Drove Me Like a Magnet to the Sea

x-x-x

The sea was wild, untameable; and in that respect, it reminded him of her.

God, what he wouldn't give to see her again – to run his fingers through messy, raven curls, or lose himself in those eyes, where many before him had near drowned. It was beyond the realms of possibility though, and whilst that was a fact he could never see himself making peace with, it was one he had no choice but to come to accept.

Overheard, the gulls wheeled and let loose a string of frenzied cries. He startled and a cloud of sand rose up in front of him, having been disturbed by his feet. He was almost certain that he had ruined another pair of pants. Tweed didn't tend to respond well to repeated exposure to sand and salt water. He supposed he could have bought himself a new pair but that would mean less money for booze and, just presently, that was a staple that he couldn't do without. Anything to numb him. Anything to dull the memory of what he had done.

To his left, two little girls frolicked in the sand, their lace up boots and stockings discarded on the concrete where their parents overlooked them. Their braids bounced on the incoming sea breeze as they ran, giggling and flinging sand at each other whilst their mother called out warnings. He watched them transfixed for a while, (probably longer than was socially acceptable), but nobody seemed to be paying him much mind. Perhaps his long hair, slicked back into a ponytail, gave him the air of an eccentric artist, drawing his inspiration from the world around him. Luckily, the half empty bottle of whiskey was tucked behind his thigh out of view, lest that illusion be shattered.

He continued to watch the girls, a smile dancing across his lips even as fresh pain pricked his heart, like pins in a voodoo doll. Could they have had that? Might they have watched ruddy cheeked little girls at play, carefree and oblivious to the cruelty of the world that had preceded them? He would never know. Not now.

The ache in his heart was ever-present and the desire to drown his grief in alcohol, to lose himself in the arms of its reassuring embrace, was becoming too much to deny. Remaining numb and oblivious to life around him had become his coping mechanism over the past three months. If he allowed himself to feel any more, Ethan knew he would break, and losing control of the beast that lived within him could only bring about more death and pain. So, he would cage it, any way that he could. He owed her that much.

Beginning a slow, laboured stroll back to the boarding house, he deliberately avoided the gazes of passers-by. He felt his jaw tick at the sight of delirious honeymooners, who whirled past him arm in arm, their smiles belaying the kind of happiness that had cruelly alluded Vanessa Ives for all of her life.

The arcades and amusements that littered the promenade were populated by hordes of families and delighted couples, all caught up in the escapism of the resort, and the fresh Whitby sea air that brought many of them relief from smog infested cities.

From the corner of his eye, a figure caught his attention - a swirl of petticoats and a flash of jet black securing his gaze. He blinked hurriedly and for just a moment her face appeared before him, familiar ice blue eyes locked on his, conjuring the memory of the vestiges of her smile.

"Vanessa…" He whispered her name aloud, searching through the crowds even as he realised the beguiling spectre was most likely a consequence of the copious amounts of liquor he had consumed.

It took him less than a second to decide to pursue her, and he was soon moving through the throngs at speed, pushing disgruntled gentlemen out of his way without a thought. The figure of the woman weaved through the amusement arcade, her fingertips lingering over the tops of the penny machines as she passed by. Ethan moved faster, urging himself on with her name echoing in his mind like a mantra. She seemed almost close enough to touch and yet when he reached out, fingers grasping for her elbow, they found purchase on the sleeve of another woman instead – one who was not purely the apparition of an addled mind. She spun around in surprise, her eyes widening as she took in Ethan's dishevelled appearance.

"Laura! Let go of my wife!" the man at her side immediately protested, reaching out in his outrage and shoving Ethan back hard with one hand. Unprepared for the move, Ethan stumbled hard into a nearby machine, almost toppling it as he struggled to right himself.

"Sorry…" he managed to slur, shaking his head as he observed the woman, "I thought… I thought you were someone…"

The woman's husband ran his eyes over Ethan's slightly hunched figure with open disgust, his lip even curling as he observed the state of his clothing. It took him just a moment to rummage in his trouser pocket and produce a couple of pennies, which he thrust into Ethan's hand without warning.

