports personalities and members of the international jet-set, Cecilia Winters had been the supreme commander of close to twenty waitresses and general kitchen staff.
All that had come to an end when Emily had been struck by the first bout of the debilitating illness. The regiment-sized staff had been reduced to Cecilia and three other women - and two of those only worked there a handful of hours each week.
Cecilia moved through a spring-operated door to enter the large kitchen. Ill or not, her instincts took over which meant that her critical eye performed a thorough inspection of the state of the white tiles, the aluminum table tops and the white, gray and black terrazzo mosaics on the floor.
An apron, a stainless steel knife, a breadboard and several items perfect for making a round of sandwiches - various cold cuts and accompaniments, onions and other vegetables, bread and butter - had been left unattended on one of the cutting tables, but she could blame no one but herself for that as it had been her task prior to the Doctor's arrival.
Her last remaining full-time assistant, Ruth Burleigh, continued to peel potatoes over by the sink. Once she was done with each of them, they were cut into medium-sized slices that in turn were put into a large pot to prepare for the following day's planned serving of meat loaf.
The oldest daughter of one of the retired kitchen maids, Ruth was in her early twenties but her pigtails and rosy cheeks made her look younger. She wore wooden clogs, a white shop coat, a pale-blue apron and a forage cap in a similar shade of blue.
Though Ruth had a good head on her shoulders when it came to developing new recipes, she was often distracted by gossiping with her friends over the telephone - the topics were almost exclusively cute boys and the latest fads and crazes in the entertainment industry.
Cecilia let out a muted chuckle. "There's nothing new under the sun," she said quietly to herself as she walked over to the table with all the sandwich-making ingredients. Donning the apron, she was soon keeping herself busy preparing the food to take her mind off the despair haunting the manor.
---
Ten minutes later, a brief knocking on the spring-operated door proved to be Doctor Stanbridge who quietly entered the large kitchen. He came to a halt just inside the door as if he was worried that setting foot on the hallowed grounds without the Matron's explicit permission would result in a severe reprimand. A loose strand of hair that had escaped his world-class comb-over was soon pulled back in line through a quick application of the plastic comb he always carried with him.
Cecilia wiped her hands after washing them following the smelly work of chopping onions. "How is Miss Seacombe, Doctor Stanbridge?" she said as she put the towel back on its hook.
"Oh, she's hanging on. She's a fighter."
"Yes… she always was."
Doctor Stanbridge made a small gesture with his hand. "May I enter?"
A brief chuckle escaped Cecilia as she moved over to the other counter to inspect a stack of completed sandwiches and the freshness of further produce. "By all means, Doctor," she said before she held a limp leaf of lettuce under the cold faucet to coax a little more life out of it.
"Thank you. Say… if I asked nicely, might there be a midnight snack in it for me? I had made dinner but had yet to eat it when I was called here, you see."
"But of course, Doctor. Take your pick," Cecilia said and gestured at the stack of sandwiches. Like so many other things at Farnham, the lettuce leaf had given all it had - it couldn't be salvaged and was thus given a proper send-off into the waste bin.
Ruth Burleigh soon returned from the cold storage room where she had placed the pot containing the sliced potatoes on one of the countless shelves. "Oh! Hullo, Doctor Stanbridge, Sir!" she said in her typically cheery fashion. Smiling from ear to ear, she moved over to the nearest counter to wipe her hands on a towel.
"Hello, Ruth," Neville said before he concentrated on a sandwich featuring ham and sweet mustard. Even as he chewed on the well-made snack, his eyes were drawn to Cecilia's face - he furrowed his brow at what he saw there.
A minute went by in silence while he made it halfway through the sandwich. "Miss Winters, are you unwell?" he said before he dabbed the corners of his mouth on a handkerchief. "You're quite pale. Even at this distance, I can see beads of perspiration on your forehead. It certainly isn't warm here in the kitchen, so…"
Cecilia turned away at once and began re-arranging items on the tabletop though they had no need for it. "I'm deeply concerned about Miss Seacombe, Doctor. I would've thought that would be fairly obvious," she said after a brief delay.
Nodding in understanding, Neville soon turned his entire attention onto the ham-and-mustard sandwich.
"Matron," Ruth said and performed a quick curtsey, "do you need me for anything the next five minutes? I need a cig so badly I actually considered slicing it open so I could chew the tobacco!"
Cecilia let out a somber chuckle as she moved away from the counter. "No, go on, Ruth. When you come back in, please prepare the kettle for tea. I have a feeling we'll need plenty of it before the night is over."
"Yes, Matron," Ruth said and did another quick curtsey.
As the young woman hurried out of the large kitchen to light up, Doctor Stanbridge finished his second sandwich - slices of egg and tomato - before he picked one or two of the inevitable crumbs off his tan shirt. "I better head back upstairs. It's a good sign that Miss Giles hasn't been by, but… well, it's all very unpredictable at the moment, I'm afraid."
"Please wait a moment, Doctor… I'll join you, but I need to do this first," Cecilia said before she transferred a handful of the fresh sandwiches onto a smaller tray - the rest were put into the refrigerator for later.
