1878

"Are you sure you don't want to stay here a bit more?"

Abigale turned to her with a little smile.

"No, thank you, Constance.", she replied. "I have too much work back home and I don't want to bother you for much longer."

"Bother me? Oh, dear, how can you say such thing? I love having you here.", Constance said, holding her hand.

Abigale looked again at the sportless marble grave and finally left the red rose on it. Her eyes read the epitaph one more time: 'Rest in peace, dear beloved George'. Constance had ordered a bust of him, since that tombstone was too plain and common for her taste and George's importance. The two women contemplated it in silence with expressions full of sorrow...Constance's only in appearance. The truth was that she was very glad that everything was over soon. If there was something she hated about being married was the family of the groom, sisters-in-law especially. At last she had got rid of Elizabeth Harper, who had married and had had a child, but many years would have to pass until Abigale disappeared from her life too. She was not as stupid as Elizabeth was but she liked to visit her way too much for her taste. With the excuse of suffering her pain alone, she had almost cloistered herself in the mansion, weeping everytime someone tried to convince her to do something. She was very tired of the villagers' sympathy and terror, because they were all sure that George had been killed by the ghosts and had begged her to go away before it was too late. Unfortunately, most of her servants had abandoned their post after the death and it was difficult to find someone who did not believe in such things or valued money more than superstition. Only Emma had stayed, as she said, 'to take care of her and share the pain'. That poor fool loved George very much and he appreciated her a lot; it was a luck that he did not live enough to include her in the testament!

Emma's tomb was near the entrance. Constance had been very relieved that the labor went wrong because she could not stand her laments, her fear everytime she was asked to do something and her mother instincts. Constance, while helping her deliver the baby until the doctor came, hoped that the baby absorbed so much of her time that she ended up resigning. She could not stand her anymore. But she did not expect the doctor telling her to call her husband because she was dying. A baby boy was born and Emma left this world soaking the bed with blood to fill a pool. She had to pretend once again that she felt the departure of her loyal maid when her death did not affect her more than losing a teaspoon, at least until that man went away taking that slobbery creature with him. After all that incident, she was free at last.

But she would not get rid of Abigale so easily. After all, she was George's sister and had all the right to be in her dear brother's home and visit her widow. They had to share the pain. Constance wondered for how long she had to wear the black dresses and pretend that all she did was to think about George.

"You are very brave."

"Pardon?"

"I said you are very brave. After all, if...they...killed him...I would have ran away immediately."

"Oh, no, no, no, I can't do nothing of the sort. This house was one of the things that were dearest to George...I...I'd never sell it...And I'm sure he would have liked that I was strong for him..."

"Yes...Yes, that's right..."

The two women remained silent again, not losing sight of the tomb. The sun was shining bright, in such a lovely Spring day that it was an insult for those who lied there in their cold, dark tombs and the two women who could not enjoy it because their minds were focused on the name written in the grave.

"...You did it..."

"...Liar...You are a liar..."

Constance turned around. Nothing apart from the tombstones that spoiled the garden and the house, just a few yards away from them. A little shiver ran along her spine. She looked at Abigale but she did not seem to have heard it. She was contemplating the clouds up in the sky with a pensive expression. After some moments, she turned to Constance with a little smile.

"I'm going to pack my things. There is too much to arrange.", she said.

"Alright. If that is what you want..."

They walked together to the house.

"Is there nothing I can do to make you change your mind?", Constance insisted.

"Oh, no, thank you. The spa needs my presence, but I promise you I will come back soon, my dear. Be sure of that."

"You know you are always welcome to this house."

They smiled at each other but Constance, deep inside or her, wished that the luck she had with Emma repeated and she lost sight of Abigale again. Unlike Elizabeth, she seemed to be very fond of her and she hated that.

The door of the attic opened and Constance's perceived the smell of humidity and dust in it. Still, she came in, closing the door behind her. She knew that no one came into that place, not even to clean it, and so she used it to have a moment of privacy. Everyone had the stupid custom of pity her and follow her everywhere to make her feel better, but they could not deny her a bit nap to calm her nerves or be in the attic where the memories of her husbands were. It was then when she could be Constance Hatchaway again, not Widow Hightower.

