After Alice and I parted ways from breakfast, I headed to my Gothic literature seminar with Professor Sanderson. Usually I looked forward to them, but my reality had become so frightening that I found myself wanting to escape, not journey deeper into the belly of darkness.
As I walked into the classroom, I spotted an Edgar Allen Poe quote in one of the morbid obituaries on the wall: ‘Deep in earth my love is lying; And I must weep alone.’ It made me think of my parents, and of Janie’s parents, and of Poppy’s parents. I ached for my dad. We still hadn’t spoken since I’d told him I wasn’t his bumblebee any more. But it was true, wasn’t it? There had been a swift and perilous change in me. I dreaded the thought of him seeing the rubies studded in my throat; hearing the way they could choke me if I disobeyed.
Would the power over me be stronger now there were two of them?
Rain rapped on the high, loose windows as Sanderson stood in front of them, staring out on to the sprawling woods. Once we were all seated, he started talking without turning around.
‘Sister Maria Dunn was a lover of Gothic fiction,’ he said, voice halcyon clear and almost pastoral, as though delivering a sermon. ‘It was a filthy habit, pardon the pun, and one that distracted her from her worship. As such, not many knew she could read – the stack of novels and magazine serials was only found after her untimely passing – but she was known among her fellow sisters for her excellent work decorating manuscripts.’
My heart beat faster. Those memory-dreams of illuminated manuscripts held in age-spotted hands.
‘The abbess at the time, a Sister Catherine, found a slim volume calledThe Two Magicstucked under Sister Maria’s pillow on the night she died. We know that volume today asThe Turn of the Screwby Henry James – a story of spiritual possession, of haunted grounds, of the terror of the supernatural. It was, for its time, deeply frightening.’ He turned to face us, eyes black and shining, dark hair combed and parted at the side with oily precision. ‘Once again, I would like us to hold up a magnifying glass to that shimmering thread between author and reader. Between Henry James and Sister Maria Dunn, who died shortly after reading this story.’
The fine hairs on my forearms stood to attention. Nobody knew for certain whether Sister Maria had been murdered, or had fallen, or had taken her own life. Sanderson’s theory aboutThe Turn of the Screwwas bound to be pure conjecture, and yet my body thrummed in response. The rubies in my throat twirled their roots almost in pleasure; in recognition of something.
‘In the late 1800s, there was a cultural fascination with the supernatural. Scientists and psychologists took ghosts seriously. Spiritualism – a religious movement based on communicating with the dead – had taken hold. And of course, the church had long believed in demonic possession. At some point in the early Middle Ages, priests began to be trained to perform clergy- sanctioned exorcisms, which has continued right through to modern day. Yes, modern day – I have a friend who still makes decent money from a particularly paranoid parish in northern Wales.
‘Now we already know that Sister Maria was somewhat . . . rebellious. With her long habit – again, very sorry for the pun, shan’t happen again – of hoarding books, she had somehow procured a highly sought-after ghost story that had only been in print for a month. She also had a reputation at the convent for her somewhat fiery personality; she regularly butted habits –my sincerest apologies– with the abbess for her overall mardiness. She had unsavoury quirks and foibles; a predilection for cursing, and a fascination with fire. A local historian recently uncovered a letter between the abbess and the diocesan bishop in which she wrote that Maria “seethedwith a godless energy”.
‘And so why Maria’s obsession with Gothic horror? My theory is that she saw herself in it. She saw the erratic behaviour of the haunted and the possessed, and she believed herself to be so. She believed there to be something fundamentally wrong with herself. She was the monster from the stories.’
Something clicked into place with such precision that it almost took my breath away.
I wasn’t possessed by the North Tower.
I was possessed by Sister Maria.
How hadn’t I made the connection sooner? They wereherrubies, after all. My fingers brushed them tenderly, prickling with a sudden kinship.
Whatwasthis? Her ghost? Her spirit, her soul?
And then the most burning questions of all: why me? What did she want?