-*-*-*-
Upstairs, Cecilia and Doctor Stanbridge met Helen who had relocated to a two-seater settee in the opulent hallway. The shock had given her an unhealthy complexion that bordered on the gray and anemic. Her eyes remained red and puffy from the weeping that had been her constant companion for the better part of the day.
"Miss Giles, has there been any change in Miss Seacombe's condition?" Doctor Stanbridge asked as soon as he was within reasonable distance of the younger woman.
Helen rose from the settee but needed to put a hand firmly on the armrest to stop herself from tilting. She swayed for a moment until she had regained enough of her balance to move away from the settee. "Yes… and- and I'd even call it a positive one-"
Cecilia let out a spontaneous "Oh!" that nearly saw her lose her grip on the tray of sandwiches. To avoid adding another layer of drama to what was already a high-strung situation, she made a beeline for the settee where she put down the tray at once.
By now, the Doctor had caught up with Helen - he reached out to take her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. "That's wonderful news, Miss Giles. In what way?"
"She's coughing far less than earlier. She's even managed to relax enough to take a nap. The cough syrup you gave her seems to have helped a great deal."
"Good. Very good."
Though the news was positive, it only added to the tension within Cecilia. Her own illness chose that moment to make an unwanted comeback. She tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible while her heart danced a manic Flamenco in her chest, but she was unable to hold back a pained moan that caught Doctor Stanbridge's attention at once.
Helen turned around as well and let out a brief gasp. "Miss Winters! What's wrong- Doctor!" - she and the physician hurried over to the Matron to help her get seated.
Doctor Stanbridge pulled up Cecilia's sleeve and attempted to measure her pulse, but he had to give up almost at once. "Miss Winters, you are suffering from a severe case of heart arrhythmia! You are gravely ill! We need to get you down into the ambu-"
"No!"
"Miss Winters, please listen to me-"
"No, Doctor! It'll pass. It always passes," Cecilia said through clenched teeth. The familiar golden stars had appeared on the fringes of her vision indicating that she had reached the very edge of her resistance. She clenched her fists and held her hands to her chest to persuade her heart to calm down, but the remedy had no effect. Her throat turned bone-dry as a tidal wave of mortal dread rolled over her.
Sensing a strange presence somewhere nearby made her look past the Doctor and Helen: at the far end of the hallway, the sinister figure in the dark robe had returned. She stared at it for so long that her wide, frightened eyes grew dry and aching. After what seemed an eternity, the robed figure dissolved like the last wisps of smoke rising from an extinguished fire.
From one moment to the next, her heart reset itself and returned to its regular tempo. She moaned in relief as she fell against the backrest. Panting, she reached up with a trembling hand to rub her damp forehead. "I'm fine, Doctor. Honest. It's gone," she said in a hoarse croak.
"Perhaps, but it'll return, Miss Winters. Tomorrow, or in an hour, or in a minute," Neville Stanbridge said in a lecturing tone of voice. "How long has this been going on?"
"A few months now…"
"Since Miss Seacombe's relapse?"
"Yes…"
The Doctor nodded to himself with a knowing expression on his face - it was obvious that he considered a shock of that magnitude to be the trigger for that type of condition. "Miss Winters, you must listen to me. Life is fragile enough without tempting fate. Nothing good has ever come out of that. You need to have a complete A to Z examination at the Cardiology Center in the city. Come business hours, I'll contact an old chum of mine to set it in motion. The proper medication will keep this manageable-"
"I have no time for that, Doctor."
"You'll simply need to make time. This is far too critical to ignore."
"Doctor," Helen said, wringing her hands, "there must be something you can do for Miss Winters in the meantime? We simply can't afford to lose her as well!"
Neville Stanbridge stood up straight and rubbed his bearded chin. "I'm afraid I haven't brought the proper remedies for such an emergency, Miss Giles. Getting the call and being whisked over here… well, it was all rather sudden, you see. I only took what I knew Miss Seacombe would need. I had no idea I should've brought my entire medicine cabinet with me!"
Behind them, the door to the bedroom was flung open to reveal the greatly annoyed face of the early-sixty-something Sir Rupert Whitlock. The barrister stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind him.
Impeccably dressed as always in a steel-gray three-piece business suit, a white shirt that featured a starched collar and finally a silk necktie - in cobalt-blue with diagonal silvery stripes, i.e. the colors of his old alma mater - Whitlock sent a dark glare at the three people in the hallway. "What is the meaning of all this commotion?" he said in a powerful baritone that held nothing but upper-crust tones. "Miss Seacombe had finally managed to find rest-"
"Oh!" Helen said, "is Emily awake now?"
"Yes!"
"I need to be with her. Please excuse me," Helen said to Cecilia who nodded in understanding.
While Doctor Stanbridge moved over to the annoyed barrister to explain the particulars, Cecilia's breath finally evened out after the crisis. The last fit had been the worst one yet, and she couldn't help but press a hand against her chest although everything was back to normal there. Strong thirst and even stronger fatigue filled the void left behind by the adrenaline and mortal dread that had coursed through her veins, but there was no time to heed either of those basic needs.
She had seen the robed figure twice now. The mere thought of what it might represent sent a cold shiver down her spine. Just to be on the safe side, she glanced past the two debating men to study the far end of the hallway where the frightening apparition had appeared. There was nothing there at present, but her cold shiver persisted.
