My Daughter Is Dead!

Note: The following is from my book "Scary Horror Legends," which has yet to be published.

***

He leaned back in his seat, listening to the steady clack of the old train wheels eat up miles of track. Outside, he could see acres and acres of barren field and rolling hill speed gently by. Nestled in between were rotting barns and old, battered farmhouses, all leaning crazily in the hot August wind.

He nodded off to sleep for a moment, suddenly called to the land of dreams and slumber as if by Morpheus, God of Sleep. After what seemed an eternity, but was probably simply a few fitful moments, he awoke. Seated opposite him on the old train was a young woman with the loveliest appearance he had ever beheld.

She was quite obviously a lady, by the way she carried herself. Her face was obscured by a long black shawl, as though she were in mourning.

“She’s headed to a funeral,” he said to himself. Indeed, her grey, lustrous eyes were quite wide and sad as she stared, a little disconsolately, out the train window.

It was a few moments before he dared to speak. However, he felt he was obligated to say something.

“Lots of flat, uninteresting scenery on this tour,” he said. It was moments before she acknowledged this with a reply.

“Yes,” she said, her hands folded in her lap. He fancied he could see a tear or two streaming down her face.

He waited a moment, then dove in again.

“So… you headed to Shreveport, Baton Rouge, where?”

She was silent a long time. Then her strange, lilting, sing-song voice intoned,

“Home. I’m headed home.”

He huffed, said, “Well, alright. If you’ll allow me to introduce myself, Miss…”

She stopped him with a cold look.

“Please, don’t. I don’t want to meet or know anyone at the moment. Life is too short, too sad; everyone you meet is just another stranger on the road. And all roads lead to the same place.”

He felt a little downcast at hearing that. She seemed the very picture of melancholy. And, of course, her long, flowing dress was solid black.

He cleared his throat, felt a little clammy.

“Well, forgive me madam, if I seemed a bit forward. I take it you’re headed home to see your kinfolk. Someone must have… passed on? Unexpectedly?”

She looked at him with a curious, hard gaze. The lonely steam engine whistled, and out of the window he could see they were headed to the mouth of a tunnel. He shivered.

She began, “No. Yes. I mean—”

But another blast from the whistle drowned her out, and the rumble of the old locomotive sounded like the growl of a hungry iron beast, as darkness descended.

“Tunnel. I hate them, Miss. Make me superstitious.”

He fancied he could still see her form in the darkness, but she did not reply. He suddenly felt a goose walk over his grave, so to speak, as his arms and legs erupted into prickles.

When they exited the mouth of the tunnel, he got the surprise of his life.

The seat across from his was empty.

She had seemingly disappeared.

Not sure if, perhaps, he had dreamt the whole thing (she did seem so very strange), he stopped to consider if she would have had time, in the short interval of darkness, to get up and exit the compartment, without him having any inkling of what she had done. And why would she leave? Had he been so annoying, really? No; he conducted himself, as always, like a gentleman.

Not sure of what to do next, he called the conductor, an old man in a red velvet hat.

“No, sir,” said the man. “No one has come in or out of this compartment since we started. I’m sure of it. Don’t recall anyone on board fitting that description, at any rate. Perhaps you fell asleep and dreamed it?”

He was silent a moment. Something about this explanation failed to satisfy him. However, he said, “Yes… yes, perhaps I did. Well, thank you for your time, sir.”

The conductor smiled and tipped his hat, walking away.

He got off at the station, looking for the man who was to escort him out to where he was to perform his latest job, for he was an artist who did portraits for hire. In a few moments, he was approached by a rough, skinny, older man in a tall, stovepipe hat.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I’m Felix, the driver. I’ll take you out to the house.”

He was conveyed into a waiting hansom, and they were off, passing through some of the dreariest hills and dips and stretches of woodland he had ever seen. Finally, they came upon a decrepit plantation house pushed way back into the shadow of a circle of brooding trees. They stopped at the front gate. Felix said, “I’ll put away the horses. You can go on up and announce yourself.”

He got out, pulled open the wrought-iron gate, and headed toward the large porch, which was flanked on either side by marble columns covered in ivy. Indeed, the yard and surroundings seemed rather overgrown and ill-kempt. Perhaps Mr. B---- had a hard time holding on to his servants?

He went to the door, started to knock, then spied the long rope that undoubtedly rang the bell. He pulled, heard the lonely sound of the bell, and waited, a little breathlessly.

In a few moments, a tall white-haired old man, dressed in the finery of an English butler, came to the door, pulling it open slowly. He eyed the artist with a cold, grey stare.

The man stepped forward after a moment, his hat in his hand, saying, “Yes, I’m Mr. T-----. I’m the fellow your master hired to come and paint his portrait.”

The butler paused a moment, seemed to soften a bit, then said, “Ah, yes. Please, do come in. I’ll let Mr. B---- know that you have arrived.”

He walked through the door, and the butler turned, heading up the long, winding staircase in the gloom.

