Chapter Four: Dreams Become Lucid
I stared out the window, and I watched as the sunlight crept over the hillsides. Slowly, it rose above the horizon and claimed the sky. Light etched its way across the dome above and it shone a brilliant blue. Today would be a good day for travel. My eyes traveled to my left, and I could see Watson, asleep in a chair by my side. A smile crawled over my face, and I pushed the comforter down to my knees. Quietly as I could, I climbed out of the bed and edged toward the door. Unfortunately for my escape attempt, I stepped directly onto a squeaky floorboard. Watson started, and he looked first to the bed I had previously occupied, then to where I stood close to the door.
"Holmes!" he cried, leaping from the chair. "Why are you up? You aren't well! You should-"
"I am fine, Watson," I shushed him tersely. "Follow me." I pushed our door open and walked into the hallway. Watson gripped my arm, and I turned back to him. His eyes held such a look of seriousness that I faltered.
"Holmes, I don't know what has you so worked up, but I won't let you get into a situation where you can get yourself hurt."
"I am in no danger to myself, Watson," I said, wrenching my arm away from his grip. I turned away from his face, unable to look at the pained expression it held. "I have worked the situation over many times in my head, and I have come to a hypothesis that I wish to test." I turned back to glance at him. "But I might need your help."
Watson, his face apprehensive and drawn with worry, stared for moments on end, unsure of what to say. Just as he looked as if he had figured it out, a low roll of thunder echoed in my ears. I dashed from the doorway to the window on the opposite side of the room. The sky had gone from sapphire blue to smoke gray in what seemed like an instant. Clouds were billowing from seemingly out of nowhere, and another ominous blaze of lightning and crack of thunder caught in the air. The room once again grew dark; the sun's healing rays blotted out by the thick gray mass overhead. I sighed. Our perfect traveling day had suddenly transformed into another wet, dreary morning. I slumped against the window seat and admitted defeat. I felt Watson approach to my right and stand silently. There were no words between us as we saw the rain start to fleck onto the glass in front of us. Soon, it was running in a steady, translucent stream down the window, refracting the landscape and the cloud-filled sky.
"Perhaps this is a sign that we should remain here another night," Watson offered at last. I knew that he cared about my health (which was totally normal) and I cared about his. But if this was indeed a sign, I knew the direction in which it was pointing me. And it was not to the empty bed in our room.
"Perhaps it is, Watson," I said quietly as I pushed myself out of the window seat. "I had a nice, long chat with myself last night," I said as I buttoned my coat onto my person. "I told myself that what I experienced in room 13 was not in my imagination, but was, in fact, a supernatural encounter. Before you interrupt me, I think that we should just step into room 13 briefly." I offered a smile that he did not reflect.
"I don't believe in ghosts, Holmes," he said flatly. I shrugged as I headed out of our door.
"Neither did I."
I stood silently in front of the door across the hall from ours, my hand ready to take the doorknob. Just as I had suspected, Watson joined me after only a few seconds of speculation. I smiled, and gripped the doorknob. To my surprise, the metal chilled my hand: it was freezing to the touch. I let go quickly and worked the circulation back into my hand. Watson stared with doubt. I offered him the chance to open the door, and his hand seized the knob.
"Christ!" He cursed without thinking, releasing the doorknob with such celerity it was almost humorous. "It chills the very bones!" I rubbed my hands together, the friction creating warmth. I stared at Watson's eyes, and they glittered with an uncertain fear, the shock of touching a doorknob that seemed to have been made of ice itself.
"Come, come, Watson, there is nothing to fear," I told him, slipping my coat's sleeve over my palm and opening the door without the icy knob touching my skin. The door swung inward with a slight squeal, and Watson nodded, adding, in a whisper:
"Save for fear itself."
The room was just as I had left it last night, save for the fact that the windows were shut tight and latched. My immediate thoughts went to Mr. Warrick, possibly having closed the windows after my episode last night. As my thoughts moved to last night, I remembered the cold whisper of a woman, asking for my aid. I remembered the feeling of cold hands, as cold as the doorknob had been, pressing into my shoulders when there was no one to be seen. I remembered seeing not my own reflection in the mirror, but that of Sherlock Holmes. I shivered, letting the memories course down my back like water. Watson cocked his head slightly, examining the room.
"Looks rather like ours, doesn't it?" He asked. I nodded, having made the same observation last night.
"All but that mirror," I offered, pointing it out. It was then that I noticed something else wrong with the room. Last night, the mirror had been turned toward the bed. Now it was facing the door, and Watson and myself. And what else it reflected made my heart skip a beat. A woman, dressed in a white nightgown, stood behind us. Her face was sunken, like a corpse, and she had no eyes to speak of. I whirled around and saw nothing but empty air. But what I felt was completely different from what I saw. I felt as if an ice-cold hand was pressed against my forehead, and everything turned black.
