Jump to new as of April 14, 1998

Author's note: This idea has been nagging at me, so I decided to post it. My friend K.J. helped me by contributing the essence that is herself. We would like to dedicate this story to Ulysses/Saltie, whoever you are. I hope the readers enjoy it.

"Did you know that this hotel is haunted?" K.J. whispered.

"No, I did not," I answered indifferently.

"That's what I heard. Have you ever stayed at a haunted hotel? I haven't. Have you ever been to a haunted house?" she asked, still whispering.

"Just the one in Old Town. Have you been there? Remember in 4th grade, we went on that field trip to Old Town? We were supposed to go to the haunted house, but we didn't. What was it called?"

"The Waley House. Yeah, of course I remember. They kept promising us that we would get to go in, but when we got there, they wouldn't let us. I was so mad! All we did was walk around to a bunch of old boring places, and I was really tired. But we ate at the Hamurgesa, and that was fun. We talked about our Halloween costume's that year. Do you remember? I was going to be Belle, you know, from Beauty and the Beast."

"I don't remember. Were you Belle?"

She stared at me blankly, "I don't remember."

I laughed, "You remember a conversation we had in the 4th grade about your Halloween costume, but you don't remember what you were for Halloween?!"

I looked around the lobby, which was once a parlor. The hotel was very large and old, and quite beautiful. Pemberley... interesting name, I thought. I was very happy to be staying at such a lavish hotel. We weren't staying in the university's dormitories because there was not enough room. We were here for a foreign exchange student program thing, I forget the name. K.J. and I were attending the same college, both on scholarships. I got my scholarship for good grades and S.A.T. scores, she got hers from "The Young Author's Scholarship Guild". By the time she graduated from high school, she had had a book of poetry and short stories published.

K.J. and I followed the bellboy to our rooms. When I entered my room I was in awe... It was absolutely fabulous! It had a beautiful canopy bed, a lovely fireplace, and a balcony in possession of a magnificent view. I unpacked my clothes quickly, and then began on the "accessories". These consisted of a radio, tapes and CD's, my Bible and several other books, my crucifix and picture of Our Lady of Guadeloupe, some sheet music, and my violin. When I finished unpacking I decided to see K.J.'s progress. As I walked in her room, I nearly tripped over a box labeled "junk".

"What is this?" I asked.

"Junk," she stated simply.

"I thought you wanted to get away from the junk and clutter. Wasn't that your major inducement to leave San Diego, and come here?"

"Well, yes. But I figured I'd get homesick, so I brought this." She rummaged through the box and pulled out a 12-pack of Coke, a gargoyle, and a mysterious fuzzy object that looked suspiciously like an old sandwich.

"What is that?! Why did you bring it?!" I asked horrified.

"Grotesquely cuddly, isn't it? I just took a random junk sampling from my floor. And voila! A ham sandwich."

As I left the room, she called out, "I wasn't Belle, I was a witch."

When I returned to my room, I looked at the hotel's brochure which before I had only glanced at. Pemberley estate belonged to a family named Darcy. After the death of Fitzwilliam Darcy in the 1800's, his eldest son had inherited the estate. This son, however, rarely stayed at Pemberley due to "supernatural occurrences". Pemberley kept being handed down, and remained uninhabited. That is until a Darcy turned it into a hotel in the early 1900's. It has been a hotel ever since, but guests often complained of "mysterious noises and smells". As I read this I laughed out loud. Smells! What did that mean? Little did I know I would soon find out.

Part 2

I stayed in my room the remainder of the day to get settled. I thought about wandering around Pemberley, but decided not to, as a tour was scheduled for the next day. After dinner, K.J. stopped by room. She invited to me go out with her and some of her new friends.

"We're gonna do tourist stuff. You know: sight-seeing, picture-taking, wasting our money on over-priced souvenirs, that type of thing."

"Tourist stuff? Well, that explains a lot," I said looking at her Hawaiian shirt, sandals, straw hat, and the camera hanging around her neck.

