The Twelfth Night

I have not slept. Not for the previous ten nights. And now, on the eleventh, I lie atop this bed as though already a cadaver, limbs arranged, stiff and angular. The mattress beneath me may as well be a slab of marble. Above, the ceiling’s plaster flakes like old skin, and my eyes cling to it while my ears prowl the darkness… a starving wolf.

The manor is alive. I know this, as I spent the first night dismantling its deceits. The creak of a floorboard… mere timber, shrinking in the autumn cool. The slam of an unlatched shutter… no more than the southwesterly breeze, clawing at the hinges. Even the unearthly tap, tap, tap upon the shingles… only acorns, tumbling from the English oak that looms above. Yes, the house is alive, but it cannot dupe me any longer.

Yet, knowing its tricks does not still my heart or ease my sleepless torment. It is no longer the manor’s chicanery that keeps me awake. It is the strange, persistent notes of domesticity and muffled, shuffling footsteps that come in the night. They alone deny me slumber.

Ah! Now—do you hear it? The cascade of water: bucket to barren tub. My uncle is drawing his bath. I sit and thrust my hand toward the candle at my bedside. But my fingers twitch, and I hold fast. No, better to linger, to let the old man sink beneath the water before I make my approach.

I have come to perform my duty. To serve my uncle and atone for failing my father. And I shall, despite my uncle’s hesitancy. Here it is, almost a fortnight since my arrival from London, and he still has not received me. Filled with resentment, I am sure. I did allow his brother to pass alone. No comfort of family by his side, with me, his only child, abroad, and with my uncle, his last remaining kin, uninformed.

But am I not atoning for this sin? Have I not come with immediate haste upon the receipt of the letter from my uncle's solicitor? Leaving my wife and son behind to fulfil his request, have I not arrived to provide care to a man facing his end?

I listen and hear another bucketful, then another, and another, then the squeak of naked flesh on soft paste porcelain. Clutching the candle, my feet find the floor, and I creep—a hunter of grouse in a thicket; a husband, home late from the alehouse—I move to the hall.

Along the corridor, the bathroom door stands ajar, a warm effluence of amber light spilling from within. Between it and my flickering taper, a thatch work of shadow and murk. One by one—a portrait, a chair, a wall sconce, and a table reveal themselves as I edge forward. With each cautious step, the darkness seeps away like ink bleeding through brittle parchment. I halt mere steps from the door, set my candle down, and steady my resolve. In the silence, my breath howls like a savage nor’easter, and my heart beats against my ribs like a caged thing desperate to escape.

“Uncle?”

Silence.

I ought to avoid the impropriety of confronting the man in any state of undress, particularly complete undress. Yet my options have dwindled, narrowed to the faintest alternatives. Since my arrival, I have been afforded no audience. He must know I am here. However, his chamber remains resolutely locked and silent, despite my repeated raps upon the door.

It is only when it’s dark that I have borne witness to his presence. On the second night, the clink of cutlery from the pantry. The scrape of chair legs across the study floor was on the fifth. On both occasions, I rushed there, only to find each room unlit and empty. He avoids me, shuns me. I must speak with my father and assure him I have come to comfort and care for him! No, not my father, of course. My uncle. A slight slip of the mind, brought on by my exhaustion.

I bear my uncle no ill will for his misgivings. His anger toward me is justified. I knew that travelling to India might see my father expire before my return, yet I departed—arrogant, prideful in youth. Have I not harboured resentment toward my own behaviour as well? From the moment I set foot on the West Docks in London, learning of my father’s demise in my absence, have I not carried the full weight of disgrace? This rift between us requires resolution. I shall tend to him with the love I was not able to bestow on my father. I must.

“Uncle?” I repeat and step into the lavatory.

The candle beside the shaving mirror has dwindled down to a spent nub, flickering upon a silver pricket. My toes curl against the chill of the tiled floor as the wick gives a final hiss and drowns in a pool of its own offal. The tub—and the corner of the room in which it sits—is swallowed by blackness, though not before I perceived the truth. I expected rising steam, and my uncle to be drowsing within its warmth. But the basin is dry, vacant. I am alone. Only the candle’s last ember lingers, defying me, taunting, mocking.