I saw Sherlock Holmes again, and sitting to his left was a woman in a white nightgown, blonde hair flowing down her back and deep violet eyes. I felt as if I was not a part of their conversation, as if I was floating just out of reach. But I could hear them.
"Missus Mayhon," Sherlock said, clasping hand hands, "can you tell me everything that you remember from that night 27 years ago?" The woman kneaded her hands together, and I saw tears in her eyes.
"I remember that I came into the inn with my brother Benjamin, my father George and my husband Charles. Most everything is blurry because of the pain of the baby, but I do remember a very nice man, I think his name was Richardson, giving up his room for me. I was ever so thankful. Then they lay me in the bed, and the pains only got worse. I could only think of how happy we would be. I mean Charles and I when the baby came. We had always wanted a baby." She stopped to take the proffered handkerchief from Sherlock Holmes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. I'm the one who asked for your help and now I just can't stop crying."
"Just try to calm yourself, Mrs. Mayhon, and continue, if you would." Holmes' clear eyes studied the woman as she dabbed her eyes clear of tears.
"The pains subsided for a while, probably around three in the morning. The men slipped out for a quick bite to eat, for we had been trying to find a hospital for much of the day. And as I lay alone in the darkness, I looked up and saw that mirror. It's such a lovely mirror, laced with gold. And as I stared at my reflection, I saw a dark shadow coming from the window, something in its hands. Then... Then..." Her beautiful eyes filled up with tears again, and she held the handkerchief to her face and sobbed into it. Holmes nodded, waiting.
"Can you recall any particular features about your attacker, Mrs. Mayhon?" He asked, staring at her intently.
"All I can tell you is that it was most definitely a man, and that his eyes were a most fiendish gray colour." She shook her head, then made a soft cooing noise. I then noticed a bundle in her arms, and a tiny pink arm raised up and grabbed the woman's finger. "Charles would have loved you, my darling Marianne," she told the bundle. The child in her arms giggled softly. She looked up to Sherlock once again. "Mr. Holmes, I had no other choice but to speak to you this way. The boy is the only way to reach you, and I am sorry that we must use him." A smile curved up Sherlock Holmes' lips, and I saw his eyes flash to where I was watching the two of them.
"Come, my boy," he beckoned. I stepped forward and stood between the two of them. I could not help but stare at the beauty of the woman that sat before me, her baby resting sweetly in her arms. "This is Mrs. Gale Mayhon. Mrs. Mayhon, may I introduce Jack Holmes?"
"I am sorry for frightening you, Mr. Holmes," she said with a sad smile. I shook her hand, which was surprisingly soft and warm for the hand of a woman dead for 27 years. She turned back to the senior Mr. Holmes and shook his hand as well. "I am afraid that I cannot stay. Young Mr. Holmes' friend will be worrying by now, I should think. Oh," she said as she stood and turned to me. "Thank you for your help, both of you." With a flash of light, her form slowly disintegrated. I stood staring at Holmes.
"What just happened?" I finally asked. Holmes stood, brushing himself off.
"You encountered Mrs. Mayhon in the room in which she was killed. Her mystery does, in fact, remain unsolved. She wished to seek me out in order to correct that. I believe that we now have enough information to find Mrs. Mayhon's true murderer." I nearly jumped backwards.
"What?! True murderer? Does that mean that the man tried for her murder die a falsely accused man?"
"That he did, Jack my boy. And from what our guest has told me, I may know just who did take that axe to her abdomen. Now I have something for you to do, Jack."
"Anything, Holmes," I assured him.
"You must ask Mr. Warrick if he has any of Mrs. Mayhon's things still at the inn. If he does not, you must insist on seeing the old record books and search for the day of Mrs. Mayhon's arrival. Do you understand?"
"Yes, but whom do you think is the true culprit?" I asked. Holmes only chuckled silently to himself.
"If you are anything like me, my boy, then you all ready know."
Just like that, I was pulled back into consciousness. I saw Watson hovering over me with a glass of water in his hand. It was half-empty. My face was drenched. It was a simple equation.
"Watson," I started, "why did you pour water over my person?" Watson blanched.
"I... I was only trying to help, Holmes. You looked so cold and... and you were shivering... And that mirror..." I sat bolt upright.
"The mirror, Watson! Did you see anything besides you and I?"
"Holmes..." he said slowly, quaking ever so slightly, "I think that I may start believing in ghosts soon enough."