"I figure, if I have to be a tourist, I might as well go all out. My objective is to buy something British with a 'made in the U.S.A.' sticker on it. So are you coming?"

"I think I'll pass, thanks anyway."

When she left, I played my violin for a couple of hours. I was unexpectedly seized by a sense of fatigue. I stuck a random cassette into the tape player and went to the bathroom to change and brush my teeth. When I was done, I sat on my bed and waited for the song that was playing to end. It was Semejanzas, by Ricardo Palmerin.

Entre las almas, y entre las rosas, ay semejanzas maravillosas.
(In between the souls, and in between the roses, there are marvelous similarities.)

Las almas puras son rosas blancas,
y las que sangran, son rosas rojas.
(The pure souls are white roses,
and the ones that bleed, are red roses.)

Y si en tus suenos un alma arrancas, es una rosa que cruel deshojas.
(And if in your dreams you tear a soul, it is a rose that you cruelly defoliate.)

Entre las almas, y entre las rosas, ay semejanzas maravillosas.
(In between the souls, and in between the roses, there are marvelous similarities.)

Almas que hieren con sus injinas,
almas que un fuego de amor consumen;
rosas que punjan con sus espinas,
rosas que besan con sus perfumes.
(Souls injured by their wounds,
souls consumed by a fire of love;
roses that prick with their thorns,
roses that kiss with their perfumes.)

Almas enfermas de amargas cuitas,
rosas sagradas, rosas marchitas.
(Souls ill from bitter afflictions,
incurable roses, wilted roses.)

Entre las almas, y entre las rosas, ay semejanzas maravillosas.

I dozed off; my last thoughts were filled with roses.

Part 3

I awoke from my dream of roses and perceived their sweet scent. I drowsily looked about the room and noticed the light of the moon reflected on one of its white walls. I looked for the window from which the light was cast and found none. I closed my eyes. I was in the realm between the worlds: dreams and the tangible, the obscure and the stable, reality and dillusion, life and death. I sat up in bed as the realization of an apparition on my wall struck me. I looked at the wall and the phantom which it rendered. I tried to scream, but my voice caught in my throat; cold terror ceased me. I finally found my voice, but before I could employ it my eyes met hers. They were filled with grief-stricken agony. My previous fear was abruptly extinguished as I viewed their tortured sorrow. I knew not who she was nor what she wanted, but I felt the desperate need to soothe the inflictions dealt upon her by life. I wanted to ease the memories, the past, of a young woman's life gone by much too quickly. I took in her image in a whole knew light. She was no longer threatening or menacing. She had a lovely face, framed by beautiful dark curls. She approached me, her form silently gliding across the room. I unconsciously reached out to her. It was then that my trembling hand received a delicate red rose. As I looked at the rose, I heard her plea, "The roses, the roses." I lifted my face to look into those pools of despair once more, but she was gone.

I awoke from my dream of the mysterious woman with a start. How had the dream ended?... She had handed me a rose. I felt my hand throbbing and found that it was tightly clutching a red rose. Terrified, I loosened my grip to see my mutilated palm despoiled by the rose's thorns. The blood on my pillow evoked a sickness in the pit of my stomach. With horror I witnessed the rose begin to blend in with the blood on my pillowcase. After a few moments of observation I realized the rose was not blending in, rather, it was wilting. Despite the physical and emotional pain it had caused me, I was saddened to see it die. I felt it to be the death of a loved one. It gradually faded and was replaced by an old-fashioned key. I pondered the significance of the key as I drifted into a fitful sleep.

Part 4

"Are you OK? Did you sleep well?" K.J. asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, "How about you?"

"I slept fine. These beds are so comfortable! But early in the morning I swear I smelled smoke. And you know 'Where there's smoke there's fire', but there was none." She stopped abruptly and grabbed one of my hands.

