LeRoux Manor Read online

  “Phillipe! That’s not funny,” her mother scolded. Her father chuckled, raising his hands in defence against her playful slaps.

  Camille couldn’t help but smile. “She definitely wasn’t a ghost. I mean, I could see her as clearly as I see both of you. Ghosts are supposed to be... I don’t know. Less here, aren’t they?”

  Her father shrugged. “I couldn’t say. I’ve never seen one.”

  “Have you seen her again?” her mother asked.

  Camille shook her head. “Just that first night.”

  “Well, that settles it.” Her mother wiped her mouth on her napkin. “You were just overtired from a long day of moving. That’s all.”

  Camille returned her attention to her plate, more certain than ever that what she saw had not been her imagination at play.

  CAMILLE SAT AT THE window seat, the box from the attic in front of her. She pulled out another photo album and instantly felt a rush of enthusiasm sweep over her, lifting the sombre mood that had hung over her since dinner. She loved looking at old photographs, especially black and white ones of people long since passed. There was something magical about trying to work out who they’d been and what their lives were like.

  The photos were well preserved, though many were discoloured around the edges. Looking closely, she was surprised to find the photos weren’t of the LeRoux family but appeared to be of the staff. She ran her fingers over their expressionless faces, wondering if they’d liked working at the manor, if the LeRoux’s had treated them well. She froze, her fingers hovering over the face of a little girl peering out from behind the skirts of one of the women. “No way...” she whispered, then rushed to the bedside table for a better look under the lamplight. The child looked about six years old and was the spitting image of Mena LeRoux, only despite the fact this was a sepia-toned photo, the child’s hair was not the same auburn Camille had seen in the colour photo. Now, it was clearly a bright white. Scanning the handwritten entry at the bottom of the photo, Camille shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘LeRoux Manor Staff – Solstice Day, 1867.’

  With a frown, she rummaged through the first album she’d opened, hunting for the article on the LeRoux Manor party. Holding the two pages side by side, she compared the photo of Mena from the article to the girl in the staff photo. There was no mistaking it; aside from the hair, they were identical. “In 1867, you should have been fifty-six,” Camille whispered. “Not six.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  C

  AMILLE STIRRED, FROWNING as she tried to hold onto the sleep she’d finally managed to grasp. It was no good. A loud thump made her open her eyes and wonder what could make such a noise. Listening intently, she tried to pinpoint where it came from, then it repeated. She looked up at the ceiling; it sounded like something had been dragged across the floor of the attic directly above her.

  Camille lay there, staring up at the ceiling, part of her wanting to go investigate and the other half hoping to ignore it and go back to sleep. A massive yawn overwhelmed her, and she made her decision by rolling over and closing her eyes.

  Just as she started to drift off again, another thump and drag sounded, this time even louder. Camille shot out of bed and hurried barefoot across the floor. When she scurried down the hall, she found the door to the to the attic stairs open just a crack. The faint glow from the stairwell globe-light sent a sliver of light out across the dark floor. She stared at; the lightbulb at blown the last time she used it.

  Camille told herself her father or Mr McAllister had simply replaced it, and she crept forward to press her ear against the gap as she listened for any sound of movement from above. The noise had stopped, so she slowly opened the door farther, cringing at the loud creak echoing through the darkness. She paused, wondering if she’d alerted anyone to her presence, but the rest of the house remained completely silent.

  As she made her way up the stairs, she briefly closed her eyes and tried to ignore the immediate claustrophobia. Once she’d reached the top, she was surprised to find a candle lit in the rightmost of the two windows at the other end of the attic. Its small flame burned brightly, flickering a dance of shadows around it. “Hello?” Camille whispered, though it was still quite loud. “Is anyone here?” She stood still, half wanting to hear a reply and half terrified that she would. When only silence met her greeting, she cautiously moved forward, placing one foot precisely in front of the other in the hopes of avoiding the creaking floorboards. If there was someone here, she didn’t really want them to know exactly where she was. Then she had to admit it; Camille wasn’t convinced she was alone.

  In that moment, her spine tingled with the feeling that she was being watched. “Come out where I can see you. I know you’re here,” she called a little louder, but still, there was no response. Her stomach churned, sending a flurry of anxiety through her as she noticed all the sheet-covered items that had spread across the floor were now pushed aside, cluttering up along the walls and looming at her like a spectral audience. Her heart quickened at the thought of ghosts having done all this. “Stop being stupid,” she muttered, though she still kept her voice low. “Mum’s obviously been up here sorting through things.”

  Then she forced the memory of that dragging sound from her head. With a frown, she caught sight of a large trunk beneath the window and walked toward it. Kneeling, she marvelled at the carved wooden lid of intricate figures, all of which seemed to dance around a central figure. The chest’s condition was amazing; it looked brand new, though she knew it couldn’t be. With both hands, Camille tried to lift the lid, but the chest must have been locked. She ran her fingers over the keyhole with a sigh. Where am I going to find the key amongst all these things?