I stared out the window, and I watched as the sunlight crept over the hillsides. Slowly, it rose above the horizon and claimed the sky. Light etched its way across the dome above and it shone a brilliant blue. Today would be a good day for travel. My eyes traveled to my left, and I could see Watson, asleep in a chair by my side. A smile crawled over my face, and I pushed the comforter down to my knees. Quietly as I could, I climbed out of the bed and edged toward the door. Unfortunately for my escape attempt, I stepped directly onto a squeaky floorboard. Watson started, and he looked first to the bed I had previously occupied, then to where I stood close to the door.
"Holmes!" he cried, leaping from the chair. "Why are you up? You aren't well! You should-"
"I am fine, Watson," I shushed him tersely. "Follow me." I pushed our door open and walked into the hallway. Watson gripped my arm, and I turned back to him. His eyes held such a look of seriousness that I faltered.
"Holmes, I don't know what has you so worked up, but I won't let you get into a situation where you can get yourself hurt."
"I am in no danger to myself, Watson," I said, wrenching my arm away from his grip. I turned away from his face, unable to look at the pained expression it held. "I have worked the situation over many times in my head, and I have come to a hypothesis that I wish to test." I turned back to glance at him. "But I might need your help."
Watson, his face apprehensive and drawn with worry, stared for moments on end, unsure of what to say. Just as he looked as if he had figured it out, a low roll of thunder echoed in my ears. I dashed from the doorway to the window on the opposite side of the room. The sky had gone from sapphire blue to smoke gray in what seemed like an instant. Clouds were billowing from seemingly out of nowhere, and another ominous blaze of lightning and crack of thunder caught in the air. The room once again grew dark; the sun's healing rays blotted out by the thick gray mass overhead. I sighed. Our perfect traveling day had suddenly transformed into another wet, dreary morning. I slumped against the window seat and admitted defeat. I felt Watson approach to my right and stand silently. There were no words between us as we saw the rain start to fleck onto the glass in front of us. Soon, it was running in a steady, translucent stream down the window, refracting the landscape and the cloud-filled sky.
"Perhaps this is a sign that we should remain here another night," Watson offered at last. I knew that he cared about my health (which was totally normal) and I cared about his. But if this was indeed a sign, I knew the direction in which it was pointing me. And it was not to the empty bed in our room.
"Perhaps it is, Watson," I said quietly as I pushed myself out of the window seat. "I had a nice, long chat with myself last night," I said as I buttoned my coat onto my person. "I told myself that what I experienced in room 13 was not in my imagination, but was, in fact, a supernatural encounter. Before you interrupt me, I think that we should just step into room 13 briefly." I offered a smile that he did not reflect.
"I don't believe in ghosts, Holmes," he said flatly. I shrugged as I headed out of our door.
"Neither did I."
I stood silently in front of the door across the hall from ours, my hand ready to take the doorknob. Just as I had suspected, Watson joined me after only a few seconds of speculation. I smiled, and gripped the doorknob. To my surprise, the metal chilled my hand: it was freezing to the touch. I let go quickly and worked the circulation back into my hand. Watson stared with doubt. I offered him the chance to open the door, and his hand seized the knob.
"Christ!" He cursed without thinking, releasing the doorknob with such celerity it was almost humorous. "It chills the very bones!" I rubbed my hands together, the friction creating warmth. I stared at Watson's eyes, and they glittered with an uncertain fear, the shock of touching a doorknob that seemed to have been made of ice itself.
"Come, come, Watson, there is nothing to fear," I told him, slipping my coat's sleeve over my palm and opening the door without the icy knob touching my skin. The door swung inward with a slight squeal, and Watson nodded, adding, in a whisper:
"Save for fear itself."
The room was just as I had left it last night, save for the fact that the windows were shut tight and latched. My immediate thoughts went to Mr. Warrick, possibly having closed the windows after my episode last night. As my thoughts moved to last night, I remembered the cold whisper of a woman, asking for my aid. I remembered the feeling of cold hands, as cold as the doorknob had been, pressing into my shoulders when there was no one to be seen. I remembered seeing not my own reflection in the mirror, but that of Sherlock Holmes. I shivered, letting the memories course down my back like water. Watson cocked his head slightly, examining the room.
"Looks rather like ours, doesn't it?" He asked. I nodded, having made the same observation last night.
"All but that mirror," I offered, pointing it out. It was then that I noticed something else wrong with the room. Last night, the mirror had been turned toward the bed. Now it was facing the door, and Watson and myself. And what else it reflected made my heart skip a beat. A woman, dressed in a white nightgown, stood behind us. Her face was sunken, like a corpse, and she had no eyes to speak of. I whirled around and saw nothing but empty air. But what I felt was completely different from what I saw. I felt as if an ice-cold hand was pressed against my forehead, and everything turned black.