"Here, take these, find yourself something to eat and… sober up," the man advised, although his tone and accompanying sneer suggested he was more irked than moved by Ethan's imagined plight.

Reeling back, feeling the colour drain from his face, Ethan beat a hasty retreat. He could easily hear the revolted young woman's mutterings about the stench of alcohol on her would-be attacker's breath and for a moment he was truly ashamed.

Suddenly cursing aloud as his hip connected with the glass casing of one of the curiosity machines that lined the entrance to the arcade, he found himself staggering back at the sight of a mechanical fortune teller. 'Madame Mystique' the name inscribed on a golden plaque read.

The mannequin head was adorned with a mop of raven curls, and its almond shaped eyes stared at him from behind impossibly blue glass that reminded him so much of Vanessa that he felt the air rush from his lungs.

Raising a shaking hand to the worn button on the front of the machine, he pushed one of the coins in his hand into the slot purely on impulse. The machine whirled into life, a curious light appearing behind the lifeless eyes of the doll's head. Slowly, a card emerged from the slot, soon followed by another. And another.

A cascade of cards began to rain from the machine, landing on Ethan's sand encrusted boots until over a dozen littered the surrounding floor. Catching one in his trembling hand, he lifted it up to read the words printed there.

"All things end. With love."

Ethan felt the bile rise in the back of his throat and before he truly knew what he was doing, he was searching the other cards that littered the ground to discern their messages. Each one he found infuriatingly blank and so Ethan wasted no time in jamming the other penny into the machine, whispering nonsense under his breath as he did so.

"Come on," he grunted, frustration mounting by the second as he watched the mannequin's entire rigmarole begin again. Ferociously and with a fist slammed against the fragile panel of glass, Ethan yelled, "Come on!"

Several heads turned in his direction and at least one parent ushered their offspring away from the foul smelling, irrationally behaving man, but there wasn't a part of Ethan that cared even a little bit. He pressed his forehead against the machine, breathing hard as he waited. When the card finally popped out of the slot, Ethan grabbed at it and raised it to eye level with the promise of tears already burning the back of his throat.

A single Tarot card. The Lovers.

"Vanessa…" he whispered, the name tumbling from his lips on a strangled sob.

He stood motionless in front of the Fortune Teller, angrily brushing moisture from his eyes as he wondered just why this mechanical device seemed intent on tormenting him. He was sure Dr. Seward would be able to explain it all away; his own guilt, his paralysing grief, the inordinate amount of alcohol coursing through his system.

Ethan couldn't later recall the walk back to the boarding house, with the two cards clenched in his hand until they became dog-eared and battered. When he finally crawled into bed, he made sure to down enough whiskey to silence the pain that gnawed at him. He slept fitfully then, his body prostrate on the top of the bed, coat and hat thrown haphazardly on the floor.

His dreams had been non-existent of late. His brain was anaesthetised by the whisky and bourbon that allowed only for restless, dreamless sleep, which left him feeling even more weary upon waking.

The ticking of the clock on the mantle and the sound of the breeze creeping in through the open window was slowly joined by another more familiar sound; a voice that called out to him from somewhere unreachable.

He was vaguely aware of the caress of a hand upon his forehead and he leant into the touch as much as he dared.

"Lie still, my love," she whispered, and he squeezed his eyelids so tightly closed against the sting of grief that it was impossible for the tears he harboured to leak from his eyes.

He grasped for her hand and let out a groan when his fingers truly found purchase on hers. She was not an apparition. Not this time, at least.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he hissed, eyes still closed. He feared that if he dared open them, she would be gone; fragmented, like his own tortured mind.

"You did only as I asked," she murmured. Her lips were upon the apple of his cheek seconds later and he could do nothing to contain the broken sob that burst forth from his chest.

"Vanessa…" he moaned, feeling her brush the tip of her nose against his. He could almost smell her; the intoxicating mixtures of incense and crushed herbs that clung to her - a very different perfume to the ones other women wore. He didn't want other women though. He never could, with the memory of Vanessa Ives causing them all to seem pale and wan in contrast.

