This is a one-shot based off of the unofficial "biography" of Master Gracey's mother that one can find floating around the net. It's based off the portrait of a woman sitting on a tombstone in the Stretching Room—the tombstone of, it is implied, her late husband, whom she killed.
This is the latest (took me long enough!) installment of my "Women of the Haunted Mansion" oneshots. As an obligatory disclaimer, I don't own Disney's Haunted Mansion. This is a work of fiction for pure entertainment purposes.
"Mary Gracey took an axe, and gave her husband some deadly whacks,
And when she saw what she had done, she rejoiced, for she was finally alone."
Mary Gilbert had never wanted anything more than to be let alone.
Her father had been an oppressive man, determined on firmly keeping his family under his rule. Firm, self-righteous, and pious, he had taken it upon himself to undertake the moral upraising of his family. Mary had thought—hoped, prayed, even—that his moralistic fervor would wane with her mother's death.
Instead, he was even more determined to keep a close eye on his only child, to ensure she didn't stray from the path of righteousness, and stumble into sin. She had never a moment to call her own, the time being occupied by housework or reading religious tracts, to prevent her soul from slipping into hellfire.
The second wife he took was no better. This new "mother" was a paragon of matronly piousness, and unwavering in her quest to mold her stepdaughter into a similar being. Mary hated her, but her true feelings simmered under a mask of polite docility.
One day, God smiled on her. Father and Stepmother went on to the strict, stifling afterlife they preached of, and Mary gained the house and her own modest inheritance. But she wasn't alone.
Asa…the damned brat. She hadn't wanted a baby brother, hadn't wanted the burden of looking after him. But he was her only flesh and blood, the town officials solemnly declared, and it was her duty to her parents to rear him.
Hadn't she exhausted her duty long ago?
The years dragged on, and the pale, fragile beauty that she claimed slowly broke off, like petals from a delicate flower. Could she wait much longer? She'd used her own house to shelter him, her own dwindling store of money to feed and clothe him. Mary was done with duty.
One rainy night, she nearly lost control; screaming, waving a kitchen knife, like she'd longed to do to her parents. Asa tore into the night, never to blemish her sight again.
Freedom stretched before her like an endless sunrise of brilliant light. She was finally in control, her own woman, and determined to never again submit to the yoke of forced companionship.
It was in a giddy whirl of emancipated joy and recklessness that she met George Gracey. Mary paid dearly for her heedlessness, and found herself enslaved again, her body host to another life, and a shining golden ring circling her finger.
Days stretched by, and she brooded. She'd never wanted a husband…never wanted a child. One moment of reckless passion, and she was a slave to another yet again.
Will my life never be my own? Will I always be the forced companion to others?
Mary became disillusioned as she saw, learned, and experienced. Her husband was no soul mate, no doting husband and father: just a lackluster lover, interested in money and power first, and everyone else second. Her baby was no bundle of joy; just another wailing, stinking, unpleasant reminder of Asa.
And so the years stretched by, unfolding like a canvas scroll, keeping its true secrets hidden. George came and went on what she imagined were exciting business trips; Mary envied the smug, pleased grin on his face whenever he had the valet pack his bags. The baby grew up, and became a toddling nuisance, following her everywhere. It was a blessed relief when he was old enough to be shipped off to school.
It was close enough to what she'd hoped for. But not quite. She still lacked her freedom. As long as she remained under George's roof, as long as she still slept in their bed and wore that damned ring, she was still his.
And he knew it, too…
Could God ever give her what she wished? Would she ever be free? To be free from that snuffly-nosed little boy and pompous husband…from the smirking servants…and from this damned, damned house…
But the Lord works in mysterious ways, and though he did not forthrightly give Mary what she yearned for, he gave her a chance to claim it. One night, while her son—no longer a baby, now a man, and so much like his father—was away at school, George came home gray-faced. He fell onto his knees before her, pleading for forgiveness. He babbled out a confession—of business trips spent in pursuit of carnal pleasure, of a second household in Boston.
She smiled sweetly and forgave. But behind the deceptively mild eyes, she plotted. Later that night, smiling even more sweetly, she cleft George's skull with an axe.
After wiping the blood off herself, she padded off to her sitting room, and settled herself into her rocking chair. Mary smiled. Nice and quiet, and she was alone.
Finally.