The bedroom door soon opened once more - Helen stuck her head out. "Miss Winters? Emily would like a word… if at all possible…"
Nodding, Cecilia got up from the settee. The fatigue made her body leaden and her head strangely light. She needed to steady herself for the first few moments but was soon underway. As she reached the door, Helen put a hand on her shoulder and moved in to whisper:
"She's upbeat, but… you know. Oh, and I didn't mention your own illness. That would have been improper."
Cecilia and Helen shared a brief look before Cecilia smiled at the younger woman who was only a single breath away from becoming a widow. "Thank you, Miss Giles. I appreciate it."
Another smile duly followed before Cecilia entered the bedroom and closed the door behind her. The room was equipped with all the luxury anyone could ever want, but it had all been rendered unimportant or even irrelevant. The heavy curtains had been drawn for the night. A single lamp on the bedside table provided the light. It cast an orange-tinted pallor that matched the somber mood in the bedroom.
Though the king-sized bed itself was large and grand, the forlorn figure lost among the white bedlinen might as well have rested in a wooden crib in a rural hovel.
The chair Helen had used was still in place on the bed's right-hand side, so Cecilia moved over there as silently as she could. As she sat down, Emily Seacombe opened her hazel eyes. Unfocused at first, they were soon looking at her new guest with most, but not all, of their old clarity intact.
The original battle with breast cancer had already taken a severe toll on Emily, but the discovery of several tumors in her lungs and the subsequent brutality of the failed treatment had robbed her of her looks and her dignity. All that remained of the powerful, successful business leader, fashion icon and guiding light for so many was a shell that only bore a passing resemblance to the glamorous trendsetter she had once been.
Cecilia tried to smile, but her lips refused to comply with the simple request. "Hello again, Emily," she said in a whisper.
"I had a nice, little nap," Emily said in a breathless voice that was marked by the evil that festered in her lungs. "To tell you the truth… I think old Nev slipped me a mickey…" she continued; a brief smile creased her gray lips.
"Perhaps."
"I think he did. I dreamt… of the old days… where the house and the gardens… were full of people… the music, the dancing… the frolicking at the pool… the deals that were made. And you and I… were right back there. We were young… beautiful… on top of our game."
"Sounds like a wonderful dream," Cecilia said as she reached over to caress Emily's smooth cheek. The texture was the same it had always been, but the skin felt cold and unnatural almost as if an irrevocable process had already started somewhere deep within her.
"It was. We were such a… fabulous team back then. Why… were we never an item?"
Cecilia let out a muted chuckle. "We tried, remember? It lasted all of, what… ten days? Or was it less than that? We were both far too headstrong to surrender to love. It didn't matter. We've both lived good lives."
"But you never… found that special… someone like I did."
"No. I had many special someones," Cecilia said and chuckled again. The laughter turned to a sigh as she watched a somber mask fall over Emily's face.
The sigh was repeated by the figure on the bed. "And now… it's all over. No more color… no music, no dancing… no loving. I honestly don't… know why I'm still hanging on… I've given up the fight. I'm just waiting… for… for the inevitable."
"Emily, please-"
"I saw him. He was here."
An entire bucketful of ice water rushed down Cecilia's spine at the look in Emily's hazel eyes and the sound of her frail voice. "Who? Who did you see?" she said in a strangled whisper.
"Death… I suppose. A robed figure… standing at the foot… of the bed. He was just waiting there… but then he left…"
Cecilia needed to swallow several times before she could go on: "Surely not, Emily. Wasn't that just a dream?"
"No. He was here. I sensed him… it was Death."
Cecilia's chin trembled so much that she needed to clench her jaw. Her heart picked up its pace deep in her chest, but it wasn't yet going at the breakneck speed she had experienced in the fits. That she might have been the reason why the robed figure had left Emily's side would be impossible to convey.
A strong urge to hold Emily's hand made her dig under the thick winter duvet and seek out the slender digits. Another icy shower ran down her spine at the eerie coldness she found there. Although Emily did in fact respond to the touch by moving her fingers, the gesture was nothing more than a reflex - there was almost no strength behind it.
"Cecilia… you're mentioned in my… last will and testament. You'll be rewarded for… all your hard work… over the years. For your loyalty…. for our wonderful friendship."
Cecilia's throat had tied itself into such a knot she could barely breathe; all she was capable of was crying. In her chest, her heart increased its tempo once more. She nodded at Emily's words before she leaned in to place a tender kiss on the gray lips. "Thank you. I love you," she finally said.
"You're welcome… and I love you too. On that note… would you mind… asking my wife to… come in? I think it… won't be- I'd like to… see her before-"
The knot in Cecilia's throat gave itself another painful twist - she could barely let out a croaking grunt to acknowledge the request. Getting up, she hurried over to the door and slipped outside.
---
The look upon Cecilia's face told more than any amount of words ever could. Helen only needed a single glance at the red eyes and the glistening cheeks to jump up from the settee and race into the bedroom.
