Dark Shadows: An Elspeth Barclay Novel, #4

Chapter 1

As my sister Laine steered through an iron fence and along the winding driveway, she passed a post clock that showed twelve o’clock. I checked my smart watch. Three-ten. Another post clock appeared around the next bend, displaying the same wrong time. Intentionally?

The driveway circled a fountain at the front of the three-story mansion, half an hour north of Longhill, Illinois, in North Barrington, a more affluent suburb of Chicago. Yet another clock stood as sentry marking the same wrong time. Laine looped past the house, headed back the way we came and parked, as instructed, beyond a sign along the driveway marked for visitors.

You’d think, with all the other mechanical things they brag about, they’d fix the clocks, I said.

She turned off the car and faced me before she opened her door to get out. Why are you in such a contrary mood?

I struggled to maintain a straight face when confronted with her pigtails and blue gingham pinafore.

Halloween. When the rest of the world thought seeing ghosts was a game. The one day each year when people didn’t make fun of me for talking about spirits. Also, the one day each year people who were afraid of my hidden talent kept a wide berth, as if seeing ghosts was contagious.

How I’d let my sister talk me into going on a ghost tour of a sprawling mansion on my day off I’d never know, but here we were.

It’s for charity. The ghosts are for entertainment, Laine said, as if she’d heard my thoughts.

Maybe hearing my thoughts hadn’t been necessary. Since my accident, I tended to verbalize things more often than I intended to.

If they had an actual problem with ghosts, I’m sure they would have called you or Mom long before now, she went on.

Not while they can still make a buck exploiting them, I replied. Most ghosts are benign.

Laine sputtered. Exploiting. As if.

She pushed out of the car. I followed, and we walked toward the manor house in the mild autumn evening.

This was supposed to be fun. Sister bonding time. My accident had been a year ago, and still people treated me as if I might break at any given moment. Hadn’t I returned to work? But business was down. Laine and Gavin had opened a pop-up along the business corridor in anticipation of our lease ending in the downtown area—using the pop-up concept as a test market for our collectibles store. From what little Laine told me, the pop-up wasn’t doing so well either. I should be considering my next move rather than traipsing around a museum filled with musical instruments on Halloween.

Relax, Laine said. Try and have fun, will you?

Had I spoken out loud again? I shot her a smile and focused on the mansion. My skin crawled with the sense we were walking into more than a showplace. Was the Haunted Opera House haunted?

A chain across stone steps closed off access to the brick terrace that extended from the house. Beyond the terrace, the house overlooked a park-like area with a pond. Colorful leaves floated to the ground in the twilight, joining a host of others to form a carpet on the dry grass. We continued to the sweeping front steps, where visitors milled around or sat on park benches beside the turrets on either side of the staircase.

I spotted a woman whose hair was half black and half white, dressed in black beneath a spotted fur—or faux fur—coat. She carried a long cigarette holder. A man stood beside one of the benches wearing a silver cowl over his head and a black tunic with a crest, cinched at the waist by a black scabbard. Another couple wore old-world costumes, the woman in a Victorian gown and the man wearing leggings under a tunic and soft leather boots.

Beside the front door, a plaque marked the cornerstone with the words Opera House. My head buzzed with unseen energy.

Do they do this Phantom of the Opera tour every year? I asked.

I think so, Laine replied. The owner is a collector, and the Opera House was built specifically to house the items he collected—music machines. They do other tours throughout the year, but this is the only designated ghost tour.

For Halloween, I said.

Exactly.

I brushed at my patchwork gypsy skirt and checked the laces in the bodice of my blouse. I adjusted my wig, and one of the rings on my finger—I had rings on every finger—snagged in a long, black synthetic strand of hair. I tugged it free, along with a strand of hair from the wig.

Laine giggled and pointed to a couple, the woman in a long black dress and the man in a black suit. Gomez and Morticia.

I nodded to another couple. I don’t think those guys got the memo. They look like they came off the golf course.

Costumes were suggested, but not required, she said.

