Let the Ghosts Speak Read online

  LET THE GHOSTS SPEAK

  By

  Bryan Davis

  Let the Ghosts Speak

  Published by Mountain Brook Ink under the Mountain Brook Fire line

  White Salmon, WA U.S.A.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  The website addresses shown in this book are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of Mountain Brook Ink, nor do we vouch for their content.

  This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental, other than people mentioned in the Author Note.

  Any scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. Public domain.

  ISBN 978-1-943959-61-7

  Published in association with Cyle Young of the Hartline Literary Agency, LLC.

  © 2020 Bryan Davis

  The Team: Miralee Ferrell, Alyssa Roat, Nikki Wright, Cindy Jackson

  Cover Design: Indie Cover Design, Lynnette Bonner Designer

  Mountain Brook Fire is an inspirational publisher offering worlds you can believe in.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Reader Take Notice

  Translator’s Admonition

  When my good friend in France asked me to take on this translation assignment, I did so without hesitation. I found the mysterious relic irrestible. After all, the manuscript was discovered in a time capsule unearthed in Paris in 1962, part of a police-case dossier, and my passion has long been nineteenth-century jurisprudence.

  Now I wonder if the document should have been left buried, forgotten forever. When you read it, perhaps you will understand my newfound reluctance to let it see the light of day. Yet, since I made a commitment to complete the assignment, I did so to the best of my ability and without prejudice.

  The first portion, which is the lion’s share of the manuscript, was written by a hasty hand in English with an occasional French word or phrase. Because of its progressively illegible script, I did more than simply copy it into a decipherable form. I translated it into something modern readers of English could understand while keeping the more easily recognizable French words the author chose to employ.

  I did not, however, alter the author’s measurement conventions. Although he lived in France, which used the metric system at the time, he provided distances in Imperial units, most likely for the sake of his mother, an Englishwoman. In contrast, I opted for American spellings of words, since I am providing this translation for a largely American readership, as my friend requested.

  In addition, at all times, I was careful to be true to the author’s style, his mindset, and his apparent madness. And herein lies my admonition to readers. Be careful to avoid becoming entranced by the author’s hallucinations. After working long hours to decipher his meaning in various passages, I found myself suffering from nightmares in which phantoms visited my own bedside, and I awoke in cold sweats. I fear that the same might happen to readers who spend too much time wandering in the hallways of this author’s illusions.

  The second portion of the manuscript, a police inspector’s addendum, was written entirely in French, and I employed the same method in translating that author’s words. Although this officer was clearly in possession of his faculties, as you will see, the madman’s fantasies etched their shadows even in the good inspector’s mind.

  As you can imagine, I find the story contained herein to be highly doubtful. Yet, because of my commitment to my friend, I respectfully submit it for public review, faithfully preserved with appropriate chapter divisions to facilitate easier reading.

  Henri M. Bellamont, translator

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Author Note

  Chapter One

  I have forgotten love. My chains have driven it from me. Loneliness has leached it from my bones and left behind only regret.

  It is daylight once again, and I am sane today. This time I am certain of it, though the hauntings of the night continue to test my confidence. Therefore, while my mind is clear, I must take pen and ink, so kindly provided by my only friendly visitors, and begin my story. I cannot say how long this season of sanity will remain with me, so I will write quickly and continue during every day of clarity until I finish this account for the court.

  Although you might be dead by now, dear Mother, I am including occasional personal side notes to you, and I dedicate these recollections to your memory, for your lullabies echo from these bare walls. Perhaps you alone knew what love really is. The ghosts tell me that few remember.

  I see a world of children who walk in darkness, their bony hands stained with blood not their own, the blood of the innocent. I have been led by such hands, the frail hands of schoolboys in this realm of shadows. Will the rest of the world learn from their schoolmasters?

  Alas. Forgive me. I am getting far ahead of myself. A sane man begins his tale at the beginning, so I shall relate where this story of heartbreak has its origins, in Paris where I, Justin Trotter, shared a one-room flat with Marc Noël.

  You would have approved, Mother. The room was austere and clean, only a bed and a desk for each of us, situated above a police commissary and within walking distance of the theater and our university. Although Marc’s family could have afforded more opulent lodging, he chose a simple life, often to his mother’s vexation.

  As part-time students with thespian hearts, we spent our waking hours working for our employers, attending a class or two, studying for exams, and rehearsing our respective roles in whichever play the community theater offered. Regarding employment, Marc conducted research for a law firm, while I translated manuscripts from English or Gaelic to French for a publisher in Paris.

  Our jobs were tedious, often mind-numbing, but they provided income that I sorely needed, especially because of my dear sister, Justice.