"Shhh," she urged him, and he was certain he could feel her breath upon his skin, "I asked too much of you. It was too great a sacrifice… too great a weight to place upon you. I'm the one who should be sorry."

Unable to respond with any more than a sob of anguish, Ethan gripped her small hand in his own, as if sheer will alone could tug her from his dreams and back into his arms for good. He heard her sigh, as if it pained her to speak the following words aloud.

"But… I must ask you once again to help me. You must find me, Ethan. My soul is lost, untethered."

Her words suddenly sobered him up until he was hanging on every last utterance. "I'd do anything for you, Van, you know that."

Her voice began to fade, and slowly but surely the sensation of her skin against his began to ebb away, leaving him with nothing but a whispered plea in his ear.

"Where are you?" he asked desperately, looking around the empty recesses of his dream world, "Vanessa? Vanessa?"

He shouted her name over and over, begging the spectre to return, but consciousness had already begun to tug at him.

A sudden banging on the door of his room wrenched him from his dream, and simultaneously ripped him away from the woman he loved. But as his eyes flashed open, one word echoed ominously in his ear.

"Purgatory."

The furious pounding of his heart was matched by the violent pounding on the bedroom door, and Ethan cursed as he swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He hardly remembered removing his boots and socks but his feet were bare and he hissed as his toes connected with the cold floorboards.

"Open up! Open up now, I say," a shrill, unpleasant voice demanded. Ethan rolled his eyes and hastened to the door before the unwelcome visitor busted it wide open with the assault of their fists.

When he yanked it open, he was greeted by the sight of the boarding house owner - a stout woman with brown hair that was badly greying at the temples. She crossed her arms over her bosom and affixed Ethan with a scowl that would have made a lesser man recoil.

"I want you out within the hour," she snapped, forgoing any attempt at pleasantries. Ethan could hardly blame her if he were at all honest with himself. He was far from the ideal tenant, stumbling back at all hours of the night and morning reeking of booze, falling behind in his payments, and disturbing the other guests with his frequent night terrors.

"Ma'am, I…" Ethan began, rubbing at his temples as he squinted across the dimly lit corridor at the woman. Her frown indicated that she was unlikely to be moved by anything that came out of Ethan's mouth.

"Gather your things, if you have any, and get out, or I'll be fetching the police," she snarled, obviously not cowed by Ethan's towering, broad shouldered frame in the slightest.

Suddenly finding himself filled with a renewed sense of purpose, Ethan nodded his head in ready agreement - something that seemed to surprise his hostess, who proceeded to eye him with evident suspicion.

"I'll be gone before supper," he affirmed, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Leaving her no time to counter his proposal, he slammed the door closed, hurriedly picking up his previously discarded coat and hat, and beginning to gather up the meagre items he had brought with him. He tossed them quickly into a worn leather bag that still bore the markings of war and the blistering sun of New Mexico.

Yelling through the wood, the landlady huffed, "Well make sure that you are! I have someone waiting on the room. A writer type… though he can't possibly be any worse at paying his way than you."

Suddenly recognising the sensation of crumpled paper in his hand, Ethan opened his left palm and blew out an unsteady breath as his gaze came to rest on the image of the Tarot card. As he ran a fingertip over the entwined lovers, his jaw set in determination. He slipped it into his pocket, swallowing hard.

"Okay, Vanessa," he murmured into the shadows, his eyes sweeping them as he spoke, as though he half expected to catch movement somewhere within the corners of the room, "I'm listening. You got my attention."

When there was no response, he let out a puff of breath that almost resembled laughter. Perhaps he was simply going mad. Driven by his grief and one too many large bourbons that should have been watered down.

He was met by only silence, save for the hustle and bustle that drifted to his ears from the nearby promenade. His thumb absently stroked the card but he refrained from other movement, turning over the events of the last few hours in his mind. He knew Vanessa well - perhaps better than anyone else ever had - and he doubted that even death could thwart her level of determination. But he had been there, during those last painful and cruel moments. Hadn't she assured him that peace was imminent? That finally, she would obtain the rest that she so readily deserved?

