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bradygirl_12Title: Mr. & Mrs. John Moore (aka Sara Howard Moore) VII: The Haunted House (4/8)
Author: BradyGirl_12
Pairings/Characters (this chapter): John/Sara, Abigail Biggsby, Alice Biggsby, Celia Biggsby, Anne Biggsby, Madame Miranda Minton, Emily Biggsby (?)
Fandom: The Alienist (2018)/The Alienist: Angel Of Darkness (2020)
Genres: Drama, Holiday, Mystery, Suspense
Rating (this chapter): PG-13
Warnings (this chapter): Mention of suicide
Spoilers: None
General Summary: Sara and John investigate a haunted house on Halloween.
Chapter Summary: Sara and John find a journal that proves to be rather interesting.
Date Of Completion: May 29, 2020
Date Of Posting: October 26, 2020
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, TNT does, more’s the pity.
Word Count (this chapter): 1185
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Author’s Note: The entire series can be found here.
IV
THE SÉANCE
“Spirits roam house and home, just waiting to pounce.”
Adelaide Clarkwell
American Spiritualist/Medium
October 1, 1896
After lunch John and Sara returned to Pine Grove. The clap of thunder heard earlier had been the only indication of any stormy weather approaching. The day was still bright and clear.
“So, the stables next?” John asked.
“Right.”
John went into the house and got both lanterns. He led the horses to the stables.
“They had their feedbags in town, but I’d like to give them a break from the harness.”
Sara patted one of the horses. “I’m sure Bert and Ernie will appreciate it.” She regarded her husband with affection. His concern for animals and children touched her heart.
They searched the stables and found nothing, so they unharnessed the team and went outside.
“Looks like a barn and greenhouse over that way,” Sara said, indicating the buildings with a wave of her hand.
“Okay, let’s go.”
They searched the barn, green house, a potting shed, a smokehouse and a small cottage.
“Probably for the gardener,” Sara observed. “The grooms lived above the stables.”
It was a charming little cottage, the furniture handmade and the faded curtains and bedspread had once been bright with floral patterns.
“Nice place,” observed John.
“Definitely not haunted.”
He smiled. “Well, more like a fairy tale.” He surveyed the small parlor. “Anyplace else to check out?”
“I don’t think so.”
They left the cottage. They reached a garden that was wildly overgrown, weeds choking the flowerbeds and vines climbing around the railing of the gazebo.
“Whew, a gardener would have job security cleaning this place up.”
“No doubt.” Sara watched a crow jumping around on the gazebo roof.
“All this place needs is a vulture.”
“Ha! Come on, Bram Stoker, let’s get back to the house.”
John followed his wife as she walked with purpose toward the mansion. They went inside and Sara said, “I’d like to search the library again.”
“All right.”
Sara scanned the bookcase. “I thought I saw…yes, here it is.” She drew out a book. “It’s a journal.”
“A journal?”
“Yes.” She opened it and began reading. “It looks like it was written by someone named Abigail Biggsby.” She read quickly. “She’s a niece of Jedediah Biggsby. She recounts the tragedies of the family. Merry wasn’t kidding. That Gypsy woman really put the evil eye on them.”
“How charming.”
Sara smiled. “Anyway, I can see why Ellie and Edwin were so ready to believe the place was haunted. If I had a family history like this, I’d be summoning a spiritualist.” She turned the pages quickly. “Murders, suicides, accidents…Laszlo would have a field day with the ramifications of all this on the psyche of the descendants.”
“You’re right, I would like to hear what Laszlo would have to say about all this.”
“Listen to this: ‘Today I attended the funeral of Cousin Esther. She fell off Ethan’s Cliff last week. Just another tragedy for this accursed family’.”
“Wow. What is this, the House of Usher?”
“Consider yourself lucky you’re a Moore.” Sara bit her lip, suddenly remembering that John’s brother had drowned.
“Well, we all have skeletons in our closet.”
She thought of her father’s suicide and felt slightly nauseous. John looked stricken and Sara said, “Shall I continue?”
“Yes, please,” John said, sounding regretful.
Relax, John, we both botched that one.
She continued to read and they discussed Abigail’s thoughts. “She was suffering from nerves.”
“Gee, I wonder why.”
They sat down on the dusty couch and Sara said, “The family kept persevering. Some felt silly believing in some Gypsy curse.”
“Granted, living your life thinking your family’s under a curse seems like making life tougher than it needs to be.”
“It looks as though some family members just ignored the whole thing.”
“Let me guess, they met with untimely deaths?”
Sara scanned the page. “A few did, but most lived normal, catastrophe-free lives.”
“I’m almost disappointed.”
Sara smiled. “Here’s something that should pique your interest. Abigail’s Aunt Alice proposed a séance.”
John leaned forward. “You’re right; I am piqued.”
“Or peak-ed.”
“Ha, ha.”
Sara started to read:
& & & & & &
October 31, 1876
Aunt Alice proposed a séance to speak to the spirit of Emily, who hanged herself from the oak tree in the backyard. I consented to take part as I wished to find out why she did such a thing.
A spiritualist was engaged and arrived on All Hallows Eve. Her name was Madame Miranda Minton, a middle-aged woman dressed like any other matron in Cloverdale. Her brown hair was flecked with gray and pulled back into a bun. She wore modest jet earrings and a cameo brooch. Her black shawl was fringed and she said, “Is the table set?” Aunt Alice replied that it was, and we went into the dining room.
Aunt Celia and Grandmother Anne were already there. The table was set with candles, and Madame Miranda directed us to sit down and hold hands to create a circle. All gaslights were turned off and the candles lit to create a shadowy atmosphere. We waited in trembling anticipation for what was to come.
Madame Miranda is a medium. She said on this night of All Hallows Eve, she had an excellent chance of contacting Emily. She spoke an invocation to the spirits and after several minutes, a cold gust of wind made the candles sputter. All the windows were closed, so where was the wind coming from? It was a terrifying moment. But it was only the beginning.
Madame Miranda began to speak in a different voice. It was Emily speaking through her. Aunt Alice asked her questions, things only Emily would know. She answered correctly. If Madame Miranda is a fraud, she is a brilliant one.
“Yes, Alice, I killed myself. I could not bear the weight of the Biggsby Curse. I could not live anymore in this world.”
They were chilling words. Such despair in her voice! My heart ached for her.
“Are you sure, Emily? You were not forced?” asked Aunt Alice.
“No, it was my own choice. I’m sorry.”
My heart was beating wildly. Wind howled outside the house, moaning like a ghost. I could feel Aunt Celia’s hand trembling.
A loud crash startled us.
& & & & & &
“What the hell?” John exclaimed as he jumped up off the couch.
Sara ran to the French doors. “It’s wild out there!”
John joined her at the doors. Outside in the garden, branches swayed as rain came down in sheets and leaves swirled around in strong winds. Lightning illuminated the chaotic scene, arcing across the sky in jagged patterns. They watched in stunned silence.
Finally John asked, “When did this kick up?”
“While we were captivated by the journal, but it must have come up quickly.”
“Good thing Bert and Ernie are in the stables. The carriage, too.”
“Yes, they’ll be safe, but what about us?”
“Looks like we get to stay the night in a haunted house.”
This chapter can also be read on AO3.