A man in top hat and tails opened the door. Welcome to the Thibodaux Opera House. Won’t you join me in the theater? he said with a sweeping bow.

We climbed the staircase into an entranceway lit with electric candles. A room to one side of the staircase had a sign over the doorway indicating the theater. I shivered, once more sensing extra energy in the room. Evidence of a ghostly presence among us?

The theater was a two-story room lit by a massive chandelier surrounded by several smaller ones. A pipe organ with multiple keyboards dominated the stage at the front of the room. Organ pipes of varying sizes lined one wall. Theater seating rose in tiers at the back of the room. Animated, old-fashioned jukeboxes were positioned along the back wall near stairs to the second-level seating.

The guide took his place on the stage in front of the organ. Esteemed guests. My name is Rodney Flanders and I’m a docent here at the Thibodaux estate. Please take a seat while I tell you about our host, George Thibodaux. He paused as the audience settled.

Laine and I found seats on the main floor, in a row to ourselves. The docent bowed deeply and began his speech. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a woman three seats to my right. When had she come in? She wore a red, sparkly dress that hit her mid-calf. The style, including a handkerchief hemline, resembled a flapper dress. I spared a smile for her and returned my attention to the docent.

"The organ in this room, as well as the chandeliers, were reclaimed from a theater in Chicago after it closed. George Thibodaux built his Opera House in 1975 to hold not only the organ, but many other musical machines as a gift to his wife, Sophia. Sophia loved music and was a frequent patron of the arts. In her, George found a kindred spirit, someone who could appreciate the love of music he grew up with, which led to the machines he collected.

"Throughout this building, you’ll find gramophones, player pianos, and various other contraptions, for lack of a better word, that create music. One machine, for instance, plays four violins. After Sophia died in 1995, George continued to collect his music machines as a way to stay connected to her spirit. He often told stories of machines playing unattended, her way of letting him know she was still with him and appreciated his efforts.

"George passed on a few months ago, at the age of 87. You may have noticed the post clocks on your way in. They all stopped the moment he died, and all attempts to restore them to working order have failed.

His children have decided to maintain both the ancestral home and the Opera House, continuing the tours to show off George’s collection of music machines for the benefit of local charities. Before we begin, why don’t we ask Sophia to play us a song on the organ?

The docent turned to his side and waved toward the organ. I jumped with the first, jarring note from The Phantom of the Opera.

Goosebumps, Laine said beside me.

I never learned to play the organ, the woman on the other side of me said. She’d moved closer, and there was now one seat between us.

I’m not musical, either, I replied.

The organ continued to play, seemingly without an organist.

Is a ghost playing? Laine asked me.

The whole thing was too scripted. Didn’t he say something about player pianos? There are computer programs that record keystrokes. The music is probably a pre-recorded playback.

But the keys are moving, like someone’s playing them.

The keys move on player pianos, too.

Laine grinned. You could have gone along with his story. It is Halloween, after all.

When the song ended, much to the delight—or horror—of the guests, the docent, Mr. Flanders, returned to the stage and confirmed what I’d told Laine. The organ had essentially been programmed to play. He went on to pitch the live organ concerts the estate hosted for various charitable events in case we wanted to spend more money on a return visit.

Mr. Flanders invited us to continue the tour in the entrance hall, where he demonstrated a variety of old, hand-cranked gramophones that played songs from wax cylinders. He switched on the machine he’d referenced earlier with the four violins, violins which rotated upside down on a carousel and tilted into the bows to play The Blue Danube waltz.

That was always one of my favorites. The woman in the flapper dress stood close beside me, nodding her head in three-four time.

It’s lovely, I agreed.

Laine gave me a curious look.

Oh! the flapper said, walking over to a player piano. This one plays Claire de Lune. As she approached, the roll inside turned and played the song, creating dissonance with the violin-playing machine.

You must have taken this tour before, I said to her.

Who are you talking to? Laine whispered.

I looked from Laine to the flapper—didn’t she see the woman?—before it occurred to me the conversation I’d been hearing hadn’t been verbalized. Since my head injury, I wasn’t quite as quick on the uptake as I used to be.

