Leanna Renee Hieber - Darker Still: A Novel of Magic Most Foul

Copyright

Copyright 2011 by Leanna Renee Hieber

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Contents

To all who have struggled to make their voices heard, historically and presently

New York County, Municipal Jurisdiction Manhattan, July 31, 1880 New York City Police Record Case File: 1306 To whoever should have the misfortune to review this closedbut still unresolvedcase, I extend my condolences. I tell you truly that all persons involved have been insufferably odd . All we know directly of Miss Natalie Stewart, disappeared at age seventeen, is what you will read here in what was left behind as an absurd testimonial. Herein you shall find pertinent newspaper articles enclosed by Miss Stewart regarding Lord Denbury and his infamous portrait. There are also letters from involved parties. I am left to conclude that everyone involved is a certifiable lunatic. Should you wish to indulge yourself and read a young ladys foolish reveries on such highly improbable events, so be it. Should you believe any of it, I hope you have no business with the New York Police Department now or in the future. Regards, Sergeant James Patt

This Journal is the sole property of:

Miss Natalie Stewart

As a gift to mark this, her exit from

The Connecticut Asylum

June 1, 1880

Sister Theresa handed me this farewell gift with such relief that it might as well have been a key to her shackles. Im a burden to her no more. Someone else will have to glue her desk drawers closed and exchange her communion wine for whiskey.

But now I trade the prison of the asylum for another. The prison of home.

Oh, I suppose I ought to clarify the word asylum , as it has its connotations.

The only illnesses the students of the Connecticut Asylum have are those of the ears and the tongue. The mute, or the deaf, are not the mentally ill. Those poor souls are cloistered someplace else, thank God. We had enough troubles on our own.

But now that Im home, a prison undercurrent is here too. The desperate question of what is to be done with me lingers like dark damask curtains, dimming the happy light of our dear little East Side town house. For unfortunates like me, firstly, a girl and, secondly, a mute girl, life is made up of different types of prisons, Ive learned. If I were a man, the world could be at my command. At least it would be if I were a man and could speak.

Every night I pray the same prayer: that I may go back to that year of Mothers death and startle my young self to shake the sound right out of that scared little girl. Maybe Id have screamed. A beautiful, loud, and unending scream that could carry me to this day. A shout that could send a call to someone, anyone, who could help me find my purpose in this world. But since that trauma, Ive yet to utter a word. Not for lack of trying, though. I simply cannot seem to get my voice through my throat.

Ive often thought of joining a traveling freak show. At least there I wouldnt have to deal with the ugliness of people who at first think Im normal and then realize I cant speak. I hate that moment and the terrible expression that comes over the persons face like a grotesque mask. The apologetic look that thinly veils pity but cannot disguise distaste, or worse, fear. If I were already in a freak show, people would be forewarned, and I could avoid that moment Ive grown to despise more than anything in the world. But would I belong beside snake charmers and strong men, albinos and conjoined twins? And if not, where do I belong, if anywhere?

As a child, I heard a Whisper, a sound at the corner of my ear, and saw a rustle of white at the corner of my eye. I used to think it was Mother. I used to hope she would show me how to speak again or explain that the shadows I see in this world are just tricks of the eyes. But she never revealed herself or any answers. And I stopped believing in her. I stopped hearing the Whisper. But what does remain are the shadows that come to me at night. There are terrible things in this world.

I dont have pleasant dreams. Only nightmares. Blood, terror, impending apocalypse. Great fun, I assure you. (Perhaps its good I cant speak; Id share dreams at some normal girls debutante ball and send her away screaming or fainting.) There are times when I feel I need to scream. But I cant.

Ive so much to say but dont dare open my mouth. The sounds arent there. I tried, years ago. Therapists soon gave up on me, saying I was too stubborn. But it wasnt me being stubborn . I was anxious, nerve-racked, afraid; I hated the foreign, unwieldy sound that crept out from behind my lips so much so that I havent dared try since. Perhaps someday.

Thats why I was given this diary. Other girls were given lockets or trinkets. When Ive nothing to occupy my mind or my hands, I resort to mischief. Now if the asylum had just had more books (Id read them all, twice , within my first two years), Id never have bothered with the communion wine. I wouldnt have had the time for glue, tacks, or spiders.

Id have been reading about trade routes to India, the impossible worlds of Gothic novels, or even the tedious wonders of jungle botany anything other than this boring, dreary world we live in. And so, dear diary, youll bear my written screams as I yearn for a more industrious, exciting life.

Unless I find an occupation or a husband, which in my condition is laughable, Im destined to languish in solitary silence. Most men of Fathers station would have whisked me off to some country ward upstate never to be seen again. (Ive been continually reminded of this by scolding teachers who insist I ought to be more grateful for a doting father.)

And I am grateful for sentimentality on Fathers part. I look too much like Mother for him to have sent me off, and goodness, if my sprightly nature doesnt remind him of her. So Ive always felt a certain security in my place here a few blocks from Fathers employer, the ten-year-old Metropolitan Museum of Art. A building and an institution Ive come to adore.

Tonight, Fathers having a dinner party with his art scholar friends. Theyre quite boring, save for his young protg, Edgar. I could suffer Edgar Fourtes presence under any circumstance. But make no mistake, I positively hate that wench he proposed to. If only I could have fashioned some mad plot and sent Father away, I would have thrown myself at Edgars mercy and become his lovely, tragic young ward. Id have made myself so indispensable to him, not to mention irresistible, hed never have considered another woman.

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