Doctor Stanbridge had been sharing the settee with her, but the egg salad sandwich he was busy eating required a bit more work before he could see to the patient. Getting up, he put the half-eaten sandwich on the tray, wiped his fingers on a handkerchief and removed several crumbs - and the inevitable errant piece of egg - from his shirt.
"Doctor, please," Cecilia said as she put a hand on the physician's shoulder to halt his actions, "Emily wanted to see Miss Giles in private. It'll be the last time."
Neville Stanbridge assumed a somber look that said he understood that Emily Seacombe's life had moved into its final chapter - the fact that the Matron of the Manor, always a stickler for protocol, had called her by her first name proved that without doubt. "I understand," he said and broke out in a slow nod. "Was she in pain?"
"No. She was calm. Resigned to her fate. There's nothing you can do for her now." As Cecilia spoke, she dabbed her eyes and wiped her cheeks on a handkerchief. Emily's words about seeing the robed figure made her glance toward the end of the hallway where she'd had her own sighting of the chilling visitor.
The plush burgundy carpet ran arrow-straight down to the second staircase at the far end. The walls were graced by two frames containing photo-art, eight watercolors by lesser-known local talent, and even a genuine Benoit Montagny oil painting that Emily Seacombe had paid a five-figure sum for back in the day. Modestly-sized chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling cast a pleasant shade of light onto the various decorations. All seemed normal - and yet it wasn't.
Snapping back to the present, Cecilia cleared her throat. "Doctor, I need some fresh air. I'll be outside in the gardens if you need me."
"All right. You'll need a coat. It's quite windy and chilly tonight," Neville said with a smile.
Cecilia found herself incapable of returning the smile; though she tried, she had to settle for nodding before she walked along the hallway to get to her own apartment a floor below.
---
She soon discovered that Doctor Stanbridge hadn't exaggerated about the weather - a steady breeze punctuated by sudden gusts ravaged the open space in front of Farnham Manor. High above it all, jagged clouds that occasionally released a few sprinkles of rain raced across the dark heavens.
A brief shiver rolled over her before she pulled up the coat's collar and stuck her hands deep into the side pockets. The inclement weather meant her notion of wandering the gardens was scuppered. She huddled up against the stone wall next to the main entrance instead, but that offered no better protection from the frequent gusts and rarer sprinkles that fell from above.
She endured the weather for a mere two minutes before she moved away from the wall and climbed the stone staircase to get to the main entrance. As she reached the top step, her sixth sense told her that something was wrong - that a strange presence was there with her.
Spinning around, she tried to peek into the darkness. The wind caused her hair to whip into her eyes, so she needed to hold it back to see better. A gasp escaped her as she spotted the familiar robed figure standing less than thirty yards from her. The robe remained perfectly still as if the stiff breeze couldn't touch it.
She felt her heart thump heavily several times before it picked up its pace. It was usually the starting point of a fit, so she clenched her fists and held them tight to her chest. Oddly, the fit didn't come - not even when the robed figure approached her in a strange, gliding gait that made it seem its legs weren't even touching the ground.
The distance between them had soon been reduced to nothing. Seeing the horrific apparition up close made Cecilia's knees buckle which caused her to end up on her rear on the unforgiving top step. Her lips were nothing more than narrow, gray lines in her face as she took in the dark presence next to her.
The robe was a weave of dark-gray and black rather than pure black. Its lower hem reached the ground, but it didn't appear to make physical contact with the staircase. Neither feet nor hands protruded from the various hems or sleeves. Similarly, the hood created a shadow deep enough to completely obscure the face.
"Are… are you D- Death?" Cecilia said in a croak.
Nothing happened at first; then, the figure seemed to bulge out inside the spacious robe. The sleeves were suddenly home to a pair of hands that continued up toward the hood, clearly intent to push it back so the figure's true visage would be seen.
Cecilia let out a gasp and bit down hard on her knuckles. Spellbound, she stared in wide-eyed horror at the hood as the hands folded it back. She fully expected to see a hideous or even grotesque sight, but the face that became visible was that of a young woman in her mid-twenties.
The woman's skin tone was a deep bronze; her hair was so dark-brown it was nearly black, and her eyes were luminous azure orbs that shone with such intensity they could be used as beacons for travelers lost at sea.
"Death I am. Though I prefer the term Reaper Of Souls," the young woman said in a voice that held no accent but was rich with the tens of thousands of years she had carried out her business. "It is far more poetic, would you not agree?"
"Poetic?" Cecilia croaked. She shook her head at the absurdity of it all. Deep down, she began to wonder if she hadn't already died and it was merely a hallucination that flashed before her eyes. "Are… are you here for me?"
"You are on my list, of course, but no. Not quite yet."
"Emily…"
"Yes."
Cecilia needed to swallow several times; tears ran down her cheeks, but she did nothing to stop them. "Can't… can't you grant her just- just one more night? One more day? What… what harm could that possibly cause?"
Death fell silent and simply observed Cecilia. She eventually cocked her head and shot the Matron a curious look. "I sense you wish to bargain with me. Strike a deal, so to speak."
"Perhaps… is there a possibi-"
"I fail to see what you can bring to the table."
"You'd get me. Now," Cecilia said in such a strangled voice it was a miracle that any sounds could escape her vocal cords. "I'll… I'll go with you… if… if you'll grant Emily more time with her wife."
