A Mind of Winter

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Nate seemed preoccupied as well. He kept running his hands through his hair, and he jumped at every creak of the old house. By the time Doctor Andrews returned to show us to our rooms, we were both on edge.

"Are you feeling better, Miss Morgan?" asked the Doctor as he strode through the door.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm fine now." That wasn't exactly true, but I didn't want to confide my conflicted mental state to the doctor. He would probably try to make it out that I had witnessed a ghostly manifestation or something.

"Good. Now, if you two will come with me, I'll show you where you'll be sleeping."

My bag had been placed in a corner, and I went over to retrieve it before joining Nate and the Doctor in the doorway. The sitting room let out onto a long narrow corridor paneled in dark wood carved with more imps, and lit by crystal sconces in black iron holders. We walked along it, towards a long staircase at the far end, our feet silent on the thick Oriental rug which covered the hardwood floor. The house creaked and groaned around us as every old house does, but there was something different about this one. It had what I could only describe as a deliberate watchfulness about it. I felt that the house was only creaking to put us at our ease, to fool us into thinking that this was just an ordinary old building. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I kept glancing over my shoulder as we walked up the stairs and down the upstairs hallway, half-convinced that I would catch a glimpse of eyes peering at me from out of the shadows.

A part of me was finding this whole thing comical. It was like something out of a dozen bad horror movies. Seven people staying in an old haunted house, trying to prove the existence of spirits. Next thing, I'd discover a secret passageway in my bedroom which led to some horrible secret. Or maybe I would discover that holes had been cut in the eyes of all the portraits, and that someone had been watching me as I slept. I was actually a breath away from giggling, when something soft brushed over my face, and I gave a sort of choked scream instead. Andrews and Nate turned around, and stared at me as I wiped frantically at my face.

"Something touched my face," I sputtered, twirling around in circles in an effort to discover what it was that had brushed me.

"It couldn't be that, could it?" Nate asked dryly, gesturing to something directly behind me. I looked around and saw that a tapestry had come partially loose from the wall and that several pieces of overlong fringe were dangling in the air, just at eye level.

A hot flush filled my face, and my stomach knotted with embarrassment. "Yeah," I mumbled, "Yeah, that must have been it." They turned away and we continued down the corridor, me lagging a bit behind now, feeling ashamed for losing my head. It seemed that an age passed before Doctor Andrews came to a stop in front of a door set in the hallway.

"Mr. Miller," he said, gesturing at Nate and then at the door. "You will be in here." Nate nodded, and went to the door, opening it and stepping inside. Light flared briefly in the dim hallway as he flipped a light switch, but it was cut off a moment later when the door was shut again with a loud click that made me jump. Doctor Andrews walked a few more feet down the hall and then pointed to a door which looked almost exactly the same as the one Nate had entered, except that where the handle on the other door had been of unadorned brass, this one was of engraved silver. "This will be your room, Miss Morgan." I looked questioningly at the door's silver handle and then at Doctor Andrews. None of the other doors we had passed had sported such elegant handles. They had all been brass, like Nate's. "Is there something wrong, Miss Morgan?" he asked.

"No, I was just wondering why this door's handle is different from all the rest."

"Ah, well this is the house's master bedroom. The original owner, James Carleton, the one who built Carleton House, was a rather eccentric man. I can only assume that he wished to visibly differentiate his room from the others in the house. I wasn't able to find out much about Mr. Carleton except that his death was the only unnatural one ever to occur within the house's walls. He was murdered, stabbed through the heart with an ornamental sword which he kept over his desk. They never found out who did it. It happened in this very room, in fact."

"What?" I squeaked, hoping that I had somehow misunderstood him, hoping that he was not intending to put me in a room where someone had been violently murdered.

"The maid discovered him the next morning," continued Doctor Andrews happily, completely oblivious that I had said anything. "Blood all over the place, and an injury which could not possibly have been self-inflicted. They looked high and low for the murderer, and eventually for just a motive, but none was ever found. In fact, there was no evidence that anyone else had been in the room at all. A real locked room mystery, wouldn't you say?" Andrews glanced at me, looking positively jolly, and it took him a few moments to notice how white my face was.