  On a fateful day in early November of 1860, Justice visited my flat, hoping to escape her dismal fortunes, at least for a few hours. As always, we laughed together and wept together. The respite provided solace and hope for her and joy for me. Her smile brightened any room, and her eyes danced with delight, in spite of their blindness.

  Mother, I realize this is shocking news, but Justice went blind at the age of ten after a bout of smallpox, which almost took her life. If she had died, I would have been lost, alone. She always remained my best friend, my closest ally during our trials when we had to leave England. Even blind, she was the steady guide who kept me on the pathway of sanity. And I adored her.

  Late afternoon rain threatened as I helped Justice walk toward the carriage that would transport her to Montreuil. Fortunately, it was covered, so she would stay dry during the journey. Earlier storms had left deep puddles scattered here and about, forcing us to step over or around them in a meandering path.

  When I boosted her into the car
riage, I tucked the skirt of her dress inside to keep it from getting caught in the door. Loose threads dangled at the hem, and a gaping hole in her knitted shawl revealed a sleeve that had been mended with darker thread, obvious to anyone but a blind seamstress, though Madame Dupont probably noticed and never said anything. The shrewish woman couldn’t be bothered with even the smallest act of kindness.

  How could I once again send Justice to such a heartless caretaker? She demanded complete obedience to her insufferable and constantly changing rules while steadily increasing the charge for Justice’s care. Still, I sent the money each month without fail, though it left me with barely enough to survive.

  When I leaned in and kissed Justice’s pale cheek, she broke into sobs that shook her thin frame. “Justin, I don’t think I can stand another moment in that horrid woman’s house. When will we be able to have a place to ourselves?”

  I stroked her long, dark curls. “I don’t know. Without Marc’s help, I couldn’t afford anything outside the beggars’ slums, and I would never take you there.”

  “Or the institution.”

  “No. The rumors I hear are ... well ... rife with nightmares. You need not worry about going there.”

  She gestured with her hands as if making something. “My basket weaving is much improved, and I am learning how to cane chairs. I also learned how to sew well enough to repair clothing. I can earn money now.”

  Her determined brown eyes sent sparkling tears down her sunken cheeks, stabbing my heart without mercy. “I’ll find a place we can both live. Give me some time.”

  “How much time? Every day with Madame Dupont gets worse. Yesterday she spilled scalding water on my hand.” She showed me a red welt on her thumb. “I think she did it on purpose, though she claimed it was an accident.”

  Anger burned within. I had to get Justice away from this evil woman without delay. “Give me two days. Then I’ll come for you. I promise.”

  “Thank you, Justin. I can survive that long.” Her smile chased away the stabbing daggers. “I almost forgot to tell you. I have been having good dreams lately. In most of them, I am with Father. I am a little girl, and I can see. It’s so wonderful to talk to him again and enjoy our walks together.”

  I slid out my pocket watch and looked at the face in the light of the waning sun. We had kept the carriage driver waiting far too long. “That’s wonderful. At least you have good memories to help you wake up happy.”

  Her smile wilted. “I miss him so much. I still don’t believe the horrid story about him. It can’t be true.”

  I put the watch away and brushed a tear from her cheek. “Just keep dreaming about him. Remember him for the good man he was.”

  She nodded. “I love you, Justin.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I closed the door and extended the fare money to the driver, but he shook his head and brushed his own tears from his aged face. “No charge. Going to Montreuil anyway.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur. Thank you.”

  When Justice’s carriage rolled down the street, the clouds gave way. Rain fell in sheets. A splash turned my attention to an alley entry. A little girl, perhaps seven years old, had fallen into a puddle. Propped by hands and knees, expression forlorn, she stared at me, her coat splattered with mud. Raindrops pelted her uncovered head, plastering dark curls against her pale cheeks.

  She seemed familiar, but in the blowing rain, I couldn’t be sure. One truth was certain. No one was coming to her aid.

  The moment I took a step toward her, a wheel on a swiftly moving carriage hit a puddle and sent a spray of muddy water my way. I spun and dodged in time to avoid getting hit. When I turned again toward the alley, the girl was gone.

  I ran to the spot and looked around. She was nowhere in sight. How could she have run away so quickly? In any case, there was no sense conducting a search. I would soon become soaked.

  As I hurried toward my building, the girl’s face stayed on my mind like a haunting specter. Somehow I knew her from a time long ago, perhaps my childhood, but that would have been before she was born.

  Shaking off my ponderings, I rushed into my building and bounded up the stairs to my flat. The room was empty. Marc had not yet returned from the law office.

  Today, his absence was fortunate. For the past week he had been goading me into attending a party this very night, and during the morning he had chattered like a little boy, announcing that the masquerade ball in the old schoolhouse was upon us.

  After removing my cloak, I sat heavily in my chair, lifted the fountain pen donated by my publisher for translation work, and opened the book I had been working on. Considering the promise I had made to Justice, I couldn’t afford to halt my work. In fact, I had to work harder, faster, even on a holiday like today.

