unused. The servants had prepared a bowl of stew for Emily; it sat upon a tray beside the water glass, long since grown cold, untouched.
The window stood wide open, and a breeze drifting into the room was sending the curtains a-flutter. It also wrapped around me in an embrace that caused me to jitter. When it left, I felt alone. How easily a breeze can capture you in its grip, then abandon you, I thought.
“Where are you, my Emily?”
Even to my own ears, my voice sounded thin and distant. Not the authoritative voice I wished to employ but a much lighter one, the voice of a child calling for his mother after a bad dream.
I left the bedroom and proceeded to check the remainder of the second floor. With each room, my heart grew heavier. If Emily was not in this house, where might she have gone? I must speak to Miss Dugdale and the others, I told myself; Emily was not to be left alone, not anymore, not until a cure for her affliction could be found. They would work in shifts if I was to be away from home for even the shortest while.
The thump from downstairs startled me, and I walked back out to the hallway, to the landing at the top of the stairs. There I listened, but the sound did not repeat a second time. But the first thump had come from downstairs, of that I was certain.
Returning to my bedroom, I retrieved my Webley revolver from the night table and checked the cylinder. I do not know why I felt the need for having a weapon in my own home, but I found comfort in its heft.
I descended the stairs.
When finally there was another thump, not as loud as before, I determined it came from the cellar off the kitchen. I found its door standing open, squeaking on tired hinges. When the residence was outfitted with gas lamps, we had limited the work to only the top two floors. There was little need for such extravagance at the lower level. I reached for the candle we kept at the top of the stairs and lit its wick on the lamp in the kitchen, then returned to the open mouth of the cellar door.
Again, I called my wife’s name. My words echoed off the stone walls and were swallowed by the musty air below.
Why she would go downstairs, I did not know. Nor did I understand why she would go down there in total darkness. If she had brought a light, I would see the glow from where I stood, but there was none. There was nothing beyond the glow of my candle.
For some reason, I thought of the dog again. The beast from the night before that I wanted to believe had not been outside my home, although I knew it had. I pictured the dog down below, waiting at the foot of the stairs. This was silly, and no doubt my mind’s way of offering caution, but the image lingered nonetheless.
I descended the stairs into the cellar, one hand holding the candle while the other batted away the cobwebs that clung to the walls and ceiling. When the flame of the candle caught one of the webs on fire, a quick sizzle was followed by the scent of burnt hair mixing with the coal, wintered-over potatoes, and other unrecognizable odors emanating from this dark, dank place.
“Emily, my dear, are you down here?”
At this, I heard a shuffle off to my left.
I turned, the glow of my candle washing over the walls, the low ceiling, the dirt floor. When the light found my wife, I nearly did not see her. My eyes washed right over her, for she was crouching down, her thin frame rigid and unwavering as a statue. She was huddled in the corner, with her back to me. Her feet were bare, her body draped in a thin, white nightgown.
“What are you doing?” I heard myself ask.
At the sound of my voice, her body twitched, then went still again.
Again, I imagined the dog, saw the black, muscled beast huddled in the corner in my wife’s stead. I