"What happened?" she enquired as she observed the white scars. "I never knew you had old scars on your hand."

I said nothing. How does one develop seemingly old scars overnight? The scars worried me. The rose worried me. The key worried me. Most of all the young woman worried me. I thought back to the song. I seemed to be dealing with a wounded and passionate soul in need of help. How was I to help?

We slowly made our way up Pemberley's main staircase as Mr. Collins, our tour guide, droned on and on.

"A fire in 18-- damaged much of this magnificent house. No one knows where the fire originated. When it was finally put out, a body was found in the ashes. The body was identified as that of 33-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy, the owner. He left behind two small children: a 4-year-old daughter and two-year-old son."

"How sad," someone commented. "What about his wife?"

"She disappeared. After her disappearance, Fitzwilliam Darcy became chronically depressed."

He began to commence giving the price of something or other and of course emphasize on the grandeur of the estate, when someone asked him about the disappearance of Mrs. Darcy.

"She went on one of her long walks, and never came back. There were several theories concerning the disappearance: she was abducted by gypsies, she left her husband for another man, she was murdered by a band of thieves that was in the neighborhood at the time..."

Here he was interrupted by a woman who also worked at Pemberley. Mr. Collins was needed by his boss, Mrs. de Bourgh. Mr. Collins immediately left to attend to his business. K.J. and I tried not to laugh; it was hysterical how much he had changed at the mere mention of Mrs. de Bourgh. No longer was he pompous and conceited, instead he was remarkably humble and servile and he looked a bit afraid.

"He's obviously the suck-up, butt-kissing type," K.J. managed to whisper between giggles.

Fortunately for us the lady that had delivered the message was to continue our tour. She introduced herself as Charlotte.

"Now, what was the conversation about?" she asked.

"The disappearance of Mrs. Darcy," someone called out.

Charlotte restated the theories before saying, "The gypsy theory was ludicrous. As was the rumor about the affair: Mrs. Darcy was known to be a very good sort of woman who loved her husband dearly. This was quite obvious in their short 5-year marriage. As for the murder, a body was never found. So it remains a mystery."

As we entered a luxurious bedroom, I felt the key in my pocket grow warm. We were told that this bedroom was no longer in use. It's last occupant had been Fitzwilliam Darcy. The warmth which the key emanated increased considerably as I passed a paneled wall. I turned a corner. The burning sensation on the side of my leg was suddenly counterbalanced by a cold chill that ran through my body.

"This is a portrait of Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy."

A bouquet of roses partly covered a radiant smile. Her fine eyes sparkled with happiness and a hint of mischief. As I gazed into her eyes, the gleam faded. They were once again the mournful, pleading eyes I had seen the night before.

Part 5

"The gentle breezes sigh... (CHANGING WINDS) but the north wind suddenly appears and begins to quarrel..."

I looked over the sheet music of "Summer" from Vivaldi's Four Seasons. I removed my violin from it's case and began to play. I came upon a part that read: TEMPESTUOUS SUMMERTIME The shepherd has a right to be afraid. The sky flashes and the thunder is awesome. Grain and fruit are destroyed in the storm.

I began to play, I loved this part. The sound instilled in me a sense of fear and a greater sense of power. I centered all my energy on my bow and fingers, faster and faster the bow moved, faster and faster my fingers moved. I was one with the violin and I played in a frenzy. All the stamina I had found its way to my fingers, and I played, crazed with the feeling of control the music gave me.

A strong gust of wind blew my music off the stand. The spell was broken and I was humbled. I stood up and walked to the balcony, planning to close the doors, but I could not resist the temptation to stand outside and feel the powerful wind. I took a deep breath and felt exhilarated as the cold air pierced my lungs. How wonderful to be the wind: so free, so powerful... so lonely, always wandering about with nowhere to go...

My thoughts were interrupted when I heard someone calling my name. I turned around to see K.J. standing at the door.

"Oh, hi," I greeted her distractedly.