Another long, silent stretch followed before Death let out a laugh that had the warmth of tinkling ice cubes. "That is the logic of a frightened child. You simply do not understand. I am neither in the miracle nor the judging business. The Upstairs and Downstairs departments deal with that. I am Death. The Reaper of Souls. I do not care who anyone was or how much they had to live for. When their names appear at the top of my list, I collect them."
"But-"
"You shall discover that soon enough, Cecilia Winters," Death said and vanished into thin air.
Cecilia stared in wide-eyed horror at the empty spot on the staircase that had only just been occupied by the robed figure. Though her rear end continued to hurt as a result of the ungraceful landing, she clambered to her feet and hurried back inside Farnham Manor's opulent hall.
-*-*-*-
Cecilia hurried through the hall, up the grand staircase and along the hallway until she reached the door to Emily's bedroom - it took her less than three minutes to cover that distance which was roughly a minute and a half quicker than it usually took her.
Gasping for air, she needed to lean against the wall for a moment before she took off her overcoat and threw it onto the settee. Her rear-end continued to hurt, but it was nothing compared to the deep sorrow that weighed down her soul.
Nobody was present in the hallway. The tray of sandwiches had been emptied so someone had obviously been able to eat in spite of all the heart-wrenching drama. Cecilia checked her wristwatch. Though it felt longer, only seventeen minutes had gone by since Emily had asked her to fetch Helen for their last shared moment.
A long sigh escaped her as she eyed the door to the bedroom. The tension and anguish caused even more tears to run down her cheeks. Annoyed with herself for not simply accepting the inevitable, she wiped her red eyes with a stronger gesture than necessary.
Half a minute later, the bedroom door opened to reveal Doctor Stanbridge. The gentleman stepped into the hallway with an unreadable expression on his face.
"So, Doctor…" Cecilia said in a strangled voice, "is it… is Emily…"
"Not yet. Remarkably. But it won't be long now," Neville said and took off his spectacles to polish the lenses. "Having said that, there's something strange about this case. I've been a General Practitioner for, oh, more than thirty years now, but I've yet to see such a… well… prolonged death, to be frank. It's almost as if there's something preventing her from passing on."
"It's Emily's love for Miss Giles, Doctor."
"Perhaps. I can't say. I've witnessed too many tragedies to be a romantic," Neville said and pushed the spectacles back up his nose. "I offered her morphine but she refused. I wish she had accepted it. She's begun to hallucinate."
Though Cecilia already knew what the Doctor meant, she needed to have it confirmed. She did so by letting out a croaking: "Hallucinate?"
"I'm afraid so, Miss Winters. It's a result of the inevitable asphyxiation of Miss Seacombe's brain cells. As the pulse weakens, not enough blood can be… well, I won't bother you with the details. She spoke of seeing someone else in the room. It upset Miss Giles greatly."
Cecilia bared her teeth in a horrified grimace. The far-too familiar icy shiver down her spine made another unwanted appearance; in her chest, her heart literally skipped a beat only to catch up a moment later with an unpleasant double-stroke. "Couldn't Emily have meant Sir Rupert?" she said in a strangled whisper.
"Oh, no. No, he's on the telephone in the master office. He wanted to get a head start arranging this and that. Informing the press and the business partners. That sort of thing."
Cecilia took several deep breaths to get her heart under control - she knew exactly who Emily had seen, and it hadn't been a hallucination. "Doctor… do you think Miss Giles would mind if I joined them bedside? Perhaps being in the company of a friend would ease Emily's passing."
"I'm sure she wouldn't mind at all, Miss Winters. I'll wait out here in the meantime. Like I said before, it won't be long, but… oh, I better stop making predictions. None have been correct so far."
The briefest of smiles flashed across Cecilia's lips, but it didn't stay long. Moving over to the bedroom door, she needed a moment before she depressed the handle and went inside.
Helen sat on Emily's right - they were holding hands. A deafening silence filled the bedroom, but a gentle heaving of the winter duvet protecting the terminally ill patient proved she was still breathing.
It only took Cecilia a second to spot the robed figure at the back of the room. Death merely stood there with its arms crossed over its chest. Cecilia opened her mouth intending to complain bitterly about the Reaper's heartless behavior, but never got any further as the familiar, age-old voice was suddenly heard loud and clear in her mind:
'Why such anger toward me? Is this not what you wanted?'
Cecilia came to a halt and stared at Death with wide-open eyes. After a few moments, she glanced at Helen whose focus was solely on the figure in the bed.
'They cannot hear us. Simply use your mind rather than your voice to speak to me,' Death continued.
'No, this is not what I wanted! I wanted Emily to live, yes, but as the woman she once was… not this… not in this horrible state!' - Cecilia gestured angrily at the forlorn figure lying among the stark-white bedlinen.
Death folded back the hood to reveal her true face once more. She shook her head. 'Child, like I told you once already, I am not in the miracle business. I am the Reaper of Souls.'
'So why hasn't Emily died yet?'
'Your noble offer of self-sacrifice fascinated me. When I come to collect, most beg and plead for more time for themselves, but you were willing to trade your own soul for prolonging Emily's life. I decided to bend the rules a little. Behold the results of your selfless offer.'