  The scraping sound rose again without warning, and Camille jumped when she realised it was coming toward her. She turned in time to see a key skidding along the floor before stopping at her feet. Camille didn’t move. The sound of her rapid breath echoed in her ears as she peered into the darkness for any sign of another presence. But there was no movement, not another sound. Camille slowly bent down and picked up the key, careful not to take her eyes away from the darkness beyond the candle’s small circle of light. Holding it flat in her palm, she knew it was old, judging by the key’s narrow barrel tipped at one end with three square prongs; the other end had a decorative series of loops turning in on and around themselves. She fumbled a bit as she inserted the key into the lock on the lid of the trunk. Finally, with a loud click, the lock turned. It took both hands to lift the heavy lid, and the hinges groaned in protest as she heaved it open.

  The trunk’s contents were hidden under what she thought was a knitted rug. She gently pulled it out, holding it up for inspection in the candlelight, and realised it was a shawl, hand-made in a fine, lacey knit. There were holes in a few sections, where either age or moths had gotten to it over the years. Without a second thought, she draped it across her shoulders and closed her eyes, pulling the material closer. Despite its thinness, the shawl provided any amazing amount of comfort and warmth.

  The candlelight flickered across a piece of metal in the trunk, and Camille reached down to pull out an old hand mirror. The back and handle were decorated with a pattern of interweaving leaves and flowers, though the silver was tarnished with age. Turning it over in her hands, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Then she turned her head from one side to the other, watching the flickering candlelight dance across her face. It made her look different—as though she were looking at someone else’s reflection. Don’t be ridiculous, she thought, then turned the mirror away. The minute she did, the mirror’s surface caught another face in its reflection—the face of someone standing behind her.

  Camille yelped and quickly clapped her hand to her mouth as the mirror fell back into the trunk. She turned on her heel and looked around the attic, her heart pounding as she swallowed thickly. She could have sworn she’d seen a young girl peeking out from behind the white sheets covering some piece of furniture up here. On
ce she’d inspected the hanging sheets with a thorough gaze, unable to see anyone truly there, Camille tried her best to convince herself it was just her imagination—a trick of the candlelight playing with the shadows. Yet before she could reach back into the trunk, she heard the girl’s giggle, followed by the sound of small feet racing along the wooden floor. Camille spun around again, her eyes wide, but again, no one was there. Reaching up for the candle, she carefully pulled it closer across the windowsill, focused firmly on the attic in front of her.

  “Come find me, Catherine!”

  Camille almost dropped the candle at the sound of the little girl’s voice. It's not real. She’s not real. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and held it, hoping her mind would right itself, Five, four, three, two...

  Camille awoke with a start, looking frantically around her room. Her mouth fell open in surprise when she realised she was sitting upright in her own bed. Hearing an odd squeak, like the protests of an old hinge, she looked up to see the old woman from the garden staring at her from behind the clothes hanging in her wardrobe. Pale white hands reached forward from the darkness and pulled the doors closed again.

  Camille screamed, leaping from the bed and running out into the hall. “Mum! Dad!” she cried. When she reached the landing, she found them both already halfway to her room.

  “What is it?” her mum asked.

  “What happened?”

  “The old woman!” Camille sobbed. “She was in my room.” She pointed back down the hall and caught the look her parents exchanged. So, she grabbed her mother’s hand. “She’s in there. I’m not making this up.”

  “I know you’re not, sweetheart,” her father said. “We’ll sort this out.” Then he led the three of them back to her room. “Now, tell me exactly what happened.” He walked to the windows, checking they were firmly closed before peering out through the grime.

  “Well, I had a bad dream, and then—”

  “You were dreaming?” he cut in, turning from the windows to look at her.

  “Yes, but I wasn’t dreaming when I saw her. I’d woken up!”

  He seemed unconvinced, but he placated her anyway. “And where did you see her?”

  “She was in there.” Camille pointed at the wardrobe as she sat on the edge of her bed. Her mother took a seat beside her. Chewing on her lower lip, Camille watched her father approach the wardrobe and yank open the doors, pushing them apart to completely reveal the inside. Only Camille’s clothes and shoes remained.

  “I’m telling you she was right there.”

  Dragging the clothes aside to reveal the back of the wardrobe, her father banged along the interior. “It’s solid. Nowhere for anyone to hide or escape from.”

  “Maybe she came out while I was running to get you,” Camille replied, all too aware of how lame her argument sounded. Her father signed, returning the clothes to their places, then closed the doors.

  “Maybe you need to move rooms,” her mother suggested gently. “Closer to ours. It might help you to feel more settled. You’re used to being in a room right beside us.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.” Camille jumped from the bed; her fists clenched angrily by her sides. “I know what I saw. She was there, just like she was outside on our first night.”

  “Still, I think it would be best if you switched rooms,” her mother replied. “At least until we can remove that old wardrobe and replace it with something a little more modern and less... intimidating.”

  “I’m fine where I am, thanks. I’d like to try and get some sleep now.” She stormed around to the other side of the bed and climbed under the covers, turning her back to her parents. She heard her mother sigh as she got up from the bed, followed by her parents’ soft footsteps as they left the room, leaving the door open behind them.