"A penny for your thoughts," she said.

"A fool and his money," I began with a smile, recalling a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip.

"What?"

"Hmm? Nothing," I answered not realizing I was still smiling.

"Now I really want to know what you were thinking."

"Nothing."

"Why do you always do that? Do you know how annoying that is? You get that knowing little smile, and someone asks you what you're thinking, and you never tell them, and your smile gets bigger. It bugs so much!"

"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be the wind?" I asked, ignoring her outburst.

"No."

"If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live and why?"

"San Diego because it's the greatest place on the face of the Earth. Where would you live?"

"San Diego for the same reason. I can't find fault with it. It's a beautiful city in itself. Besides, my family is there, I grew up there, that's where I belong."

I wondered where Elizabeth Darcy belonged. Pemberley, I answered myself, of this I was certain. I wondered what she needed, what she wanted. She wanted me to solve the mystery surrounding her disappearance, yet there was something more. I thought back to movies, stories, and books on ghosts I had read. The reasons always circled around unrest, of course: revenge, a gruesome death, the need for the murderer's repentance. My thoughts flooded my mind; a torrent of words raced from my mouth.

"Do you remember that movie about a little girl who was killed? Her death kept being reenacted, and she appeared to the little boy, and she needed to be reunited with her mother." I didn't know what I was saying, I was just stringing words together.

"Lady In White, you mean?"

I didn't hear what she said. I knew. I knew what she needed. She was being kept from her husband, Fitzwilliam, they never had a chance to say good-bye, he didn't even know what had happened to his love. I needed to be alone, to think things through, to plan the course of action that needed to be taken.

Part 6

I left the hotel to walk it's vast grounds. I had decided that being outside was the best thing to do. I found a path that entered the woods. This path I walked along for some time, admiring the colors of autumn. If you have experienced the wonders of nature, you will have no difficulty in imagining that beauty which I cannot describe. I came upon a fork in the road and remembered a poem by Robert Frost: "The Road Not Taken." I recited it softly to myself as I pondered which path to take. When I recited the last stanza I took the road on the left, the one less trodden upon. I did not know it at the time, but it did make all the difference.

I walked along the path for some time, taking in all the delights that nature had to offer. I took in a deep breath as a small gust of air blew past me. The breeze carried a scent, the scent of roses. I was startled because I did not expect to smell roses at this time of year, yet I was not surprised in the least. I must confess that I was getting tired of the roses, they had become monotonous. I did not want to find out where the scent came from, but I knew I had to. I let out an exasperated sigh and left the path to follow aroma. After a few minutes of walking, I came upon a wall of ivy. Had I not had an inclination to walk this way, I would never have seen it, for it was some ways from the path and blended in remarkably well with the surroundings. I felt like Mary in The Secret Garden, and I remembered how she had discovered her secret place of enchantment: the wind blew away the ivy to reveal a door. I looked up at the sky, but the wind which had blown with so much force earlier that day did not take pity on me, and so I was forced to move the ivy aside myself. My hand reached out, but stopped for I felt unsettled. I returned my gaze to the clouds and I realized that I was unsettled because the sky was unsettled. The sky appeared to be serene, but I knew that this state of tranquillity was only the calm before the storm.

I shook my head and pushed the ivy aside. A locked door was revealed, and I produced the key. The key I took from my pocket fit perfectly, of course, I could not expect anything less. I pushed it open and stepped inside, the wind shutting the door behind me with a forceful slam. I turned away from the door to face the garden. I let out a small gasp. I was not in the least surprised to see roses, but I was surprised at the amount, the variety, the beauty. There were many colors, and the scent of each combined to make a powerful perfume. I wandered about the garden, convinced I would never get enough of the roses, the same roses that I was fed up with a few minutes ago. Wanting to get a closer look at an elegant white rose, I stepped into a patch of clovers that had obviously sprung up from lack of care. As soon as I stepped into the clovers I felt my stomach churn. Her body was never found, they said. Well, I found it. Panic seized me, I realized that it had grown dark and that I was frightened and alone, so very alone. Lighting flashed and thunder sounded, the rain battered me mercilessly. I ran to the door and pounded it with my fists while crying hysterically. I finally had the sense to pull it open and I ran out.