They said that sometimes screams and laments were heard in the attic but everytime she had come in a great silence had received her. She would have beaten those who believed that the mansion was haunted. All that stupidity got on her nerves. She had the excuse of having George killed by murderous ghosts not to hear that in her presence but people talked.

Let them talk. It is better that way. They all think that I am going to end up like the old butler, tortured by the ghosts to the edge of hanging myself, but that is very convenient. It is better to be seen as a victim than a confident lady. I just have to be mourning George in public all my life, pretend that my life has become nothing but a valley of sorrow and tears. Nobody will ever tell me again what to do. Never!

Abigale was still in her room, in the other side of the mansion, busy packing her things. She believed that she was resting and would not look in that dusty, dark attic. The few servants she had were busy with the chores and helping Abigale. Oh, how she loved being alone! She was so happy that she even hummed a little song.

She walked around the place, avoiding bumping into the numerous chairs, wardrobes and trunks that filled it. Books, hats, but, most of all, memories of her husbands and their weddings. She stopped in front of Ambrose's portrait and smiled. She had almost forgotten his tender smile but, well, she had his portrait to remember him all her life. She chuckled a bit, caressing the five pearl necklaces around her neck. If someone had told the girl of the serious expression by his side that she would become one of the greatest fortunes of the United States and she did not have to depend on a man!

"...You witch..."

Constance turned around. There was no one there, only she. She walked to the door. Closed.

But she would have sworn that someone had spoken to her...

She shook her head and resumed her humming but she felt nervous. Maybe...Maybe it was the guilt...

Guilt? I only did what I had to do! They had it coming! And I've never felt guilt in my life, I won't start now!

It was the wind. It had to be the wind. Or maybe her imagination. Because if she was alone in that place, who would have said that?

She returned her attention to the portrait to find the most extraordinary: Ambrose's head had disappeared.

Her heart skipped a beat. She took a step forward with her hand on her chest. It was impossible. It could not be! She opened her mouth but not one sound escaped from it. She turned her back on the portrait and closed her eyes. When she turned around to look at it again and convince herself that it was not her imagination, that the head of Ambrose was really gone, she saw it in its place, smiling at her.

Constance crossed the attic until she found Reginald's armchair, where his cane lied, and sat on it, playing nervously with her former husband's precious possession before dropping it to the floor and covering her face with her hands. She had the feeling that she was going mad, hearing and seeing things. Why? Oh, it was that damned house for sure! The ghost stories had ended up affecting her! She would sell that dump and forget about it forever. A house in the coast, where no one knew her, with no one around, only she and her money to spend exclusively on her, for the rest of her life. No more ghosts stories. She would live her life with no fear, no obligations!

She slowly got up and sighed. In that moment she needed a drink. She did not mind that that was something unwomanly and nasty, she needed to calm her nerves and forget somehow. When she was about to leave, she saw something that made her stop. A piece of white cloth had been caught by the tap of the trunk and was visible outside. She walked to it and opened it.

A smile appeared in her face when she saw that it was her old wedding dress. Everything was there and she took every piece to examin it, feeling that she had suddenly recovered her spirits. Her mother's veil and the dress, as beautiful as it was the first day. Not perfectly conserved but it was still pretty. Seeing it made Constance remember that she was stronger than anything. With just that dress, she had changed from being just the daughter of a simple farmer to a lady of the highest sphere, from just a little girl to a woman who had murdered five men with her own hands and was still respected and praised by everyone who knew her.

Hallucinations and ghosts would not make her lose control!

But she could still have a little laugh.

She undressed herself, leaving her green, fresh dress on the trunk and puttin the wedding gown on. She was glad to see that she had not gained too much weight after all those years and it still looked pretty on her. Then, she did the same with the veil, which was a bit damaged by the time but was acceptable and she would not throw away something that was so dear to her mother. She walked to a mirror, among Zhang's gifts and smiled. No wonder that so many men had lost their heads for her, she would have married herself! She only needed one more thing to complete her appearance, and it was with other souvenirs of her wedding with Frank. A bouquet of pink, white and red flowers that time had withered until they looked ugly and completely lifeless, but she kept them anyway as a memoir of the day when Frank was killed. She walked towards the other extreme of the attic slowly, like she did the days she had to say 'I do' to a priest with a man by her side.

