Sadie
January 2019
Sadie is ridiculously relieved to find the other guests still sitting around the dining table as if nothing has happened. Nothing has happened, she reminds herself sternly. It’s an old, creaky house; you have to expect odd noises now and then. She returns to her seat, and Nazleen breaks off midsentence to ask her if she’s feeling better. Sadie nods briskly, and as she picks up her spoon, Zach leans closer.
“You missed the speech about the evening’s clues being at an end,” he murmurs.
“Uh-huh.” Sadie pushes her lychee aside and scoops up a spoonful of mango and cream.
“And now we’re getting the legend of Raven Hall,” he says. “It’s very rich, isn’t it?”
It takes Sadie a moment to realize his second statement refers to her pudding. She nods and sets her spoon back down.
“Ah, perfect timing,” Nazleen says. “Here comes the coffee.”
The trolley clatters and clanks as the waiter wheels it into the room, and the rich aroma lifts Sadie’s mood instantly. She sits up straighter, admiring the tall coffee jugs and the dainty china cups and saucers. The waiter turns and nods stiffly at the photographer, like a prearranged signal, and the photographer approaches Nazleen discreetly and dips her head. She murmurs something about the roads icing over, and Nazleen waves a gracious hand.
“Of course,” Nazleen says to her. “I’ll take it from here.”
As the two staff members hurry away, Nazleen stands and pours coffee for all of them. Sadie declines cream, but she drops a granular brown-sugar cube into her cup; she doesn’t normally take sugar, but this evening, she feels a need for it.
“So,” Nazleen says, taking her seat again. “Yes. The legend of Raven Hall. Let me begin by asking you, ladies and gentlemen—have you ever felt desperately, horribly, painfully lonely?”
The gentle noises of the room—clinks of spoons against china, soft coughs, slurps of coffee, and murmurs of appreciation—all fade to silence. Sadie focuses on the delicate handle of the espresso cup in front of her, sensing that the others, too, are avoiding eye contact. She curls her fingers around the cup, using the heat from the china to drive away the ache she feels from missing her mother. When Nazleen speaks again, her voice is lower, as if she knows for certain she has their full attention.
“Well, pity the poor spirit in my tale, then. It’s just a shadow now, a faint shimmer in the corner of your eye, a haze of memories and longing and loneliness . . . but it’s real.”
Sadie lifts her gaze to Nazleen. Their hostess has a printed sheet of text in front of her, but she doesn’t appear to be reading directly from it; she must have rehearsed this thoroughly. Sadie tries to focus on the professionalism of the delivery, rather than the pathos of the story. But despite her determination to remember this is all just part of a game, she leans forward over the table, willing Nazleen to continue and wanting to know more about this supposed ghost.
“This poor spirit is all that’s left,” Nazleen says softly, “of a once-happy family that lived here at Raven Hall a long time ago. But betrayal struck at the very heart of the family, and it was torn apart, ripped apart . . .”
Sadie holds her breath. How much truth is behind this tale? Does it relate to the reason the house was abandoned in the late 1980s?
Nazleen gestures toward the curtained windows. “If you take a stroll around the lake here, around Avermere, you might just glimpse this spirit. But only ever at dusk, in those eerie few minutes when the sun is slipping behind the horizon, and the world is shifting into darkness. That’s when it appears.” Her voice grows louder. “It rises out of the lake, out of Avermere. And it drifts up to Raven Hall, slowly, slowly. And it presses itself against the windows, like a breath of mist against the cold glass, peering in with its hollow eyes, peering . . . peering . . . desperate for one last glimpse of its lost, destroyed family . . .”
Sadie’s heart races. And then what happens? Is the ghost inside the house, now? Roaming around upstairs, watching guests explore where they shouldn’t?
“But,” Nazleen says sharply, “here it meets the ultimate betrayal. Raven Hall refuses our poor spirit entry. No matter how desperately it scratches at the windows, rattles the mail slot, moans down the chimneys . . . Raven Hall is heartless; it won’t let our spirit in. And so it continues, night after night, rising at dusk, roaming around the stone walls, searching, searching for a crack or a gap it can enter through—listen!”
Sadie strains her ears, certain that the other guests must be doing the same, but the noise that erupts isn’t outside the window; it’s across the table. Mrs. Shrew is stifling a cough—or could it even be a sob?—with her napkin.
Joe shoves his chair backward sharply. “Okay, that’s enough!” He makes a visible effort to compose himself. “I think we’ve heard enough for one night, thank you. Shall we take our coffees through to the drawing room, and . . .” He glances at Nazleen, and his expression slides from apology to concern. “Are you okay?”
Nazleen doesn’t look okay; if anything, she looks more distressed than Mrs. Shrew. For a moment, Sadie wonders if Joe’s interruption has offended her, but then Nazleen moans quietly and curls forward over the table, until strands of her dark hair rest in her almost-empty dessert bowl. Joe starts toward her, and Sadie and Everett both rise to join him, but Nazleen straightens again and waves them away.
“I’m so sorry.” Nazleen sounds embarrassed. “I actually don’t feel very well at all. I think I’ll go up to my room, if you don’t mind.” She stands without help, but she looks a little hunched as she walks to the door, as if in pain. Before she leaves the room, she turns back to them with a strained smile. “Please, do take your coffees through and sit by the fire. Breakfast at eight, don’t forget. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The six guests gaze wide-eyed at one another as Nazleen’s footsteps fade up the stairs. Then Sadie grabs her coffee cup and indicates the door.
“Shall we?”
Zach accompanies her across the hall and into the drawing room. Everett shuffles close behind, and Sadie doesn’t begrudge him grabbing the armchair nearest the fire. He’s certainly the oldest in the group, and he’s looking pretty tired. Mrs. Shrew comes in soon afterward, and she heads to the far corner of the room, where she perches on a chaise longue as if not planning on staying for very long.
“It was probably the pudding,” Zach says to Sadie in a low tone. “Don’t you think? Nazleen ate all of hers. It was very rich. I didn’t eat all of mine . . .”
Sadie pulls a noncommittal face; she’s watching the door, straining her ears for the other two guests. Where have Joe and Genevieve got to? She feels unsettled without Nazleen’s presence, as if the whole evening might unravel now that their hostess is feeling ill.