Why does he torment me so? Fill the tub only to drain it and retreat again to his chambers—vindictive old man. Madness!

In exasperation, I retrieve my candle, march to his door, and thump on the thick oak with a curled fist.

“Uncle!” I appeal. “Speak with me, I beg of you. I’ve come at your solicitor’s behest to give you care!”

I am answered only by a deafening quietude.

I linger a moment, and in defeat I mutter, “I will not leave you, dear uncle. I shall see this through.”

Then, I sulk back to my bed.

***

Under the duvet, I huddle and shiver and ponder. The cutlery, the moving chair, footfalls, and now, the tub. Oh! And the music! Yes, on the ninth night—eighth… tenth?—Mozart’s Don Giovanni echoed softly as I wandered the corridors, never to find its source. My father’s favourite piece…or uncle's…mine? What purpose do these mockeries serve? Surely more than simple indignation. I do not know.

Penance?

A whisper in my mind, a breath from the shadows, a sigh on the wind? From where did the utterance come?

Penance.

No! There is no voice. It is nothing more than a product of exhaustion.

“Macbeth,” I murmur. “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage…”

Is this your stage? No, not Macbeth, only you. You failed me. Now you fail my brother.

“Father?”

I draw my knees to my chest and cover my ears.

I am unwell and need rest. Yes, a fever brought on by lengthy travel through inclement weather.

There has been no rain.

Ha! There has! My clothes are still damp with it, laden with the reek of must and mould. Be gone, evil whispers. You are but a product of my weary and febrile mind.

I settle beneath the covers, watching the willow’s pendulous branches sway beyond my window. Sleep would not come. Nor did a scrape or scuff from my uncle’s nocturnal devilment find my ears. Only silence. Suffocating me until the faintest rays of dawn roused the songbirds to begin their hopeful chorus outside. I rise, weary and stiff, and shuffle to the glass to greet the day. Today, I shall be determined and diligent, and I will coerce my uncle, by any means, to speak with me and accept my guardianship.

But there!

Passing the gates at the entrance crested on the hill, brass fittings and harness buckles glinting in the rising sun, a carriage!

The solicitor, no doubt! Summoned by my uncle to remove me from his property. No, not summoned. How could my uncle have alerted him? Perhaps an impromptu visit to gauge my progress, my competency?

Horror!

I have failed miserably in providing my uncle with care. Surely the solicitor will relieve me of my duties and bid me adieu.

No. No, no! I must fulfil my charge. I need to stay with my uncle to balm his suffering. I must hide. The solicitor cannot remove what he cannot see. Yes… I will remain unseen, invisible to law and man alike. A phantom in my uncle’s house. The attic shall serve!

I dart from the window to the corridor, hurrying toward the rear of the house where the servant’s stair curls upward in a narrow spiral. The walls seem to constrict as I pass, close enough that the portraits lining them lean nearer. The expressions of kin long dead watch my flight—stern patriarchs, lace-collared matrons, solemn children—their faces all in oil and shadow. I avert my gaze, but there is one face I cannot ignore. My father’s. His eyes, judging, follow me even as I quicken my pace.

At the stairs, I stumble against the bannister, steady myself, and press on. The staircase twists so tightly I must sidestep to climb. One hand on the balustrade, the other trails the cold stone of the wall, unsettling the dust. It spirals downwards, creating eddies in the thin shaft of light spilling from the window below. The attic awaits.

The hatch groans in protest as I push it open and repeats its complaint after I scramble through and close it behind me. The attic, much as I remember it from childhood visits— gloomy, desolate—is illuminated only through the gable vent at the far end.

I make my way past the array of discarded memories and forgotten keepsakes and step upon a weathered steamer trunk under the opening. I hear the clip and clop of hooves scuffing cobbles, then, propping myself up on tiptoes, I spy the carriage coming to a halt in the courtyard.