  Le Jour des Morts they call it, All Souls’ Day, a morbid holiday in my view. With the heavy rain giving us an encore from yesterday’s performance, the street was again turning to mud, the slimy sort that brings horses to an untimely end. If it continued, flooding was sure to follow.

  I stared out our window at a two-horse fiacre splashing through turbid water and imagined my own tumble in the mire and a painful journey to the physician, something I could ill afford, especially now. Yet, even that would be tolerable compared to dressing up in whatever ghastly costume Marc had in mind for me. With his imagination, I doubted that I would survive the shame.

  After I had worked on the book for a few minutes, Marc entered with a quick stride and brushed water from his cloak, his ever-present smile widening his full cheeks. Lacking facial hair, he often looked like an exuberant child. “The rain is heavy, but my spirits are high. We’re going to a ball tonight.”

  I fidgeted on my tattered seat pad, my knees under my desk. “You’re going to a ball. I have work to do.”

  Marc shook his head hard and slung water from his short, dark hair. In his wet state, he reminded me of a bear who had waded in from a swim. Stocky, muscular, and grinning like he had just caught a fish, he was ready to celebrate. “You can’t back out, Justin. My mother purchased your disguise, and refunds are not allowed. Besides, the music will be grand. The evening is guaranteed to be festive and fun.”

  Awkward and embarrassing were closer to the truth, but I held my tongue. I wrote something forgettable about the Renaissance era translated from the tedious history book. I needed to appear busy—disconnected from Marc’s make-believe world of romance, a world in which people lived happily ever after. I knew better.

  “Marc, I need to finish this. You know how it works. No money until I deliver the final product.”

  He tiptoed close as if sneaking up on prey. “Will you go if I offer you an advance?”

  I stared at him. “An advance? You mean in full?”

  He shed his cloak and draped it over his arm. “Payment in full for the book. You can reimburse me when you deliver it.”

  “But that will take weeks.”

  “I know.” Marc looked at his nails in a nonchalant manner. “What do you say? Are you going?”

  “Give me a moment to think.” I set the pen down and closed my eyes. Maybe Marc’s offer was my opportunity to get a place for Justice and me. With that much money, I could rent a decent flat for at least three months. Of course, I would have no income until I finished the book, but if her confidence in her weaving abilities was justified, we might be able to eke out a living.

  Besides that, the frequent rain had kept Marc and me inside for too many hours and sometimes at each other’s throats. The morning’s rehearsal had been canceled due to our director’s sudden illness, the wretched fever that had stricken so many who had reached her advanced age. At least this malady wasn’t as deadly as the cholera that broke out soon after Justice and I, a pair of frightened twins, arrived in France at the age of seven. When the disease struck our adoptive parents, we had to lean on each other to survive, thereby sealing our unbreakable bond.

  The combination of my passion to help Justice and my need to br
eak away from this tedious text overwhelmed my distaste for social gatherings. Yet, before I agreed to go, I could use my pretended hesitance as leverage to gain more information.

  I opened my eyes, picked up the pen, and began writing again. “Why a masquerade party on a night that we’re supposed to pray for the souls of the dead?”

  “My mother’s idea.” Marc laid his cloak over the back of his desk chair. “People dress up in your homeland for All Hallows’ Eve, do they not?”

  “They do, but your mother has no English or Celtic roots. Or does she?”

  “Indeed she does, on her paternal grandmother’s side, but costumes are not uncommon here on any holiday, including prayerful ones.” Marc sat on his chair and pulled off his wet shoes. “You need not worry, though. We’ll have the traditional chrysanthemums, candles, and prayers for the dead. You can add something yourself, if you want, maybe a Gaelic prayer. That would impress everyone.”

  “I’ll think about it, but why the old schoolhouse?”

  “Our dear Monsieur Haussmann plans to destroy it during the next renovation phase. Mother wishes to preserve it as a museum and a venue for social gatherings, so she decorated it and invited all her aristocratic friends, including Monsieur Haussmann himself. Maybe he will join us and see the building’s potential.”

  “That’s all fine for your mother and you, but give me one good reason why I should go.”

  “Besides the money?”

  “Yes, otherwise you will think me a mercenary.”

  Marc lit a lantern and turned up the wick. “Francine will be there.” His voice was low and sultry, as if he were playing a scripted role.

  My pen paused over a misshapen letter R. His mention of Francine raised a shiver that I am not sure I hid from him. She never failed to make my heart race. Her beauty, her wit, her generosity, combined to create an angel on earth, though a sharp-tongued one. And I, probably along with a dozen other men, was in love with her. “What difference does that make? I am far from deserving a spot on her list of potential suitors.”