January 1880
She didn't much believe in ghosts. After all, children didn't really believe in that sort of thing. Her father was a practical man, and though her mother was an optimist, she never believed in the paranormal.
That soon changed the night after her mother's funeral.
Her mother, Raven, had been taken by cholera, a nasty disease, and her final days had been agony and pain.
"I do not wish for you to remember her that way, Anna Marie." Her father had commented, the sorrow and grief in his eyes. "Remember her as she was: lively and beautiful."
Her funeral had been solemn, surrounded by family and friends who grieved the once youthful and loving woman known as Raven Darkholme.
She was laid to rest in the family plot, buried under the oak tree with the two infants that she had birthed that had not lived.
Anna Marie had been her miracle, and she and her husband James had been over the moon to have a living, healthy child.
And now, James was left to raise their daughter alone.
The wind howled that night, and Anna Marie couldn't sleep. She had struggled with sleep since Raven had gotten sick, and tonight was no different.
She heard the floorboards creak, and opened one eye, thinking her father was awake.
But the figure coming up the stairs was not her father.
The shadows that crawled across the wall were of bones, the bones of hands. A skeleton, not a living thing. The shadows soon took the form of a woman….a woman she recognized.
It was Raven.
The shadowy, bony figure turned her head in the direction of Anna Marie's bedroom, and she saw the skull covered by the thin black veil.
Terrified, Anna Marie turned away from the figure, heart pounding, willing the figure to leave her alone, to go away, for this all to be a dream.
She felt that cold rush of air, the room suddenly dropping in temperature, an eerie breathing that got closer and closer.
Then, she felt the bony, cold hand on her shoulder, and she tried not to scream.
"My daughter…..heed my words carefully…." Her mother's voice, distorted and creaking, spoke in her ear as she shook in fear.
"When the time comes….beware of the Iron Heart…." Her eerie breathing was heavy in Anna Marie's ear.
Anna Marie screamed, shaking off the figure, who had now disappeared as she sat up in bed, catching her breath.
Moments later, she heard footsteps.
"Anna Marie?" Her father's quiet and worried voice called, a candle in his hand as he came into her room. "Are you alright? What has happened?"
At the sight of his frightened daughter, James was at her bedside, setting the candle down on the table as he held his crying daughter in his arms.
"I had a bad dream, Papa…" She softly told her father, not telling him the truth of what she had seen.
"Shhh….my dear….it will be alright…."
15 years later
October 1895
Anna Marie walked into her father's office building, the morning hustle and bustle a hum that one grew used to.
Her father had made a name for himself after the War, a businessman who had found a rhythm in the chaos of the American way of life.
Her arrival this morning, like most, was met with polite cheeriness. Those in her father's employ were familiar with his daughter, her beauty and intellect like two sides of a coin, one drawing people in, the other leaving lesser men intimidated. She was an heiress who made it known she would not settle for a marriage of financial benefit or convenience. No, Anna Marie Darkholme was an independent woman who believed in marrying for love.
This, at times, isolated her. Most of the young ladies of high society were quick to marry eligible bachelors with flashy promises and flowery words.
Anna Marie had to fight to roll her eyes at some of the things she would hear a would-be suitor utter to her or another socialite, the words falling flat with no substance.
Despite this, she held hope that one day she would fall in love. Genuinely. She wanted a love like the one her father had for her late mother, adoring and unconditional. Although most days, she wondered if she would ever find it.
"Good morning Anna Marie. Your father told me you might be stopping by." An older woman with red hair commented, green eyes much like her own smiling back at her.
"Good morning Jean. Yes, he mentioned there might be a typewriter I could use?"
Jean's smile grew. "Don't tell me. You're submitting your story."
"You know me too well." Anna Marie admitted.
Jean got out of her chair and rushed to a storage closet, hauling a typewriter onto the open desk in front of hers. Anna Marie couldn't help but chuckle at the older woman who had become like a second mother to her.
Jean blew forcefully on the typewriter, releasing a cloud of dust. She and Anna Marie fanned the dust as they half-coughed, half-giggled. Anna Marie sat down at the desk, and adjusted the typewriter, a smile on her face.
"This might take me all day, but it will look rather handsome when it's finished." She commented.
"I can hardly wait to see the finished product." Jean smiled, but looked up as a pair of footsteps, belonging to a tall man in a dark suit, approached.
The gentleman set down a briefcase, and took off his tophat, revealing short, white hair and piercing blue eyes.
"Good morning ladies. Pardon my interruption." The gentleman spoke with accented English, and Anna Marie could easily detect he was from Europe, most likely German or Polish. "I have an appointment with James Logan Darkholme."
Anna Marie raised a brow and turned to Jean. "Goodness, with the great man himself."
"I'm afraid so." The white-haired gentleman responded, handing her a business card, which she read.
"Sir Pietro Eisenhardt, Freiherr of Prussia." She handed the card to Jean, who was equally intrigued by the man standing before them.
Jean inspected the card and gestured with a polite nod to the man. "I will make him aware of your arrival. He will be here shortly." She made her way to James' private office.
"You're not late, are you?" Anna Marie asked politely. "He hates that." She got up out of her seat to retrieve enough paper for her task at the typewriter.
"Not at all." His eyes were drawn to the pages she had brought with her that were on the desk, scanning them quickly. "In fact I'm a little early."
"Oh, well, I'm afraid he hates that too." She returned to the desk with her stack of paper.
The papers that she had been working on were in his hands now. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry…." His eyes drifted up to hers, a crystal blue color full of curiosity. "This is a piece of fiction, is it not?"
"Yes." She answered.
"Who are you transcribing this for?" His eyes darted between her and the pages in his hand.
"It's to be sent to New York tomorrow, to the Atlantic Monthly."
He was studying the pages as he spoke. "Well, whoever wrote it, it's…."
She waited with bated breath. Oh dear Lord, please don't…
"...rather good, don't you think?" He finished.
"Really?" She asked quietly, a small glimmer of hope in her voice.
"Well, it certainly captured my attention." He commented, reading through the pages.
"I wrote it. It's mine." She admitted.
She was suddenly on the receiving end of a mildly surprised but impressed look from him.
"Ghosts?" He asked.
"Well, the ghosts are just a metaphor-" She began.
"They always fascinated me." Pietro stepped forward. "You see, where I come from, ghosts are not to be taken lightly." He smiled.
"Sir Pietro Eisenhardt?" A low male voice came from behind her, the voice of James Darkholme. Jean wasn't far behind him, and walked past back to her work.
"Welcome to our fair city." James welcomed Pietro, extending his hand, which Pietro took firmly.
"Sir. It's my pleasure."
"I see you've already met my daughter, Anna Marie."
It was at this moment that Pietro realized that he had been speaking to Darkholme's daughter, and smiled at Anna Marie. "It was a pleasure speaking to you, Miss Darkholme."
"Likewise, Sir Pietro." She acknowledged.
James beckoned Pietro to a separate room. "Come, we're all waiting for you."
Anna Marie couldn't help but be intrigued by this man, this Freiherr from Prussia. None of her father's business associates were from that part of Europe, and so she was instantly curious about him.
She wondered what brought him here to America.
And what he knew of ghosts to speak of them in such a way.