Cecilia let out a deep sigh. She nodded. 'I was wrong. Please let Emily find peace.'
Death dissolved without another word spoken or indeed thought. A split second later, the robed figure re-appeared next to the bed holding a bronzed hand a few inches above the winter duvet.
The hand remained there for a moment or two before it was lowered onto the body beneath the duvet to conclude the life of Emily Seacombe. The bronzed fingers spread out wide and seemed to act as a collector of the last traces of Emily's life force. Once the soul had been absorbed, Death vanished again.
A chilling message of 'My work here is done,' echoed in Cecilia's mind. 'But I shall return before long. We have unfinished business, you and I.'
Cecilia and Helen both let out identical gasps though for different reasons. Cecilia remained out of sight at the back of the bedroom, but Helen let out a strangled cry and jumped up from the chair as the hand she held no longer responded to her touch. A slow trickle of tears soon became a torrent as she knelt next to the bed and buried her face in the white bedlinen.
Reeling from the unpleasant sensation of having the cold hand of grief squeezing her fragile heart, Cecilia exited the bedroom as quietly as she could. Outside, Doctor Stanbridge rose from the settee the moment he saw her.
"Emily has finally found peace, Doctor," she said in a voice so strangled it hardly sounded like her own. Clearing her throat, she stood up a little straighter to act like the Matron of the Manor, but the look on the Doctor's face said that he knew her too well to be fooled by her bluster.
The distinguished gentleman nodded before he moved over to Cecilia to put a fatherly hand on her arm. "How are you feeling, Miss Winters? Do you need a sedative of some sort?"
"No, thank you. I'll live. But I have a feeling Helen may need something to calm her nerves," Cecilia said while displaying a faint smile.
"I have a few items in my medical bag that'll take the edge off her shock. Don't worry about that, Miss Winters."
"Good. Thank you."
Footfalls further along the hallway proved to be the barrister who strode toward the bedroom in an almost military gait. When he arrived, the Doctor informed him of the sad news.
Though Cecilia observed the quiet conversation, she didn't feel the slightest need to enter it. Once Sir Rupert and the Doctor had finished speaking, she stepped forward and tried to put a smile on her face. "When I get downstairs, I'll ask Miss Burleigh to put the kettle on right away. I'm sure you could use some tea."
"Yes please, Miss Winters," Sir Rupert said in a voice that was far more subdued than his usual booming baritone.
Doctor Stanbridge added: "Are there any more of those delicious sandwiches? We need to fill out plenty of forms now, and as you know, I only had time for a hasty dinner before I was called here."
Cecilia smiled again - it had been the third time the Doctor had told her that. "We made plenty of sandwiches, Doctor. You needn't worry. Actually, didn't you see the tray when you visited the kitchen?"
"Oh… that's right. I did. Never mind," Neville said and scratched his neck.
"Gentlemen, if you'll please excuse me… I'll be in my apartment if you need me. Just use the intercom that's on the desk in the master office," Cecilia said and folded her hands in front of her.
Sir Rupert Whitlock let out a brief, affirmative grunt before he entered the bedroom to offer his condolences to the widow. Doctor Stanbridge remained in the hallway for a moment longer; he studied Cecilia's ashen face for a brief while before he broke out in a nod. "We'll only contact you if we're really lost, Miss Winters. We greatly appreciate all you've done so far, but you need to take a moment to reflect on what's happened here tonight."
"I know, Doctor. I will. Thank you for your concern." A distant, diffuse voice in her ear prompted an urge to shake hands with her long-time acquaintance, so she and Neville Stanbridge carried out the traditional greeting before she left for downstairs.
-*-*-*-
Entering her apartment on the ground floor of Farnham Manor, Cecilia walked through her office, past a small bathroom and into her bedroom. Where the office was starkly utilitarian in its layout as well as the nature of the business furniture used, the inner room was warm and cozy.
It was large enough to be divided into three sections: the one closest to the entrance was a reading den that featured a traditional stone fireplace with a comfortable armchair placed just out of reach of any stray embers. A handful of tall bookcases left only a small amount of wall space that was mostly occupied by square picture frames - the color photos on display had all been taken by herself in the park and gardens connected to Farnham Manor. Emily Seacombe and a good share of their celebrity friends from days gone by were present in most of them as they showed people posing poolside, at croquet games or on one of the 'love benches' in the gardens.
The far end of the room was used as the sleeping area where much of the space was taken by a pair of mahogany closets and Cecilia's single bed. To create a natural break between the two ends, a two-seater couch, a satellite armchair, a coffee table and two sideboards had been placed at the exact halfway point between the bed and the comfortable chair by the fireplace.
Cecilia put her overcoat on a hallstand before she kicked off her shoes. She remained near the doorway for a few moments before she turned on a ceiling light and made a beeline for one of the low sideboards.
In it, she found a leatherbound photo album that she brought over to the comfortable armchair - she had to move a half-completed crossword puzzle before she could sit down. The fireplace was dormant so she needed to turn on a reading lamp in order to see the photos.