"Ethan… I can see our Lord…"

It had to be only coincidence. Surely there was no other explanation. And yet, it was a chance he couldn't take. Not if her very soul relied upon it.

The next train to London left two hours later. Ethan Chandler made sure to be on it.

x-x-x

Glancing up at the window that had once been Vanessa's bedroom, Ethan had to remind himself not to expect to find her watchful presence peering back at him. Grandage Place was relegated to darkness, and the street lamps provided the only source of illumination in the entire street. There was no visible sign of life, no sounds, no indication that Sir Malcolm had not been plunged into the very same despair Ethan found himself in. Ethan had indeed lost the love of his life, but the older man had lost a daughter.

Slamming his fist unrelentingly against the wooden door, Ethan found his patience fleeting as he awaited a response. Eventually the door swung open, and a dishevelled, somewhat irritable Sir Malcolm regarded his visitor with poorly concealed annoyance.

"Mr. Chandler…" he ground out, and Ethan noted just how old and world weary the former explorer appeared. The grey at his temples was more pronounced, and the lines and circles around his eyes betrayed his haunted demeanour. His entire being radiated sadness and a lifetime of loss.

Pushing past his former employer and friend, Ethan marched into the hallway, dropping his bag onto the ground with a thud.

"Vanessa. She needs our help," he began, holding up his hand as he saw Sir Malcolm poised to counter his claim with a short, sharp dose of reality. "I'm not crazy, I'm not drunk… Just hear me out."

"Ethan," Sir Malcolm released his name on a sigh, "I know you miss her. We all do."

"This isn't about that," Ethan said dismissively, suddenly filled with the clarity of mind that having a purpose brings.

"Of course it's about that," Malcolm scoffed, and he sank down onto the nearest chaise lounge as though his legs were suddenly too weak to support him. "What you did, Ethan… what you found yourself having to do will…"

"No, I am not here because of that, she needs me," he persisted, shaking his head and setting his jaw as he glared at the other man, languishing in his chair, "Vanessa reached out to me from the other side. Her soul…"

"Is in heaven, if we are to believe that such a place even exists," snarled Sir Malcolm, and Ethan found himself staring askance back at his once friend.

"After everything we have seen, you can still doubt that?" demanded Ethan, his tone laced with obvious irritation.

"Doubt the existence of a place where there is no pain and no fear, when we exist in a world so full of both that it becomes harder and harder to wade through it every day that I live? Or doubt the existence of an almighty God, who might be concerned with my own happiness or well being, when everything and everyone I have ever loved has been stripped away from me?" he hissed, his eyes blazing with a fire that Ethan hadn't seen in so long. "Tell me, if these things are real, why do the wicked triumph or the good fall prey to corruption? Why does famine and pestilence cover every inch of this globe like the plagues that they are? Why, Ethan, are babes snatched from their mother's arms before they have even been weaned from her breast?"

Ethan swallowed hard, his gaze unyielding as he held Malcolm fast in it.

"You… tell me why I should not doubt it?" he finished, his eyes downcast and the shame he felt in his own words reflected in the set of his features. Undoubtedly he knew that Vanessa would disapprove.

Swallowing hard, Ethan's jaw set in determination. "It was Vanessa. She needs us, and I won't let her down again. So you can either help me, or you can stay out of my way. Victor's gonna meet you at the cemetery…"

Malcolm recoiled, "The cemetery? Have you completely lost your mind? Don't you think that poor girl deserves some peace, and you talk of desecrating her grave? I will have no part in this insanity!"

Malcolm suddenly paused, his words dying on his lips as from upstairs a loud crash reverberated throughout the entire house. The men exchanged a brief glance before each dashed out into the hallway and up the staircase.

Proceeding slowly down the darkened hall, Ethan paused in front of the door to Vanessa's room. Without further thought, he threw it open, unsurprised and yet also disappointed to find the room in darkness. The air still somehow smelled of her, as if she had just walked out to go down to breakfast. The bed remained thrown back as she had left it, and a tea cup sat on the bedside table as if her lips had only momentarily touched the porcelain rim.