"Is something the matter, Miss Morgan?"

"I can't stay in that room," I said, my voice beginning to shake again. I thought I had thrown off my headache, but as I stared at the silver handle of the door, it began to push its way once more into the back of my skull.

"Why not?"

"I just can't"

"Miss Morgan, there are no other rooms available, and I put you in this room for a purpose. You are, as I'm sure you've discovered, the only true psychic here. The others have a small amount of talent, enough so that they sometimes know who's on the phone before picking it up, or to give them uncommonly good luck at cards, but you are the only one who managed to pass my tests without cheating. I want you in this room because I feel that it might hold the key to unlocking the mystery of this house. You are the only one capable of understanding any messages that the spirits might try to send."

"Look, this is ridiculous. I'm not some kind of human satellite dish. I've never had any 'spirits' try to tell me anything. I don't even know if I believe in ghosts. What I do know, however, is that I will not sleep in that room. I'll ask Nate to switch with me." I started down the hallway, but Andrews stepped in front of me, all amiability vanishing from his face.

"Do I need to remind you, Miss Morgan, that this is a paid study? You are being paid to do as I tell you, and now I am telling you that you are going to sleep in this room for the entirety of the study. If your fear of it is really so great that you would give up your salary, then you may leave. No one is stopping you."

I gaped at him, my insides writhing with something close to panic. I couldn't go into that room. I couldn't. But I also couldn't give up four thousand dollars because I was afraid to sleep in a room where some guy had been killed over a hundred years before. In any case, I told myself, even if you thought you could give up the money, you have nowhere to go, remember? You got kicked out of your apartment a week ago, and how are you going to find another place to stay without any money?

I straightened, and raised my eyes to Doctor Andrews'. "Alright, I'll sleep here. But just know that I hate it."

"I think I can live with that on my conscience, Miss Morgan," replied the doctor, observing me with narrowed eyes. "Please, go in. I would like to see you settled before I head off to my own room."

I glared at him and walked over to stand in front of the door. I was shaking again, and the headache had begun to spread into to my temples. I stared at the door handle for several long seconds, and then taking a deep breath and holding it, I reached out and grasped the cool metal. Nothing happened. My breath whooshed out in a relieved sigh. I had been expecting an electric shock or something. Feeling more confident now, I turned the handle and pushed the door open.

No smell of charnel houses rushed out to meet me. No shrieking ghosts descended from the darkness. I stepped inside the room and fumbled on the wall for the light switch. I found it after a moment's searching, and flipped it. The room was suddenly illuminated in a pleasant golden glow, which emanated from the glass sconces dotting the walls. I looked around, tremendously relieved that the master bedroom was not quite as ridiculously gothic as the sitting room had been. The walls were papered in midnight blue silk, and the carpet was of rich ivory. An elaborately carved mahogany dresser and writing desk stood against one wall, and against the other stood the largest bed I had ever seen. It looked as if it could comfortably have slept six, and it was heaped with pillows and blankets, all of the same shade of blue as the wallpaper.

I set my suitcase down beside the dresser, and then went to sit down on the edge of the bed. The coverlet was satin, and although I was relieved that the room wasn't some blood red and black monstrosity, the feel of the fabric slithering against my bare skin still made me shudder. I looked up at Doctor Andrews, who was standing in the doorway. "Sorry, Doctor, but I'm just not sensing any spiritual vibrations," I said, giving in to a little bitchiness.

He frowned at me. "Well, if you do happen to feel something, then I expect you to write it down in your journal."

"Sure."

"Dinner will be at seven. The dining room is downstairs, directly across from the sitting room we were in today. Please don't forget that you are to be accompanied by your buddy any time you leave your bedroom." Then, without another word, he turned and left, closing the door behind him.

I spent the next few hours trying to keep myself busy. I unpacked, explored the dresser and the writing desk, checked out the bathroom, and then got out one of the books that I'd packed, some new mystery novel by an author I'd never read. I sat down at the writing desk and tried to read, but I couldn't concentrate. My body was no longer shivering, but bolts of pain kept shooting through my head, making me wince and close my eyes. Now that I was alone, the feeling of watchfulness that I had noticed earlier returned ten-fold. It was so acute that I kept spinning around and looking over my shoulder, utterly convinced that I would find someone standing in the middle of the room, observing me.