The artist looked around, noting that everything seemed to be covered with a thick layer of dust and many cobwebs. The downstairs looked as if it had hardly been lived in at all, for many years, and the great lofty entryway was exceedingly dark, the windows covered by a thick layer of dust and heavy, dark curtains.

He coughed a little at the dust. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone move past him in the gloom. It seemed to be a woman, walking quickly away. She was hard to see, dressed almost completely in black, but she turned a moment, and he fancied he could make out a face and a pair of white, delicate hands. He thought he could hear the snuffle of weeping.

His mind flashed back to the young woman he had met (or dreamed he had met) on the train. Could this actually be the same woman? He was sure it was impossible, but that is what his eye and senses seemed to suggest.

Suddenly, a light appeared at the top of the stairs. The butler was standing in a doorway, holding a lantern.

“Master is ready for you, sir.”

He approached the stairs slowly, put his hand on the old wooden bannister, made his way up in the deep gloom.

He stepped out on the landing, went to the glimmer of light coming from the crack of a door at the end of the hall. He entered slowly, his eye adjusting to the faint light from the fireplace.

The butler had disappeared. In front of him, seated with his back turned away from the door, was the withered husk of an old, white-haired man. He looked to be eighty if he was a day, and he was adorned in his robe and slippers and night cap.

The artist took the seat opposite his by the fire, and said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. B----. I’m the man you hired to come and paint your portrait.”

The old man was silent for a long moment, before saying, “Yes. Well, you’ll have to forgive us for our shortcomings. It’s not often we receive visitors here.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright.

The old man smiled suddenly, an act that did little to improve his appearance. He was practically toothless.

“I imagine you’ll be staying with us a few days. Well, I’ve had Frankie prepare your room. I hope you’ll find it comfortable.”

The artist suddenly dove into his valise, bringing out his sketchbook and pencils.

“Well, if I could just get a few preliminary sketches of you as you sit here…”

The old man held up a bony hand, said, “You are mistaken, sir. It is not my portrait you are going to be painting. No. it’s that of… of my daughter.”

The artist was a little taken aback, but said, “Ah, I see. I believe I saw that same young lady downstairs.”

The old man suddenly looked most strange, as if he had had confirmation of some secret idea that had long been buried. He almost smiled.

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken. No. My daughter is not here anymore. Alas, I could never convince her to sit for a photographic portrait, so you’ll have to depend on the vague recollections and descriptions of a tottering old fool to guide you.”

The artist was truly puzzled now, but listened to the old man’s careful description, and began to draw. Soon, he had completed a very detailed sketch.

He held the thing close to the flickering lamp. His mouth fell open; it was the very image of the woman on the train!

“Well,” he said, “I’ve met this woman already today! This woman sat with me, just this morning, on the train here.”

The old man smiled that same strange smile, but his eyes were wide with what seemed a curious excitement. He said, “Yes, well, it has happened. I see she has come home to us. I feared it would be so. After leaving with so much… blood on her hands. Of course, by any logical measure, what you say is ludicrous, impossible. Yet, I know it to be fact!”

The artist was totally confused at this point, and said so.

“Sir, you say you saw my daughter this morning, coming here on the train. And that later, you saw a similar figure shuffle through the entryway, downstairs? You say these things, and I believe them, but, I assure you, it is impossible for you to have done so.”

The artist suddenly felt his skin grow cold. Despite the fire burning in the grate and the terrifically hot weather, he was suddenly freezing. He felt his voice catch in his throat, but he managed to say, “Why, sir, do you say it is impossible?”

The old man leaned back, closed his eyes, and slowly began:

“Once, my daughter was a lonely young girl, until she became smitten with a handsome cavalry officer she met at a dance. The two of them fell madly in love, and made plans to elope. I was informed of these plans by a snooping servant, and was furious; I made a move to put a stop to it. I locked her in her room, and refused to let her come out until she had renounced her love for the young rakehell.

“Well, as you can imagine, this only inflamed her all the more, and she fashioned a rope out of old sheets, and made a daring escape out the window.

“She took one of the horses and rode out to where she knew the young soldier was staying. Upon entering the cabin, she was horrified to find him in the arms of a woman of... how shall we put this? Low virtue? As I suspected, he was a scoundrel, one whose only purpose in wooing her was to secure for himself a portion of her inheritance, if they should marry.

“Driven insane with rage, she raced for the soldier’s rifle, which was leaned up against the wall, and, before she knew what she was doing… she had killed them both.”

The artist felt his eyes grow wide, his heart begin to race, his skin grow cold and clammy. He almost thought, somewhere, he could hear soft, evil laughter.

“You don’t mean to tell me?”

“Yes! Yes!” cried the old man, suddenly more animated than the artist had seen him since his arrival. “The very thing you are thinking! You have seen my daughter, you believe, but I tell you, you couldn’t have. After completing that bloody deed, there was only one more victim remaining, one more innocent life to snuff out. You have seen my daughter? Impossible for you to have seen her, I tell you!

“For, you see, MY DAUGHTER IS DEAD.”