From it emerges a portly man—moustached, bespectacled, and well dressed. It must be the solicitor. His dress alone speaks to wealth. The way he stood, with hands on hips, exuding an air of authority as he surveyed the mansion, left little doubt. He shook his head and addressed the driver.

“Bring me the lock and chain.”

“Yes, Mr Eddington.”

Ah! Eddington! It is the solicitor. But lock and chain? For what purpose?

The driver clambered down from the box seat and, from the rear boot of the carriage, withdrew a length of rusty wrought-iron chain. It issued a series of dull clanks as he drew it out, as each link bit against the one next to it. When he joined the solicitor, Eddington extracted a scroll of parchment from his satchel, and together they strode toward the entrance. I lost sight of them as they rounded the portico, but the noises soon followed—the sound of imprisonment: a grinding jangle as they chained the front door, then the slow, methodical pounding of hammer upon wood as the notice was affixed.

What is this? Why has the manor been sealed?

From my hidey-hole, I watched as the two men returned to the carriage. The driver navigated the cramped courtyard, turned the team, and proceeded back down the lane. I sat atop the trunk and shivered.

***

For a long while, I could only stare into the dark. Then, rising, I went to the hatch once more. The stairwell felt narrower than before, and the air seemed thick and desperate.

At the bottom, at the end of the hall, stood my uncle’s chamber. I called out as I neared, softly at first, then louder.

“Uncle? Uncle!”

My voice was swallowed by the gloom. I rapped upon the door. It died against the wood. I pounded with my fists until my breath came short. Still, no answer.

I sank to the floor, pressing my back against the panels, bitter cold carving to my bone  as I tracked the light shifting along the wainscot. The hours slipped away until finally, the wall sconce candle guttered, flared, and died. In the hush that followed, I thought I heard breathing from within, slow and deliberate. I pressed my ear to the keyhole.

Only the gentle pulse of my own coursing blood answered.

How long I remained at his door, I cannot say. The hours bled together like candle wax pooling upon stone. At odd intervals, I perceived a movement beyond the door—the faint rasp of a chair leg, the whisper of shifting feet—but each time I spoke his name, only silence pressed back.

Had I imagined the carriage entirely? Conjured the solicitor and his driver from fatigue and guilt?

The thought roiled within me until I could no longer bear it. Rising stiffly, I made my way down the main staircase.

The air below was cool and stale. My steps echoed against the marble as I entered the foyer. For a long moment I stood there, listening. No trace of life, only the house shifting in its sleep.

I hurried to the door and gripped the latch. It refused to turn. I strained more fervently, pulling until the hinges shuddered and the bolt rattled. The door gave not an inch.

In exasperation, I swivel and spy my suitcase, still sat beside the desk and chair where I had first laid my coat. Exactly where I had dropped it upon my arrival. The same flecks of mud fouling its leather. The same tear at the handle.

How many days before had that been? Have I not changed clothes? Bathed? Eaten?

A sheet of parchment rested atop the table. The letter that had summoned me here. I snatched it up and turned it over, looking at the seal, the formal heading, and the signature. Icy fingers grip my heart.

No, not a summons.

A certificate of death.

Clear as a spring dawn, dated four weeks earlier, my uncle’s name, the medical examiner's name, and the cause of fatality. Acute influenza.

I do not recall climbing the stairs again, but I find myself upon the landing, the dregs of daylight bleeding through the foyer windows. My knees grow weak. I clutch the railing to steady myself, gasping in the mustiness of this manor that had finally confessed its secret.

I stumble to the end of the corridor. My uncle’s chamber door is now ajar. From within, the curtains billowed, yet the air in the chamber was still.

I am bewitched, drawn irresistibly across the room and out onto the balcony. The October wind chills me. The gardens and forest below stretch before me, bathed in silver moonlight — ashen, motionless.

Then, from the pale twelfth night shadows, a dreamlike chorus rises. Interweaving voices… my uncle… my father… speaking my name. Softly, almost tenderly, they whisper my duties are complete and I may now sleep. I gaze into the darkness and deep within its velvet folds, a single candle flame wavers to life.

*thumbnail photo by Anna Mould