By the time seven o'clock rolled around, I was so on edge that when a knock sounded on my door I had to stifle a shriek. I jumped up from my chair, heart in my throat, and had to take several long, deep breaths before going to answer the door. It was Nate of course, ready to head downstairs for dinner.

"Ready to go, buddy?" he asked, grinning. I flashed back on what had happened in the sitting room earlier, and I tried to stare at him without being too obvious about it. His eyes were blue. His voice was normal. There was absolutely nothing to lead me to believe that the changes I had seen in him this afternoon had been anything but an extremely vivid dream. I let it go. It had just been a dream.

"Yeah," I said, slipping out the door to join him in the hallway.

"Great, I'm starving," He set off down the corridor and I followed, forcing myself to keep my eyes focused straight ahead. I kept wanting to glance behind me, but I told myself that I was just being an ass. No one was watching me. That was the stuff of B horror movies.

When we arrived at the dining room, the others were already seated at a long, narrow table. The room's décor was almost identical to that of the sitting room we had been in before: scarlet, black, and gothic. Nate and I sat down next to each other at the two remaining places and looked down at our plates, which were covered with silver lids.

"Now that we're all here," said Doctor Andrews from his place at the head of the table, "I think we can all dig in." He lifted the cover from his own plate and began to eat without further comment. We all followed suit. Tonight's meal consisted of some kind of white meat in a delicate sauce, green beans, and roasted potatoes. At first, I ate ravenously but just as I was starting on the potatoes, Andrews said something which managed to take my appetite away.

"I just wanted to let you all know that Miss Morgan is not to be disturbed tomorrow. She will be staying in her room for the entirety of the day, resting in order to better sensitize herself to the house's psychic vibrations."

"What?" I said, dropping my fork onto my plate with a loud clatter.

"I'm sure that I didn't stutter Miss Morgan."

"I'm not staying in my room all day."

"You are if you wish to remain a paid member of this study."

Was I imagining it, or had I seen Andrews' eyes flash briefly silver? No, I was seeing things again. My dream was playing tricks on me. I opened my mouth to tell the good doctor that he could shove his precious study up his pompous ass, but then I remembered myself. I clamped my teeth together and stared at my plate as if it was the most interesting thing I'd ever seen. That's how I passed the rest of the meal, not eating or chatting with the others, but staring at the pattern of red flowers on the rim of my plate.

When Nate had finally finished and suggested that we go back upstairs, I was only too ready to oblige him. Not only was I still trying to stop myself from throwing any number of curses at Doctor Andrews, but my headache had gotten worse. Even the gentle light of the dining room was sending shooting pains through my skull. I swayed a little bit when I rose from my seat as the black dots tried to take over my vision, but I managed to steady myself. I was not going to collapse again. Nate seemed to realize that I was having difficulties, because he walked forward and took my arm in a very gentlemanly way. I leaned gratefully against him as we walked out of the dining room, beginning to think that maybe he wasn't such an asshole after all.

We managed to get to our respective bedrooms without incident, and Nate even saw me to my door before heading back to his own. I didn't flip the switch when I got inside my room, but blundered around into the darkness until I found the small lamp I had seen on a nightstand beside the bed. The dull glow that it produced was just tolerable to my poor head, and I used it to find the bottle of Tylenol I had packed in my suitcase. Ignoring the directions on the back of the bottle, I took four of the little red and white capsules, and then began to undress. The air of the room was a lot colder than I had thought, and I hastily pulled my favorite sleep t-shirt over my naked body, shivering as goose flesh formed on my limbs.

I walked over to the bed, but hesitated before climbing in. Had a murdered man once slept here? Had he dreamt and made love here until an unknown assailant had run him through with his own sword? The shudder that went through me had nothing to do with the cold. I was just scaring myself. The bed had probably been installed by one of the house's other owners. There was no reason for me to think that this was the same bed that had been here a hundred years ago. Still, it took more of an effort than I would have liked to pull back the sheets and lie down on the vast mattress. As the softness of the sheets engulfed me, my head gave a jolt of pain so violent that I almost retched. I willed myself to be calm, knowing that soon the Tylenol would take effect and I would feel nothing. I reached for the lamp, and after a moment's hesitation, clicked it off. I wasn't going to sleep with the light on like a frightened child.