"Constance, do you take this man for your lawful wedded husband, to live in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love, honour, comfort, and cherish him from this day forward, forsaking all others, keeping only unto him for as long as you both shall live?", Constance let out a cruel laughter. "I do...I did...Hahaha-!"

"What a lovely day, isn't it?"

Constance turned around like a hind surprised by the hunter. A man was standing in front of her, and he was definitely not part of the service: his pale skin was stained with dirt and sweat and the scars and bruises made it look hideous, a long scruffy beard made it difficult to see his expression and his face was almost skeletal. His presence frightened Constance but not as much as his eyes did, hungry, glaring at her. She became paralyzed, the bouquet fell from her hand, while the man walked to her.

"In the death row I didn't get to enjoy the sun much. But this is a day worth spending outside, why are you here, in this dark place?"

That voice...But...No, it could not be...

"Don't you remember me? Oh, well, why would you? After all, I was just a coachman, a servant, nothing special. But I haven't forgotten you, Mrs. de Doom...Or was it Mrs. Cane? No, no...It was Mrs. Hightower, I think..."

"...Tim..."

The man chuckled. His looks and that hoarse laugh were so strange in him that Constance had to make a great effor to recognize the merry Tim Humbert. And she had to admit that he was right: she had absolutely forgotten about him.

"Yes...TIM!", he took a step forward and Constance drew back in response. "I'm glad you haven't forgotten about me, because I've been thinking about you all these days...All day...All night...Wondering where you would be...And they told me...In a very big mansion, surrounded by luxury...sleeping calmly every night in a big, comfortable bed...to wake up the following day with a big, delicious breakfast by your side to give you strength to face a day of playing and chattering with the ladies of the high sphere...While I rotted in a jail, waiting to be hanged for a crime I didn't commit..."

"Tim...Tim, listen to me...", Constance whispered.

"Listen? Oh, no, no, no, I don't have any interest in what you want to say...Not only little bit..."

Constance panted. She had to get out of there. She had to...lock him in the attic, get help...He would tell...He was going to kill her and tell everybody what she did...She had to do something fast! Tim approached more to her. He was cornering her. She had to move quick before that happened. She saw that he had something in his hands but she could not see what it was, and she did not have time to find out.

Too late. She could not escape. All the furniture was in the way and Tim blocked the escape. Maybe pushing him and running as fast as she could...

The hatchet!

All of a sudden, Constance ran to Tim's left, towards the big wardrobe, bumping into a little auxiliar table that fell to the floor. She ran at all the speed her legs allowed her to reach. She opened the doors of the wardrobe and there she found, apart from a little spiderweb, the hatchet that would save her. She took it and turned around quickly to face Tim. But Tim had followed her and she had barely turned to him when he showed what he had in his hand. An old razor.

He did not give her time to use the weapon she had grabbed. As soon as she turned around, he waved it and Constance felt a sharp pain in her neck.

Blood started flowing out of the cut, dying the white dress red.

Constance looked at Tim with her eyes wide open. Like the last time they had seen each other, she was wobbling towards him but instead of puzzlement, his face showed no emotion, not even fury. Just a calm contemplation of his revenge. Not saying a single word, he turned around, put his razor back to his pocket and walked towards the door. Constance tried to go after him but her strength was abandoning her and her vision became blurred.

I...have to kill...him...I have t-to...kill...him...

She tried to call his name, cry for help, but the only thing she got was to choke. She touched her throat and then contemplated her hand full of blood.

I have to g-get...help!

Constance's grip on the hatchet was weak but she did not let it fall. Her strength was almost gone. When she tried to go after Humbert, she stumbled over the fallen table and fell to the ground. No matter how hard she tried to get up, she was not able to move. She slowly abandoned her attempts, though her head was still lucid. She shook her head in denial and horror.

No...No...Not now...No...I don't want to die...I don't want to die...

Why did the attic feel so cold? Where had the sun from the window gone?

I don't want to die...No...

She opened her mouth and let out a little whine. She forced herself to get up but she could not even move her head. Everything was darker and darker. Her eyes fixed on the rafters above her and his panting became more desperate, feeling like if her lungs rejected letting air come in. She squeezed the hatchet in her hand because she could hear he wedding march in her head.

Soon, the fingers that held it relaxed and the blurred vision of the rafters gave way to the most absolute darkness.