Elsie

A short story

Her name wasn’t really Elsie, of course. It was a name of convenience. A name they called her because neither of them had bothered to ask her name while she was alive. It was better not to know their names; better to think of them as anonymous and interchangeable. Simply a meal, even if that meal might sometimes kick and scream a bit before they succumbed. Clarissa had gotten much better at soothing them before she drained them dry. It wasn’t a matter of kindness, so much as that she didn’t like the bitter aftertaste of fear. But she had not been as adept when she was younger. The girl had been surprisingly strong, and cleverer than any mere housemaid had a right to be. If it weren’t for dear Frederick arriving just then, her quarry almost certainly would have escaped. The resulting meal had been rather messy and far too bitter, she recalled, but she had made herself partake until she was quite full. Waste not, want not, as her husband always said.

At first, Clarissa had been unsettled by the spirit’s presence in their home, but it seemed quite harmless as far as either of them could tell. Elsie spent most of her time patrolling the perimeters of the house, as if looking for a way out. Not that she would find one. The doors were sturdy and could only be unlocked with a key, while the windows (imported all the way from England) were manufactured in the Old World style; diamond panes of glass set in heavy wrought iron. If Clarissa had had her way, most of the windows would simply have been bricked up. There were entirely too many of them in the house, and the heavy velvet curtains were too unreliable a shield against the terrors of daylight. But Frederick said that a house without windows would draw too much attention. He was correct, but she would never tell him so. She had some pride, thank you very much.

On the evening of one of Clarissa’s famous dinner parties, Elsie became particularly active; making her way along the outer walls and pressing her hands against the glass of every windowpane.

“It’s no use,” Clarissa said indulgently, as her little thrall of a maid silently brushed out her glossy black hair. “I’m afraid your spirit’s bound here. There’s no way out.”

As usual, Elsie said nothing. She continued making her way around the edges of the room, mannish shoulders squared as she groped her way along the wall. In all these years, Clarissa never had seen her face.

—

The dinner had gone surprisingly well thus far, considering how close it had come to disaster. Securing an entire family of six had been no mean feat, but there were always desperate people in the world if one knew where to look. The only pity was that they had been forced to start so late. The father of the family had somehow slipped his bonds and overpowered the footmen who had been guarding him. By the time anyone realized what had happened, he and the others had already scattered throughout the house. Clarissa had been mortified, but Frederick (clever as always) played it off as intentional, offering a prize to whoever captured one and returned them to the dining room. The guests had enjoyed themselves immensely, but with such a large house to search, it had taken nearly three hours for all six to be found.

It was probably nearly dawn now, Clarissa thought. It always came too early in the summer. She had already had the maids make up extra beds for their guests. It wouldn’t be the first time one of her soirees had gone so late into the night, and she could hardly expect them to travel home in the daylight.

“I say, is that the ghost you’ve been telling us about?” asked Lady Alice in that elegant English accent Clarissa secretly envied. “She’s every bit as frightful as you promised!”

Elsie was quite near to them now, standing just behind Frederick’s seat at the head of the table. There was something unnerving about seeing her up close like this. Every drop of spattered blood was still visible on the white strings of her apron, still as red as the day it had been spilt. At least her face wasn’t visible. Clarissa didn’t like being reminded of her own youthful folly. 

“Yes, that’s her,” said Clarissa with a nervous laugh. “How strange. She never comes out when we have guests.”

There was something in the spirit’s presence that seemed to unnerve the rest of the party. The conversation faded into murmurs, like a wave receding from the shore. Frederick glanced over his shoulder at her, then flashed a winsome smile to the assembled crowd.

“Ah, we seem to be graced by the house’s resident spirit. We call her Elsie. Don’t worry, she’s quite harmless.”

Spirits were not terribly uncommon in such a house as this. How or why they returned after death was usually a matter of idle speculation. Clarissa waited for the pleasant hum of conversation to return. However, as if by some communal instinct, the guests remained silent. A strange murmuring was now the only sound in the room. It took a moment for Clarissa to realize its source.

“Is that… did she speak?”

“Surely not,” Frederick reassured her. “She never has before.”

The housemaid slowly turned to face them, as if doing so was a great effort. Clarissa flushed in horror and embarrassment at the sight of her own savagery. Most of Elsie’s face was gone, devoured in the juvenile lust of a fresh kill. The one remaining eye stared down at Clarissa with unmasked hatred.

“My name is Margaret.”

The words burbled up from a throat half torn out, unmistakable even in their impossibility.

“Why do you speak now, after such a long silence?” Frederick had an edge of nervous theatricality to his voice; all of his usual easy manner was gone.

The spirit said nothing, but reached out to her side, as if grasping for something only she could see.

Too late did Clarissa see that bloodless hand clench around the curtain, strangely solid where before there had been only a wavering transparency. The heavy curtain rod, chosen precisely for its sturdiness, came out of the wall with a gentle tug. Gray light streamed in, dim and yet somehow of terrible intensity. Everything seemed to burn with cleansing light. She groped blindly, looking for something– someone beloved– it was so difficult to think now. A hand clasped her own, strong and yet as fragile as ash. Yes, she remembered. If she would face eternity, she would not do so alone.