She had barely opened the album when her heart chose the moment to make its presence felt. A skipped beat was followed almost immediately by a painful double-stroke that caused her to slam her free hand onto the armrest. Holding her breath, she gripped the armrest so hard the skin of her hand nearly turned white. The incident remained a one-off, so she eased her grip and tried to get back to a more normal breathing.
A long sigh escaped her before she turned her focus onto the photos. They were all from the manor's glory days similar to the framed images on the walls, but unlike those - that had all the typical hallmarks of an amateur snapper - the images in the album had been taken by professional photographers who worked for the press and various public-relation agencies.
Every last one of the celebrities and jet-setters was breathtakingly suave and hip, or simply a knock-out. Everyone was playful, smiling, posing, flirting, drinking champagne - and smoking. The major get-togethers were often sponsored by one of the global tobacco companies who provided infinite free samples to the eager smokers among the guests.
Though the photographs were in crisp black-and-white, Cecilia only needed a brief look at everyone's clothes and hairstyles to recall how loud, colorful and - occasionally - crass the cutting edge of fashion had been in the late 1960s in and around Swinging London. The wild abandon of the party-goers coaxed her lips into forming a smile.
Flipping the page turned the smile into a somber frown. The next batch of photos all showed Emily Seacombe in her prime. A little over twenty years had gone by since the moments had been captured for posterity, but Cecilia had never met anyone in the intervening years who could measure up to the demi-goddess Emily had been then.
It went beyond her undeniable beauty and presence. It went beyond her business acumen that saw her negotiating and closing deals with the relentlessness and poise of a King Cobra ready to pounce - it even went beyond her uncanny ability to provide a shoulder to cry on when one was needed the most. Emily had simply had 'It' in spades.
All those character traits had remained with her as the years went by until the cancer that eventually took her life had reared its ugly head for a second time. She had remained upbeat and bullish throughout the first bout, but the shock of discovering the tumors in her lungs had plunged her into a deep depression. From that moment on, everything had come to an end in one sense or the other.
A deep, long sigh escaped Cecilia. She ran a thumb across one of the smooth photographs imagining that she caressed the unblemished skin of the young, vibrant Emily Seacombe. She allowed herself to be lost in the past for a few moments but ultimately moved on by flipping the page.
The tears that had clouded her vision from reminiscing about Emily were joined by a sudden and unexpected smile as she looked at a twenty-year younger version of herself. The photograph - that had been snapped at one of the countless celebrity parties at Farnham Manor - saw her wearing an outfit that could only be described as 'outrageous', though 'hardly there at all' would also be an apt descriptive.
She leaned back in the armchair and let out a brief chuckle fueled by embarrassment. How Emily had bribed her into lounging poolside in a one-piece swimsuit at the grand-old age of 43 had been lost in the murky mists of time, but the evidence was right there in high-contrast black-and-white. The next few photos were of Emily whose own two-piece bikini far outshone the similar outfits worn by the usual gathering of stars and starlets of the screen and stage.
The old photographs kept on coming, but Cecilia saw little of them as the veil of tears had made an unwelcome return. She eventually closed the album and settled for holding it tight.
---
Fifteen minutes later, her fragile heart began acting up. The arrhythmia started simple with an extra beat for every third of the regular sequences, but it soon grew into something far more unsettling. From one moment to the next, the electric currents controlling the vital functions lost their way and created an erroneous sequence that consisted of a hard, painful thump, then three fast-paced, shallow beats, then a nauseating delay where nothing at all seemed to work - and then it started over with another hard, painful thump.
"Oh… oh, no, this is a bad one," Cecilia croaked as she pressed her hands against her chest. The confused series of beats robbed her of her breath and made golden stars appear in her vision almost immediately. Simply getting up from the armchair by the fireplace proved as strenuous as scaling Mount Everest, but she summoned all her strength and got to her feet.
The bathroom and the cabinet that held her medicine seemed a million miles away - putting one foot ahead of the other was a task greater than most she had encountered in her life. Once she was close enough, she managed to put a hand on the doorjamb and pull herself the rest of the way.
The first remedy she tried was to chug down a glass of ice-cold water. When the freezing contents would reach her stomach, it would give the electric currents a kick up their proverbial rear-ends to get them back in line. Unfortunately, her present condition was bad enough to prevent it from working fully.
Taking a very deep breath and holding it while clenching the muscles surrounding her rib cage provided a longer respite from the onslaught, but the moment she released the breath, her heart went back to its devious ways - even if it wasn't quite as bad as it had been. The sequence had evolved into a hard thump, two shallow beats and then a more regular beat. At least the nauseating stretch of complete cardiac arrest had gone away.
She looked at herself in the mirror above the washbasin. Her face was ashen save from her wide, frightened eyes that were puffy and red from all the tension of the fraught day. "Maybe this is it…" she whispered to her reflection.
Literally from one heartbeat to the next, the electric currents were reset and everything went back to normal - after a few regular beats, it was like nothing had been wrong at all.
Cecilia gave her reflection a long, depressed glance; she shook her head and left the bathroom. As she moved into the connecting hallway, she fully expected to see the familiar robed figure waiting for her, but everything was quiet as a tomb save for the ticking of the wind-up clock on one of the shelves in the den.
