Chapter One

The tall, dark-haired woman tightened her grip on the small hand enclosed in hers. The boy behind her made a muffled yelp of protest.

"Mama, you're hurting me!"

"Sorry, darling," she said absently, looking around her.

"When will we get there?"

"Soon, dear." She side-stepped a pile of horse droppings on the road. Perhaps this was a mistake. She should have spent the money for a carriage ride to her destination; two hours of walking through muddy streets had gotten her nothing but ruined skirts and a very irritated son. Did she really want to work for someone who lived in so secluded an area? It was at least four miles from the neatest town. Still, she thought to herself silently as she lifted her skirts over a muddy patch of road, it's quite beautiful out here. The buds of early spring has begun opening in the trees lining the road, warm white and pink blossoms that scented the air sweetly.

"Look!" Thomas tugged on Isabel's hand, ripping her from her musings.

"What, darling?" she asked, looking down at his round face, red from the walking.

Thomas pointed up the road. Several yards ahead of them, the trees along the pathway became sparse and in the distance, a dark shape began coming into focus: a tall, vine-covered house stood majestically, silhouetted against the perfectly blue sky.

"That must be it," Isabel breathed.

"Finally," Thomas grumbled, making no effort to hide his annoyance with the whole situation.

They walked in silence as they turned onto a paved walkway leading to the front doors of the house. Isabel stood quietly, gazing at the building before her.

Ivy covered most of the front, creeping along the frame of the door and encasing windows. The whitewash was dull and graying with age and neglect. She would have thought it abandoned if she hasn't seen smoke rising from the chipped-brick chimney.

Drawing a breath, she stepped forward… and almost tripped when Thomas' hand yanked hers back. She turned her head towards him and felt her eyebrows lift with surprise. Thomas' eyes were round and fearful, his jaw hanging open.

"What is it, dearest?"

Thomas shook his head. "I can't go in there."

Isabel shut her eyes and exhaled slowly. "Why not?" Her nerves were shot as it was. She had no patience for Thomas' idiosyncratic tendencies now.

He pointed to the house, his hand shaking with fright. "There's a ghost in there."

Isabel tugged on his hand and gave him an encouraging smile. "Of course there isn't."

"There is, Mama!" he insisted. "Can't you feel it?"

Isabel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Feel what?"

"The cold!"

"The cold?"

"It's always cold where there are ghosts!"

Isabel arranged her face in an expression of utter confusion; indeed, she could have honestly said she had no idea what her son was talking about. Perhaps simply catering to his whims would help this ordeal pass.

Gathering her skirts, she kneeled to his level and grasped his chin gently, turning his face towards hers. "If there is a ghost in there," she said softly, "I'll make it go away as soon as I see it. I promise you. Now, we're going to go inside and talk to the man about what we discussed, do you remember?"

He nodded mutely.

She pressed a palm to his cheek. "You must be on your best behavior, do you understand?"

Thomas tore his eyes from the house and met her gaze, then nodded again.

"Good boy." She stood, smoothing her skirts, and continued up the paved pathway, Thomas trailing reluctantly behind her. Standing before the great oak doors, however, she felt her resolve begin to dissolve. The position could have already been filled; this house was far too removed from town for her liking; she could despise this man. Shaking her head as if to rub out her doubts, she leaned forward to knock on the door. It was a brief moment, a split second, really, but just before she rapped her knuckles across the wood, she could have sworn she heard music drifting through one of the windows above her.

A tense silence followed. Thomas still looked prepared to flee, clutching his mother's hand and glancing around wildly. Ignoring his odd behavior, Isabel straightened her back and displayed what she imagined to be calm determination on her face. There was no way of knowing what sort of man this Mr. Bertrand was, but appearing flighty or flustered would not do at all. Isabel shifted her weight impatiently. All was still, no sound coming from inside the house. Clearing her throat, she knocked again, beating her fist against the wood so hard, her skin stung.

"Maybe no one's there," Thomas said, a flicker of hope betraying his would-be calm tone.

"Except the ghost, of course," Isabel said, not taking her eyes off the door.

A dull thudding from within the house broke into the silence – footsteps.

Yanking Thomas to her side, Isabel lifted her chin and fixed on an unwavering smile.

One of the doors slowly creaked open.

Isabel took an involuntary step backwards.

A man stood before her, an imposing figure framed perfectly in the doorway. He was tall and lean, his posture ramrod straight and elegant. His clothing was immaculate: pressed black trousers, polished leather boots, a deep green waistcoat over a white lawn dress shirt. His dark brown hair was slicked back, revealing the soft curves of his face: the strong jaw, the cleft chin, the full lips. But it was his eyes that demanded attention; blue-green and brilliant, they stood out in sharp contrast to his deathly-pale skin; two glowing embers in a white field.

Isabel's eyes shifted and she suddenly realized what made this man so different.

So pallid was his complexion, his skin blended almost perfectly with the white mask that graced the right side of his face.


Props to my beta, Musique et Amour (aka Stalker Erik) for being all nice and stuff.

Yes, horror of horrors, an E/OW story. Emit shrieks of terror as you see fit.