Candle in the Attic Window(36)
And then, without willing it, I thought as well of the restaurant hostess. I could not help it.
Of dark, round-curved Anise, who lived in town and would be waiting.
James Dorr has published two collections with Dark Regions Press, Strange Mistresses: Tales of Wonder and Romance and Darker Loves: Tales of Mystery and Regret, and has a book of poetry about vampirism, Vamps (A Retrospective), out this year from Sam’s Dot Publishing. Other work has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, New Mystery, Science Fiction Review, Fantastic, Dark Wisdom, Gothic.Net, ChiZine, Enigmatic Tales (UK), Faeries (France), and numerous anthologies. Dorr is an active member of SFWA and HWA, an Anthony and Darrell finalist, a Pushcart Prize nominee, and a multi-time listee in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror. Up-to-date information on Dorr is at: http://jamesdorrwriter.wordpress.com.
New Archangel
By Desmond Warzel
From: Ivan Vasiliyevich Furugelm, Governor, Russian American Company
To: Otto Furugelm, Helsingfors, Finland
June 30, 1859
Dear Father,
Nearly a week has passed since my arrival in Novoarkhangelsk and my assumption of the mantle of Governor of Alaska. I wonder if perhaps someone simply wishes me out of the way, for there could be no worldly place in less need of governing. In fact, I fully expect Imperial interest in Alaska to fade completely within ten years. My predecessors have already wrung nearly every pelt from this land, and we are forced to squabble over the rest with the British and the Americans. As a result, there is precious little to do here.
One curiosity: I spoke at length with Voyevodsky, the outgoing Governor, and a more relieved man I have never met! During our conversation, he chanced to bring up a legend that has sprung up here over the last decade or so. It seems that Voyevodsky, one or two of his predecessors, and several of their guests over the years, have all claimed to see a curious spirit roaming the halls of Baranof Castle, a lady in blue. I humoured the man, of course, for I have seen what this place is like and I could not begrudge its residents any harmless tales they might conjure to amuse themselves.
Or so I thought, Father, for I have now seen this ghost myself! She is a lady of indescribable beauty, dressed in sumptuous blue wedding attire, with hair blacker than night. I promise you that I was neither dreaming nor imbibing! I looked her directly in the eyes, but she seemed to stare straight through me; though I was also looking through her, after a fashion, for she was in no way solid. She never stays in one place; indeed, she never stands still at all. She is seeking something.
My inquiries have turned up a tale of a princess or noblewoman who killed herself and her lover in 1844, but there is no one in the castle with firsthand knowledge of this alleged tragedy. Would that it were so easily ascribed to that event, but then where is the lover’s ghost? He is nowhere to be found and he has more reason to haunt than she, for his demise was both violent and unplanned. Perhaps there is some logical explanation, if logic holds in the affairs of the restless dead, but I fear it will forever remain hidden.
I will write again soon, Father, but in the meantime, I charge you with delivering my greetings and good wishes to the rest of the family.
Your loving son,
Ivan
From: Brig. Gen. Jeff C. Davis, Commander, Department of Alaska
To: Maj. Gen. Horatio Wright, Brooklyn, New York
March 19, 1868
Dear Horatio,
I can only imagine the expression of shock that graces your countenance as you unfurl this missive! You never expected to hear from old Jeff, and I never expected to write, having resolved only to trouble my friends with letters if something noteworthy were to occur here in Sitka (the Indian name with which we rechristened the town, since no one could pronounce that ludicrous name the Russians had foisted on it; there are no angels in this place, for certain). Well, something has happened: an unfortunate and curious circumstance.
Last evening, I had the ill luck to discover an officer of mine, Lieutenant Paul McKenzie, dead in his quarters. Damn good man, too; such a shame. We committed his body, today, and now it will fall to me to write Paul’s family and inform them of his death. This is a duty I do not relish at the best of times, but I find myself arrested by an even greater hesitancy in this case. It is the manner of his death, you see, that gives me pause.
Paul was murdered, stabbed in the back with his own sword. He cannot have done it himself, obviously, yet the guards swear that no one entered or left the castle all evening. I believe them, for I am scrupulous at monitoring my men when they are at their duties. Likewise, I can account for the whereabouts of everyone else in the castle (There were only a few). We are therefore looking at an impossibility, it would seem.
Whispered speculations have been circulating in the castle today regarding the involvement of the Blue Lady. I have put a decisive end to these. Of course I know the story. The outgoing Russian Governor, one Prince Dimitri, related the legend to me during the hullabaloo surrounding the transfer of Alaska to the United States. I will admit that Dimitri could spin quite a yarn; so much so, in fact, that there were occasions, early on, when I actually thought I glimpsed a flash of blue in the corner of my own eye, disappearing around a corner or down a staircase. Such illusions are easily dismissed by men of our intellect.