Free Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling by Michael Boccacino

reason and this reason alone that I followed them into the great house with unease, remembering those that I had lost and hoping against hope that if what the woman said were true, then perhaps the place contained more than one departed soul.
    T he parlor was small and intimate, the walls lined with square wooden panels and elaborate tapestries depicting the room itself filled with a strange pantheon of creatures, perhaps from some obscure mythology or religion with which I was unfamiliar. As I stared at the fabric, examining the intricate patterns and threading, I realized with some bewilderment that the shapes were changing, reknitting themselves from left to right in an impossible act of defiance of the rules of scientific propriety, recasting the occupants of the room until I recognized myself and the children as carefully constructed embroideries. I reached out to pull aside the tapestry, but I stopped myself before I could uncover the mechanism enabling its manipulation. Against my better judgment I preferred to believe, if only for a little while longer, that the house and the alleged Mrs. Darrow were part of something extraordinary.
    A squat, muted chandelier hung low from the ceiling, casting the room in dim amber light. I sat on the edge of a thick leather armchair, determined not to sink back so far as to be rendered incapacitated should the strange situation spiral any further out of my control, even as I promised myself that it would not. To my bewilderment the cushions expanded as if the chair were fighting against me so that I might be more comfortable. Was it possible for furniture to become offended? I firmly kicked the leg behind my right foot, and the chair regained its former shape.
    Before sitting down, Mrs. Darrow gently touched three of the wooden panels along the wall, each of them clicking open to reveal the different components of a full afternoon tea spread. She removed cups and a steaming pot from the first, a pedestal of finger sandwiches and scones from the second, and a chocolate tea cake from the last. I fought to ignore a pang of sympathy as I realized that the cake was the same as Mr. Darrow had provided during our midnight tea. She left it on a plate to the side of the table, as conspicuously untouched as her husband’s had been. I imagined the two of them sitting alone in two different houses, Mr. Darrow at Everton and Mrs. Darrow at the place called Darkling, staring at the empty chairs that surrounded them, silence shrieking, with tea cakes perched on lone plates like ceremonial offerings to memories not quite dead.
    I eyed the boys carefully as they sat beside the woman who claimed to be their mother, sprawled on a plush divan before the large stone fireplace at the front of the room. The flames contorted into various shapes, casting shadows of flickering animals and their masters along the back wall. The children marveled at the trick for a long while, slowly drifting off to sleep as the alleged Mrs. Darrow watched me back, her eyes gleaming in the firelight, as dangerous and silver-green as a cat’s.
    â€œYour tea will cool,” she said. Both boys were nearly asleep in her lap; even Paul, who was too old for that sort of thing.
    I looked at the saucer and brought the cup to my lips, careful to seal them to the rim so as not to allow any of the liquid into my mouth. I was already at a disadvantage if the woman meant us any harm, a fact I firmly kept at the forefront of my mind, and sitting in the parlor of a woman who claimed to be dead, in a strange land with shadows that crawled and pieces of fruit that walked, the least I could do was avoid a potentially poisoned cup of tea.
    I brought the cup away from my mouth and placed it back onto the saucer sitting primly in my lap. The other woman turned away from me and gazed into the fire.
    â€œIs my husband well?” The tone of her voice was emotionless and elusive. It reminded me of Paul’s.
    I considered the question