Don’t tell me you see a ghost, Laine whispered.

The spirit of Sophia Thibodaux? I raised my hand for Mr. Flanders, who looked very discomfited staring at the self-playing piano. Excuse me, are there any portraits of Mrs. Thibodaux in the Opera House?

He turned toward the grand staircase and pointed to an oversized portrait hanging at the landing.

Well, that explains it, I said to Laine. I’m talking to Sophia Thibodaux.

She must be part of the tour, one of the men in the group whispered, nodding toward me.

Please don’t touch our machines, Mr. Flanders said to me as he crossed to stop the player piano. They are precision instruments.

I didn’t touch anything, I told him.

He raised his eyebrows, an unhappy look on his face.

I turned toward the flapper—Mrs. Thibodaux. What song does that piano play? I asked, pointing to another one across the room in hopes she’d demonstrate I wasn’t responsible for the rogue player piano.

Moonlight Sonata, she said. Shall I play it for you?

Please.

The cylinder inside turned and the keys played. The guests gasped in response to the piano playing without anyone near enough to flip a switch.

This is the best ghost tour I’ve ever been on, someone said.

A woman stepped away from the man who’d called me out as a plant. Can you talk to ghosts? she asked. Because I believe my home is haunted, and I’d like to know why.

Chapter 2

Before my accident , Laine might have made a fuss about the woman who’d approached me. Either she still thought she was caring for her poor, injured sister, or she was finally getting used to people asking me about ghosts.

I pulled a business card from my purse and handed it to the woman. My name is Elspeth Barclay and this is a card for the shop I own. There’s a consultation calendar on the website. You can make an appointment there.

The woman’s husband clucked. I’ve told you it’s nothing, Marguerite. I won’t have you parading con artists around the house looking to validate your runaway imagination.

She’s not a con artist, Laine said.

I stared at my sister. No, she knew I wasn’t a con artist, but still, she was defending me? My ability to see spirits had been a bone of contention between us most of our lives. Sometimes she surprised me.

Which is why she has a consultation calendar, Laine went on. My sister’s skills are in high demand, but don’t let that get in your way of bashing things you don’t know about.

Yes, I had the consultation calendar to fill in the financial gaps now that Whimsical Collectibles was winding down, but I preferred to keep ghost consults on a need-to-know basis. The consultations were a side gig until I figured out how to open my antiques store somewhere new. Still, to have Laine championing me brought tears to my eyes. We’d had our struggles since her engagement to Gavin, but we were still sisters. I couldn’t stop myself from hugging her.

Why don’t we continue our tour? Mr. Flanders said.

The gentleman—if you could call him that—who’d accused me crossed his arms. "If you can actually communicate with the spirit world, ask your ghost to play that machine." He pointed toward another gramophone on the far side of the room.

I looked to the spirit in residence, Sophia Thibodaux. She offered a slight nod of her head.

I’m afraid that one is currently out of order, Mr. Flanders said.

Sophia smiled and lifted a hand. The cylinder rolled and Ain’t We Got Fun played through the horn.

The docent paled and gasped. The people on the tour applauded.

Mr. Flanders took a step closer to me and lowered his voice. I don’t know who you are or how you’re doing this, but I must ask you to stop.

I’m not doing anything, I told him. You did say Mrs. Thibodaux enjoyed her music, didn’t you?

He tugged at his waistcoat. Mrs. Thibodaux is deceased.

So you’ve said.

I’m going to have to ask you to leave the tour.

We paid for our tickets, Laine piped up. I want to see the rest.

Then I will ask you to... Mr. Flanders drew a deep breath, or I should have you ask Mrs. Thibodaux to refrain from playing more of the machines?

The spirit shrugged and the gramophone stopped playing. I’ll wait until after the tour has left. Our dear docent deserves a private concert.

I held back a snicker, putting a hand to my mouth.

What did she say? Laine whispered.

I told her behind a raised hand.

Shall we continue? Mr. Flanders said.