Ethan closed his eyes, overcome once more with the kind of grief that he likened to having his soul torn from his body. His eyes were still closed when the small feline darted past his legs. He opened his eyes and stared in confusion at the black cat that sauntered without care around the room before he glanced back at Malcolm for explanation.

"Keeps the mice away," Malcolm stated, not wishing to divulge the extreme loneliness that had enveloped him in the last few months. The feline had shown up unannounced one morning, seemingly cold, hungry, lonely and unloved - a plight that reminded the explorer of another waif and stray that had turned up on his doorstep seeking redemption.

Huffing out a sigh, the older man brushed past Ethan and trailed after the animal, meaning to remove the creature from the room that he usually sought to avoid at all costs.

"Blasted creature!"

Unmoved by her master's irritation, the feline leapt up onto the bed, kneading and pawing at the bed covers and purring in appreciation of the soft fabric beneath her paws.

"Away, cat!" Malcolm instructed, seemingly unsurprised when the animal simply glared at him without heeding his demands. He flapped his hands at her, his best effort to shoo her away, but she merely rolled over onto first her side and then her back, as though she was deliberately courting his attention.

Ethan felt the corners of his lips lift in a smile and he was almost prompted to leave the old man to it, but something made him stay. The air felt charged, and Ethan could sense the electricity in it down to his very bones.

As Malcolm made a move to seize the dainty feline, it chose that moment to leap from the bed and onto the top of the dresser, expertly positioning itself out of reach.

Ethan bit back a chuckle, surprised by his own amusement, since any sense of mirth or fun seemed to have deserted him three long months ago.

Tutting under his breath, Malcolm moved across to the dresser, his arms outstretched and ready to receive his pet. However, before his fingers could so much as brush her fur, the cat arched its back and let out a low, throaty growl. Her emerald green eyes appeared to be locked straight ahead, peering into the mirror that hung on the wall above.

Sharply turning his head, Malcolm became aware of the hairs on the back of his neck standing erect in warning,. Finally, his gaze settled on the mirror, where he found a much mourned pair of eyes staring back at him.

"Vanessa!" he cried out, stumbling back as he regarded the pale image of the young woman in the glass. Her ghostly visage lasted for only a moment before she suddenly blinked from view.

The men barely had time to react. Almost instantly upon her disappearance the fire in the hearth sprang to life and the flames flared, along with every candle and lamp that lined the room.

Turning in desperate circles, Ethan found himself fraught with the desire to see her face just one more time. Yet almost as soon as the flames had been ignited, they were snuffed out by an unforeseen force . A gust of air billowed around the room, blowing the floor length drapes up into the air and almost sending Malcolm reeling backwards onto the floor. The cat let out a final hiss and yowl of fear before she sprang from the dresser, knocking over trinkets in her wake, and dashed out of the room.

"You saw her?" Ethan checked, panting and reaching out to place a steadying hand on Malcolm's shoulder. The older man appeared visibly disturbed by the encounter.

"I saw her," Malcolm confirmed gravely, allowing Ethan to lead him back towards the door whilst he was powerless to stop the unrelenting thrum of his own heart in his ears.

Their feet hadn't crossed the threshold before an unearthly scream shattered the silence, and every picture frame, gas lamp and mirror present exploded into shards of glass.

"God Almighty…" Sir Malcolm breathed, one hand pressed over his poor heart.

"Thought you didn't believe in him," stated Ethan dryly, closing Vanessa's bedroom door behind them with a quiet click. The mess could wait for the morning. They would get around to it when there were less pressing matters at hand.

"She really came to you," Malcolm muttered, shaking his head and clasping one hand around his throat, "Vanessa came to you."

"She did," Ethan grimly observed, "she needs us, Malcolm. This one last time, she needs us."

Nodding his head, Malcolm peered up at Ethan through tired, watery eyes.

Quietly, he agreed, "Then we must not let her down."