I saw Sherlock Holmes again, and sitting to his left was a woman in a white nightgown, blonde hair flowing down her back and deep violet eyes. I felt as if I was not a part of their conversation, as if I was floating just out of reach. But I could hear them.
"Missus Mayhon," Sherlock said, clasping hand hands, "can you tell me everything that you remember from that night 27 years ago?" The woman kneaded her hands together, and I saw tears in her eyes.
"I remember that I came into the inn with my brother Benjamin, my father George and my husband Charles. Most everything is blurry because of the pain of the baby, but I do remember a very nice man, I think his name was Richardson, giving up his room for me. I was ever so thankful. Then they lay me in the bed, and the pains only got worse. I could only think of how happy we would be. I mean Charles and I when the baby came. We had always wanted a baby." She stopped to take the proffered handkerchief from Sherlock Holmes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. I'm the one who asked for your help and now I just can't stop crying."
"Just try to calm yourself, Mrs. Mayhon, and continue, if you would." Holmes' clear eyes studied the woman as she dabbed her eyes clear of tears.
"The pains subsided for a while, probably around three in the morning. The men slipped out for a quick bite to eat, for we had been trying to find a hospital for much of the day. And as I lay alone in the darkness, I looked up and saw that mirror. It's such a lovely mirror, laced with gold. And as I stared at my reflection, I saw a dark shadow coming from the window, something in its hands. Then... Then..." Her beautiful eyes filled up with tears again, and she held the handkerchief to her face and sobbed into it. Holmes nodded, waiting.
"Can you recall any particular features about your attacker, Mrs. Mayhon?" He asked, staring at her intently.
"All I can tell you is that it was most definitely a man, and that his eyes were a most fiendish gray colour." She shook her head, then made a soft cooing noise. I then noticed a bundle in her arms, and a tiny pink arm raised up and grabbed the woman's finger. "Charles would have loved you, my darling Marianne," she told the bundle. The child in her arms giggled softly. She looked up to Sherlock once again. "Mr. Holmes, I had no other choice but to speak to you this way. The boy is the only way to reach you, and I am sorry that we must use him." A smile curved up Sherlock Holmes' lips, and I saw his eyes flash to where I was watching the two of them.
"Come, my boy," he beckoned. I stepped forward and stood between the two of them. I could not help but stare at the beauty of the woman that sat before me, her baby resting sweetly in her arms. "This is Mrs. Gale Mayhon. Mrs. Mayhon, may I introduce Jack Holmes?"
"I am sorry for frightening you, Mr. Holmes," she said with a sad smile. I shook her hand, which was surprisingly soft and warm for the hand of a woman dead for 27 years. She turned back to the senior Mr. Holmes and shook his hand as well. "I am afraid that I cannot stay. Young Mr. Holmes' friend will be worrying by now, I should think. Oh," she said as she stood and turned to me. "Thank you for your help, both of you." With a flash of light, her form slowly disintegrated. I stood staring at Holmes.
"What just happened?" I finally asked. Holmes stood, brushing himself off.
"You encountered Mrs. Mayhon in the room in which she was killed. Her mystery does, in fact, remain unsolved. She wished to seek me out in order to correct that. I believe that we now have enough information to find Mrs. Mayhon's true murderer." I nearly jumped backwards.
"What?! True murderer? Does that mean that the man tried for her murder die a falsely accused man?"
"That he did, Jack my boy. And from what our guest has told me, I may know just who did take that axe to her abdomen. Now I have something for you to do, Jack."
"Anything, Holmes," I assured him.
"You must ask Mr. Warrick if he has any of Mrs. Mayhon's things still at the inn. If he does not, you must insist on seeing the old record books and search for the day of Mrs. Mayhon's arrival. Do you understand?"
"Yes, but whom do you think is the true culprit?" I asked. Holmes only chuckled silently to himself.
"If you are anything like me, my boy, then you all ready know."
Just like that, I was pulled back into consciousness. I saw Watson hovering over me with a glass of water in his hand. It was half-empty. My face was drenched. It was a simple equation.
"Watson," I started, "why did you pour water over my person?" Watson blanched.
"I... I was only trying to help, Holmes. You looked so cold and... and you were shivering... And that mirror..." I sat bolt upright.
"The mirror, Watson! Did you see anything besides you and I?"
"Holmes..." he said slowly, quaking ever so slightly, "I think that I may start believing in ghosts soon enough."