A long sigh escaped her as she turned off the bathroom lights and padded back into the living area on socked feet. "Tea or a nap?" she said to herself. She glanced at the sideboard where she kept a small electrical kettle and a wide selection of tea flavours, but it failed to inspire her. A nap seemed the better choice, so she moved over to her bed and swept aside the colorful bedspread she had crocheted herself.
---
Darkness engulfed her as she switched off the shaded lamp on her bedside table a few minutes later. She had tried to finish a chapter in the book she read at night, The Art Of Living & Loving In The Age Of Sappho by Dame Alfrieda Dunlevin, but her weary eyes had refused to read as much as a paragraph and the bookmark had soon been inserted once more. Her gold wristwatch had been put next to the book in a neat, orderly fashion so she wouldn't have to search for it when it was time to get up.
As she closed her eyes, an image of Emily Seacombe came to her unprompted. Not the ill, dying version of her long-time associate and dear friend, but Emily's younger self whose vitality couldn't help but bubble over. It had been far too long since Farnham Manor had echoed with the sound of Emily's characteristic warm, husky laugh, but Cecilia heard it loud and clear.
The memory brought a smile to her face. A few tears escaped her eyes and ran down the sides of her face, but wiping them away didn't seem important. The fatigue brought on by the horrendously stressful events of the past few days soon caught up with her and made her fall asleep.
-*-*-*-
Cecilia knew something was wrong even before she fully came to - her breathless panting gave it away. Her dreams had been filled with scenes of everyday life in and around the manor; mostly of the glorious days of yore, but even some from the more recent past. She had seen and spoken to Emily about something trivial, had met the young, doe-eyed Helen Giles when she had first entered their lives, and had even spoken to a younger, clean-shaven version of Neville Stanbridge.
All those pleasant memories faded as the grim reality of her present prodded her hard enough to stir her awake with a gasp. Her fragile heart raced along at a speed that couldn't even be described as breakneck - its tempo simply defied every law of nature.
Stark terror shone from her wide, frightened eyes as she stared into the semi-darkness of the bedroom. A small strip of light above the curtains proved that several hours had passed since she had gone to bed. She clenched her fists as the worst fit she had ever experienced threatened to tear her apart from the inside out. The bedsheet was pulled into a crumpled mess by her strong fingers, but she had no time for such trivialities.
With her heart seemingly dead-set on breaking through the upper threshold to enter a state of ventricular tachycardia, it was incapable of keeping the blood flow and thus the required oxygen going. Even the strongest panting helped little when the most important part of the process had betrayed the other elements.
The only way she could get help was to get out of bed, drag herself into the office, use the intercom on the desk and pray that Doctor Stanbridge hadn't left yet. Even the mere notion was foolish and nothing more than wishful thinking.
She closed her eyes as raw despair flooded her senses. Tears flowed once more as her heart bucked like a rampant stallion that had yet to be broken in. The first light of the new day reached above the curtains and began to play across the ceiling - the tone of the light suggested that the recent bout of autumnal weather had finally succumbed to the demands of a bright, friendly day.
Then the inevitable happened. Cecilia felt its presence in the bedroom even without opening her eyes. A brief look confirmed it. "So… this… is… it?" she said in a strangled, breathless croak.
Death folded back its hood and moved up to the far end of Cecilia's bed. A simple "Yes," was all that needed to be said.
Cecilia had expected to be mortally afraid, to wail or even to cry out in anger or protest, but the state of her runaway heart burned off so much energy that it prevented all those responses. Instead, she sighed and leaned her head back on the pillow.
A voice saying 'Once again you surprise me,' suddenly echoed in Cecilia's mind. 'Most attempt to cling onto life for as long as possible. Even if they have to sacrifice their last dignity to do so.'
'There's little to keep me here now.'
'You loved her.'
'Very much.'
'And yet you never acted upon it.'
'We tried. It didn't work. And I wasn't in her league. I'm glad she found Helen.'
Gliding across the carpet without actually touching it, Death moved over to the side of the bed and sat down. A bronzed hand soon hovered above Cecilia's chest.
Cecilia felt a strange weight descend upon her body; not an unpleasant one as such, but certainly a reminder of what was to come. 'Please don't make my death painful…"
'When the moment comes, you will feel nothing but bliss.'
'Will I meet her?'
"That I cannot say. I am not in the miracle business. I am merely the Reaper of Souls," Death said out loud before she tapped a finger on Cecilia's chest.
The fragile heart finally ran out of time and entered a state where it did nothing but flutter like the wings of a hummingbird. The fibrillation lasted for a handful of seconds, then the heart ceased all activity and became still. With the pulse gone, the blood flow stopped and the inevitable process of dying was underway.
Relaxing, Cecilia closed her eyes and welcomed slipping into darkness. A figure approached her. They reached out and pulled each other into a loving embrace. A stolen kiss prompted a warm, husky laugh. And then…
*
*
THE END of THE REAPER OF SOULS
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…And with that, dear readers, we close this Book Of Chills - but we shall return with more fantastic flights of fancy, more hair-raising harbingers of Hell, more spine-chilling stories of the supernatural and more tragic tales of the tormented.
Until next time…
Eternally Yours,
Norsebard
THE END of THE BOOK OF CHILLS, Volume V