I lay awake for a long time, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling and listening to the house creak around me. The pain in my head lessened, but didn't vanish completely, and I knew that I was in for a long, sleepless night. I began to amuse myself by trying to find shapes in the shadows on the ceiling. There was a duck, and there a rabbit. The Empire State Building. A snake. A man...

A soft voice was whispering in my ear. At least, that's what I thought at first, but then I realized that the words that I was hearing were being delivered directly into my head. "The living have not entered here for many years, Penelope Morgan," the voice murmured, "and no one like you has ever passed through this house's doors." The voice was cold and accented with an unknowable intonation, and it made me feel like a chill wind was blowing through me. I moaned, and tried to struggle back to wakefulness, but I couldn't. My limbs were too heavy, and my eyelids wouldn't lift.

"I can feed off of the life force of others if I wish," the voice continued, "and indeed I have grown stronger already since your party's arrival this afternoon, but you are different. I can take from you and your body reproduces the energy immediately. The others notice nothing even as I suck years of their life away, and yet you are acutely sensitive to my presence even though my attentions do you no lasting harm."

I shook my head feebly back and forth on the pillow, trying the shake the voice out of my head, but it wouldn't go. Instead, it laughed at me, and hearing its laugh was like being stabbed with icicles. I moaned again, and tears began to leak from beneath my closed eyelids. I needed to wake up. I had to wake up.

"I am not going anywhere, Penelope Morgan," the voice murmured. "I am strong enough now to keep you in the limbo of sleep if I wish it. Soon you will be able to hear me when you are fully awake, but not yet. I have more feeding to do before I have that strength. I think, however, that I will abstain from you for the time being. The others will provide an adequate enough substitute, although it will be like eating stale bread when I could just as easily have the richest cake." The voice paused, and I hoped for a fleeting second that it had gone, but then it spoke again. "How wonderful for me that your power comes in such a delightful package," it breathed. A cool wind brushed my cheek, a touch that would have felt like a hand had it been solid. "I have not expended the energy which it would cost to indulge in the fleshly pleasures for almost a hundred years, Penelope Morgan, but now I find myself sorely tempted. It may very well prove to be worth it, if I could reap the energy that was produced. We shall have to see."

I felt the sheets slide down from my chest, and then the fabric of my t-shirt slid up, baring my breasts to the night. A chill wind began to play over my nipples, making them harden and tingle, and I whimpered, trying vainly to force myself awake, to dispel this nightmare. I heard the cruel laughter again, and my tears came faster. "Alright, Penelope Morgan," the voice, purred, "I will leave you be for the moment. It is only your first night here, after all, and you will need time to adjust. But expect a visit from me soon. Now sleep." I couldn't disobey the voice, and as I dropped into darkness, I sensed something cold slip away from me and out of the room.

The next morning, I awoke feeling like I was recovering from a bad bout of the flu. I was weak, but my head no longer hurt, and the almost constant shivers of the day before had vanished. I sat up, groaning and stretching, and then worked up the courage to peel back the sheets. I bolted out of bed and towards the bathroom, expecting to find myself covered in goose flesh as soon as I hit the air of my bedroom, but it didn't feel nearly as chilly as it had last night. I slowed my pace and walked to the shower with my usual early morning stagger.

I turned on the shower, noticing that the showerhead was carved in the likeness of a yowling gargoyle, and while I waited for the water to heat up, I shucked off my t-shirt and turned to face myself in the mirror over the sink. I made a few faces at my sleep-disheveled reflection and was about to turn to see if the shower was ready when I noticed some peculiar marks on my breasts. There were five patches of pink skin encircling each nipple. They looked almost like fingerprints, ovular, with tiny arcs and swirls barely visible on the surface. I raised a hand to touch one of the marks and confused fragments of a dream I had had the night before came rushing back to me. Dropping my hand away, I shuddered and turned to the shower. The water was steaming now, and I stepped gratefully into it, relishing the scalding heat as it erased my recollections of the dream.