Part 7

Oh how sweet it is to hear one's own convictions from another's lips.
~~Goethe

I only slowed down when Pemberley was in sight; as I came before the massive structure I stopped, holding my aching sides. I looked down at the wet grass, gasping for breath. My eyes slowly left the ground and I looked up, only to look into the eyes of another; a pair of lively bright eyes. The eyes had no face, but they were very familiar, and as I looked into them, deeper and deeper, they seemed to become drained of life, they grew glassy and cold...

The lightning flashed and the thunder pealed, my head snapped back in sudden consciousness. The eyes were gone, nothing was left but silence, a complete and utter silence. Perhaps the word "nothing" is not quite appropriate, because silence is definitely something. Silence is more profound and can convey more meaning than all the words in any given language and all those languages combined. The silence consumed me, it suffocated me, and it instilled in me the worst kind of fear I can remember.

The rain commenced once more, but this time it was not harsh or sharp; it tumbled soothingly from the sky in fat, lazy drops. I took a few deep breaths and gathered enough courage to look up again. Pemberley was before me, imposing in structure, impressive in elegance. I closed my eyes and faced the heavens, allowing the warm beads to trickle down my face and neck.

My eyes opened in surprise and I looked at Pemberley again. There was something decidedly different about Pemberley, but I didn't know what it was. It was different in the manner an acquaintance is different after a recent hair cut, or new glasses. It seemed to look newer, and cleaner; as did the rest of my surroundings. I shook my head and approached it from the side, I was not in the mood to enter from the front, that entrance being a bit too foreboding and ominous.

I walked up the narrow steps and into the building. As soon as I stepped in I realized there was some sort of commotion; I quickly stood against the wall, afraid of being trampled upon. I looked about for the cause of the confusion but could see none. I looked in the faces of those around me and felt no recognition whatsoever. I did not recognize them, and they did not recognize me; they seemed to look past me, oblivious to my presence. It was then that I realized something was seriously wrong. The hotel was not a hotel, it was a home; the people weren't the hotel's employees, they were servants. As I made these startling observations the bustle died down, eventually the halls were quiet; there were only a few people who strayed about like lost dogs, then all was still.

I contemplated my position for a moment and repeatedly asked myself the same questions: where am I? why am I here? Time, and the world seemed so vast. I recalled a pin my close high school friend, Nina, had on her backpack. It read: The vastness of space and time and I end up here? During the more tedious classes we shared I found it to be very diverting. Funny how it didn't seem quite so amusing now. I remembered Nina, and I tried to remember what she had taught me. What had we in common that made us such good friends? A sense of humor, of course. In addition to being obsessive compulsive we were avid readers; she had introduced the Bible to me as a great work of literature. That's why I had brought my Bible with me. What were her favorite books? The Song of Solomon and the Book of Ecclesiastics. The Song of Solomon for its poetic prose, the Book of Ecclesiastics for its philosophy and wisdom. I easily remembered what are perhaps its most famous verses:

To everything there is a season,
A time for every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born,
And a time to die;
A time to plant,
And a time to pluck what is planted;
A time to kill,
And a time to heal;
A time to break down,
And a time to build up;
A time to weep,
And a time to laugh;
A time to mourn,
And a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones,
And a time to gather stones;
A time to embrace,
And a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to gain,
And a time to lose;
A time to keep,
And a time to throw away;
A time to tear,
And a time to sew;
A time to keep silence,
And a time to speak;
A time to love,
And a time to hate;
A time of war,
And a time of peace.

(Eccl 3: 1-8)

I made my way upstairs slowly, but with complete conviction. It was time to explore Pemberley.