A/N: A quick fanfic I had to write for my English class. It isn't terribly amazing (I spent thirty minutes writing it), but I had a feeling my fanfiction account was a bit empty. (This was written in early 2007.)
Disclaimer: I do not own Rebecca or any of its characters. Daphne du Maurier holds those rights.
Warnings: Language, somewhat gory descriptions
The nightgown is just as refined as ever despite the recent tumultuous whirlwind of events. Truly Rebecca's body this time… Dear, dear Rebecca. Why would such a magnificent creature be sapped of life in her prime? Sighing, I turn and gaze at the brilliance of Rebecca's room, which looks exactly as she had left it. I almost expect her to walk through the doors right now, this entire catastrophe an otherworldly prank. "Oh, look, Danny, they actually bought it! How dare they think that I would be so weak as to be taken by the sea? Do they not know me?" A laugh would then be stifled behind a dainty, pale hand. "Oh, I forgot; they don't. Such a life of trickery we live, Danny. Make sure that no one else knows that I am actually alive, if you would. I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise. Just imagine how Maxim will react. And, don't worry. I'll be sure to get revenge on that misplaced maid—" Oh, how dare she. The spot of Mrs. de Winter's is Rebecca's and Rebecca's alone. She will be shown her place soon. I can feel it. It is obvious just by looking at this room. Have the colours faded anywhere—in the walls, on the bed, in the clothes? No, because Rebecca never left. She's still here, biding her time until she strikes. As long as this room is kept furnished, she will return. With her guarding this place, no one will ever cause it harm—
What was that sound? I turn on my heel, striding toward the garden. Frith and Robert have left, and the rest of the maids are in bed. Who else could it be? Perhaps… Dare I hope it? Rebecca? I hasten, gliding toward the doors leading into the garden, the marble floors making little sound beneath my feet. The doors are swung wide open as I step onto the dewy grass, head turning to search for the source of the sounds. I squint my eyes desperately in the darkness, trying my best to see some sort of outline, but a sudden spout of an orange flame illuminates the visage of the intruder. I can physically feel my hopes drop as I notice that it is Jack, not my dear Rebecca. Keeping my head held high, I begin to step toward him when I discern a large, red container… Is that gasoline? Eyes widening, I begin to hurry to him, feeling a dark emotion welling in the back of my throat. Is he really planning to—He steps inside the door, and through the window I can only watch with a sense of growing horror as he upsets the canister, its amber liquid glinting in the candlelight, onto the floor. My progress seems to be so slow as he turns and walks back into the safety of the night, his match held in a hand tensed to throw it through the open window onto the gasoline-soaked floor. I can't let him do this. Rebecca will never come back if he does it…
"MR. FAVELL! What in Heaven's name are you doing?! If you burn Manderley, we will lose all of Rebecca's possessions in the process!" Not seeing his face lose any of its intensity, I resort to compromise. "If you must do this, at least allow me to safely gather Rebecca's belongings first!"
If anything, Jack's face just grows more intense as he defiantly flicks the flaming stick into the house. Immediately the gasoline and flame converge, creating a wall of fire as I stare at Jack. Before I can even snap out a "how dare you," he flees into the undergrowth of the night. But he is of no worry to me now; Rebecca's room will soon be taken at the rate the fire is spreading. That bastard must have doused every room of the house with kerosene—But no matter. Rebecca is all that is important at this time.
I am not even aware as my feet take me back to Rebecca's magnificent room in the west wing, the ocean roaring as if in defiance of the flames crawling along the hallway behind me. I open Mrs. de Winter's closet quickly, carefully laying the garments across my arm with a precision that has been imprinted into my brain from years of maid's work. I turn to leave, my prizes draped over my forearm, but I pause. What of Rebecca's pillowcase? I spin smartly on my foot and reach my hand to pluck the pillowcase off of the offending pillow before returning my gaze back to the opened door. Fire is licking the frame now, devouring the room as if it is a rare delicacy to the tongues of flame. It would be impossible to get through the doors without damaging my precious cargo now—if only I had left the pillowcase. I might've been able to salvage some of Rebecca, then… Heat is pouring out of the walls and floor, smoke converging at the peak of the high ceiling. The room is practically an oven, now. My only options are to either get out with a little damage to my parcels as possible or to be baked alive with them. I dart toward the door, clutching the clothes defensively against my chest, and I almost get through when a teasing flare sets upon my legs. Of course, what a fitting end, a ying to Rebecca's yang. She dies with water, I die with fire. It's only appropriate. Fire takes this moment of thought to dart up my sleeves, and I instinctively curl up on Rebecca's garments to shield them. I can feel my skin blistering and melting as the malicious blaze does its best to gorge itself upon me. It seems like hours that this hot pain flashes across my entire being, flames imprinting themselves onto the insides of my eyelids, when it finally begins to fade. A blissful contentedness overwhelms me, and I serenely look ahead into the doorway… What exactly is that shadow? It's gliding toward me, unheeding the flames surrounding it… Well, I believe I'm getting dull in my old age; the answer to my question is obvious. I have saved her things, after all…
"Rebecca…"
And then it all went black.
Comments and critiques are highly appreciated.