  CAMILLE GROANED AS she woke up and rolled onto her back, gingerly rubbing her neck. It was stiff and sore after sleeping in the same position all night. I must have been more tired than I realised. Sitting up, she found her gaze drawn toward the wardrobe, the doors still firmly shut after her father’s inspection the night before. Camille got out of bed and walked toward it, hardly noticing the coldness of the wooden floor beneath her feet. She opened the door and dragged the clothes to one side of the rail, reaching in to touch the back of the wardrobe. What if Dad missed something?

  “Don’t expect to find what you’re looking for until you’re meant to,” came a voice from the doorway. Startled again, Camille turned around to find Miss McAllister standing there, hands clasped formally before her as she watched.

  “What did you say?” Camille asked, looking the woman up and down in surprise.

  “I said your mother sent me up. Breakfast is ready.” Before Camille could reply, Miss McAllister turned and went back down the hall, leaving Camille staring after her.

  CAMILLE PULLED HER hair back from her face, securing it with a band as her mother draped plastic sheets over the window seats. “Can’t we just get the window cleaners to do this?” she groaned.

  “They’re doing the outside. No sense in paying someone to do the inside when we can do it ourselves. This home will cost a fortune to clean up as it is. The outside of your bedroom was done first up this morning. You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you. Do you realise how many windows there are in this house? Or that ninety percent of them are enormous?” Camille gaped.

  Her mother chuckled. “Just as well you only have to help me do a few. School starts in a few days.”

  Camille sighed at the reminder, picking up the long-handled window-cleaner and giving it a dubious look. Then she scrunched up her face. “You know, I don’t have to start school straight away. I mean, I wouldn’t miss much initially, anyway, and I’d catch up quickly. I can stay here and help set the house up for a couple more weeks.”

  “If you stay home, you’ll be helping me clean the windows,” her mother replied with a smirk.

  Camille stuck out her tongue and started cleaning the first of her bedroom windows.

  “I know you must be nervous about starting a new school,” her mother said, washing the window beside Camille’s, “especially since it’s your senior year.”

  “Honestly, I hadn’t given it much thought until now,” Camille lied. “I’ve been too caught up in the move and trying to get settled into this place.” Her mother didn’t reply right away, seemingly concentrating on the long strokes as she swept the window-cleaner from side to side, watching the grime give away with greater ease than they’d anticipated. “I think it would do you some good to get out of the house and make some friends. You’ve always loved school.”

  “I guess...” Really, her mother was right. She did love school.

  Any new friends have got to beat creepy Miss McAllister always lurking in the shadows.

  The conversation fell away as they focused on the cleaning. Though Camille wouldn’t admit it, she found cleaning the windows kind of therapeutic. It was almost hypnotic watching the water turn black as it loosened the age-old grime from its resting place. As she dragged the wiper across the glass, she smiled in satisfaction to see the final dregs of dirt wiped clear and her own reflection clearly emerged in its place.

  And there was the old woman’s face again.

  With a screech, Camille spun around, her window-cleaner clattering to the floor.

  “Camille! Are you okay?” her mother asked. “What happened?”

  Camille opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She could only point at the open bedroom door. “I... I saw her,” she finally said. “The woman. I saw her reflection in the window. She was watching us from the doorway...”

  Her mother remained silent, looking from her daughter to the doorway and back again. “Now, we went through this last night,” she said softly, but it didn’t hide the doubt in her voice. Camille held her breath as her mother casually walked to the other side of the room and peered out into the hall. “Hello?” she called. When there was no answer, she turned to her daughter
with a reassuring smile. “No one there.”

  Camille scowled and watched her mother return confidently to the windows, feeling like she was a child being reminded that there was no bogeyman under the bed. Though as she picked up her cleaner, she noticed her mother’s quick glance back at the doorway. They worked together in silence until their respective windows were clean.

  “Will you look at that view,” her mother exclaimed, standing back to more fully appreciate the sight.

  Camille nodded. “I know. It was one of the reasons I chose this room. It’s amazing. And that cleaning honestly didn’t take as long as I thought it would.”

  Her mother laughed. “Does this mean you’re willing to help me with the others?”

  “Of course I’ll help you, Mum. I might not enjoy it, but I’ll help you.”

  “Well how about you help me with some of the windows today, and tomorrow, we’ll head into town first thing and get all your school supplies.”

  Camille agreed with a smile and slung her cleaner over her shoulder.

  CAMILLE LEANED AGAINST the kitchen bench, peeling carrots at half the pace it took her mother to prep the other vegetables. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving after today,” her mother stated, scooping up some diced onion and garlic and tossing them into the hot saucepan with a few herbs. The smell wafted toward Camille, and her stomach rumbled in response.

  “I know one thing for sure,” Camille said. “My shoulders are killing me. My sore wrist was nothing compared to this. I might not be able to lift my arms at all tomorrow.”

  Her mother laughed. “That’s a possibility. Give them a good stretch out in a hot shower before bed. It’ll help.”

  “How are my two favourite girls?” her father asked when he walked into the kitchen. He placed a kiss on his wife’s cheek before heading to the sink and washing his hands.