We adjourned to the next room, what might have been a living room in most houses. An ornate fireplace was flanked by large metal dragon andirons. Three-dimensional muses molded in plaster extended from the wall over the mantel. Several vintage music boxes sat atop a glass coffee table, and half a dozen more player pianos lined the wall opposite the fireplace. Mr. Flanders told us the history of the pieces, including how George’s children had added music boxes to the Opera House collection and even unintentionally bid against each other on one of their finds.

When we returned to the main entranceway, Mr. Flanders invited us to admire the portrait of Sophia Thibodaux at the landing on the grand staircase. He then directed us to explore the mezzanine level to see more music machines. He finished the tour with a flourish, suggesting Sophia might randomly start another of her machines for our musical enjoyment. After sending me a pointed look, another of the gramophones played, but I no longer saw Sophia amongst our group. I did, however, see a remote control in Mr. Flanders’ hand.

He’s got a remote, I told Laine, more loudly than I should have.

She nudged me toward the exit. We should go before we get into any more trouble.

The woman who’d approached me earlier rushed to catch up. Ms. Barclay? Let me introduce myself. I’m Marguerite Van Allen. I apologize if my husband was rude. I hope that won’t keep you from keeping our appointment. I took an opening on your calendar day after tomorrow.

This woman was serious, then. It’s not uncommon to encounter people who are skeptical, I told her.

It isn’t so much that he’s skeptical, she said. More like he doesn’t see the harm. You see, our ghost looks out for us. A steadying hand when you lose your step. Moving things out of the way so we don’t trip on them. That sort of thing. She gave me an apologetic sort of smile. I want to know why. I’ve never seen the ghost. Never heard it speak.

Interesting. Was she imagining ghostly intervention where there wasn’t any? It could well be her own second nature guarding her against hurting herself.

Her husband stood beside her, his arms folded. Go on, he said. Tell her what you think. Save us all the trouble of a phony séance or casing our home for a burglary.

I sputtered, holding back a laugh. My ability to weigh comments before I made them was somewhat less restrained than it had been prior to banging my head on the corner of a table. I rubbed the scar on my wrist, another souvenir of that particular haunting. In the first place, I try to avoid séances wherever possible. If a spirit wants to communicate, it will find a way. Holding a séance encourages other spirits out of hiding, and that’s rarely a good thing. As far as what I think— I did hesitate then, but he’d asked. Is it possible she’s attributing her own sense of caution, or self-preservation, to a ghost?

He lowered his arms in a sign he was letting down his guard. I’d agree with you, except I’ve seen it myself. Experienced things myself.

Funny. Now he believed in ghosts? Seen what, exactly? I asked.

A piece of furniture slide out of the way. A sense of someone holding you back when you might have taken a misstep.

I’d had my own share of mishaps over the past year. The spirit responsible for my injury had moved on, but what my mother referred to as an increase in activity lingered. I’d attributed my ensuing clumsiness to banging my head. I could benefit from a spirit moving things out of my path.

What if the lingering energy my mother detected around me accounted for my increased clumsiness? If the Van Allens had a spirit who ran interference, it stood to reason the energy that followed me put obstacles in my path.

Ms. Barclay? Marguerite said.

Laine took my arm. My sister is still recovering from an accident. I’m afraid this outing might have overtired her.

I shook free. That accident was nearly a year ago. I’m fine, and I’m curious to meet their helpful ghost. Tell me, Mrs. Van Allen, if your ghost isn’t bothering you, what do you hope to accomplish from my assessment?

I’d like to know who’s haunting my house. Why they want to help. Is it a relative? A benefactor of some sort? A guardian angel?

A guardian angel. I had one of my own, Gordon, the man who guided my visions. When I’d discovered his identity, I’d found a sense of peace that had been missing from my life. I think I understand.

Marguerite smiled. Then I look forward to our appointment.

To my surprise, Mr. Van Allen shook my hand as well. We’ll see you soon.

Laine and I started down the driveway.

What was that overtired bit? I asked her.

What?

You told Marguerite Van Allen I was overtired, I reminded her. I wish you’d stop treating me like an invalid.

"You zoned out. What did you