ONE NIGHT UNTIL PHANTASMA
There was an incessant pounding on the front door.
Ophelia pried her eyes open at the noise. She reluctantly peeled herself out of her bed, fumbling around her room to pull on something decent before heading downstairs to see what all the racket was about.
Genevieve was poking her own head out of her doorway, eyes filled with rage at the untimely disturbance. By the puffiness beneath her sister’s eyes, Ophelia concluded that neither of them had gotten much sleep the night before. Ophelia had lain awake well into the witching hours—the time between midnight and four in the morning when the veil between the mortal world and the Other Side was the thinnest—after returning from their hasty carriage ride, unable to stop thinking about her future, her magic, the strangeness of her locket pulsing around her throat…
Now, Ophelia rubbed at her eyes as she yanked open the front door, blinking rapidly against the morning sunlight that flooded through the entryway. When the spots finally cleared from her vision, she found two men standing on the manor’s front porch, neither of whom she recognized, looking as if they’d rather be anywhere besides Grimm Manor at this early hour. Incidentally, she also wished they were anywhere besides her front porch.
“Ophelia Grimm?” the first man questioned.
He was an older, stocky gentleman with a thick, salt-and-pepper mustache that was ever so slightly crooked. His colleague was quite a bit younger, and leaner, his hair and beard a bright red color that contrasted greatly with his dull, gray, three-piece suit. Both of them were eyeing the unruly red roses that drooped from the porch beams as if they were knives and not flowers. Ophelia assumed it was odd for them to see roses growing in such a manner and place, but the roses were her mother’s favorite way of keeping unwanted Apparitions out of the house and summoned Apparitions within. They had bushes and bushes of them bordering Grimm Manor’s exterior, crawling up the latticework on the house’s façade, as well as lining the front fence and gates.
Souls that are dead cannot cross roses of red, her mother had always chanted.
“Can I help you?” Ophelia asked, not unkindly, but in a way that indicated this wasn’t necessarily a convenient time. Genevieve came to stand behind her, glaring at the men over Ophelia’s shoulder.
“Who in the unholy fuck is knocking on peoples’ doors this early in the morning? Our mother is no longer here to take appointments. If you have a dead relative, you’re just going to have to suffer like the rest of us!” Genevieve huffed, and Ophelia had to press her lips together to keep from laughing. The men weren’t as amused.
“Excuse the unscheduled house call. My name is Mr. Mouton, and this is Mr. Lafitte,” the mustached man said. “We’re from New Orleans City Bank. May we come in?”
“What for?” Genevieve snapped.
“There is some business with your, ah, mother. We were notified she recently… passed. Our condolences.”
Genevieve narrowed her eyes. “Business?”
“Necromancy business, you mean?” Ophelia clarified.
“No.” Mr. Mouton shook his head. “It’s about the financial state of Grimm Manor.”
“What are you talking about? The manor has been in our family for almost a century.”
“Unfortunately, your mother seems to have taken out some loans and—”
“If you want to go back to sleep, Ophie, I can deal with this,” Genevieve offered as she shouldered her way in front of her sister. “No need for both of us to have a migraine this morning.”
Genevieve’s words were nonchalant enough, but something about the tension in her sister’s shoulders made Ophelia narrow her eyes.
Before she could decline Genevieve’s offer, however, the red-haired man blurted, “This place isn’t haunted, is it?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mr. Lafitte,” Mr. Mouton admonished before turning back to the girls. “I apologize, he isn’t from here. He’s unaware of the certain kinds of… beings… we have here in our little community.”
“I thought you were joking about the Necromancy thing,” Mr. Lafitte retorted, appalled.
“As I was saying,” Mr. Mouton went on. “Your mother’s debts. There are a few documents we need you to come in and sign and a few other things we should discuss. Would you be willing to come into town with us?”
“I’ll go,” Genevieve offered once again.
“Do you have any identification, Mr. Mouton?” Ophelia chimed before Genevieve could take a step over the threshold. “How should we know you aren’t trying to kidnap us?”
The man scoffed at that as he shoved a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a card. It had the official seal of New Orleans City Bank embossed in the linen paper, his name written below.
“See, Ophie? It’s fine,” Genevieve pointed out. “Go back to bed. I’ll—”
“Unfortunately,” Mr. Mouton interrupted, “since you both are equal shareholders in this estate, I’ll need you both to come down with me.”
Genevieve’s jaw clenched a bit, but she nodded. “Give us a minute to lock up, then.”
“As if anyone would break in here,” Mr. Lafitte muttered at the same time that Mr. Mouton stated, “There’s a car out front of the gates. We’ll wait.”
Ophelia retreated back inside to grab the key off the entryway table. A sinking feeling roiled in her stomach over what the man had said and Genevieve’s odd behavior. There shouldn’t have been anything wrong with Grimm Manor’s finances. Their inheritance should have been enough to buy three estates if they wanted.
Ophelia took a deep breath and tapped the key in her hand three times before sliding it into the pocket of her black pinstriped skirts. She picked up the black velvet ribbon that she had left on the entryway table as well, slipping it into her soft curls and tying a bow at the top of her head, before scooping a few of the coins that had been sitting beside it into another pocket—just in case.
Once the house was locked up, the two of them started up the long driveway, toward the motorcar stalled past the gates. The noisy automobile was emitting a foul odor of smoke, and Ophelia made a face as she pulled her gloves from her pocket and slipped them over her hands. Mr. Lafitte stepped out of the passenger side, watching them approach with a skeptical expression as he pulled a metal lever behind the seat and folded it forward, gesturing for the two girls to climb into the back. Before they could squeeze themselves in, however, the rolling clacks of a horse and carriage sounded in the distance, making all of them turn as the vehicle approached.
“What now?” Ophelia muttered.
A woman, middle-aged, with dull brown hair, leaned out the carriage window. “Hello… I have an appointment. At eight o’clock—with Tessie Grimm. This is her residence, correct?”
Genevieve looked the woman square in the eye. “She’s dead.”
Ophelia made a disapproving noise as her sister turned back to the hand Mr. Lafitte was reluctantly offering and climbed into the motorcar.
Ophelia turned back to the woman. “I apologize, but all appointments are canceled. We just haven’t gotten around to calling everyone yet.”
The woman was gaping in shock, a hand fluttering to her chest with pity. “I’m so sorry to hear that, I had just spoken to her the other day—”
“So did we,” Genevieve shouted from the car.
“You’ll have to excuse my sister.” Ophelia pinched her nose before waving the woman off and turning to stuff herself in the back seat next to Genevieve. When they were both fully situated, Mr. Lafitte lifted his seat back up and ducked inside, slamming the door shut.
“Must you be so brazen with people?” Ophelia whispered.
Genevieve rolled her eyes and sank back into the cushioned seat.
“The seats are comfortable, aren’t they?” Mr. Mouton asked rhetorically as he shifted the stick between him and Mr. Lafitte forward. “It’s the latest model.”
Neither girl bothered with an answer as they neatly folded their hands in their laps and looked out their respective windows, watching as Grimm Manor faded from view behind them. The men carried on a conversation about cars for the next ten minutes, possibly the dullest conversation Ophelia had ever heard in her life, before they both became suddenly quiet.
“It’s true, then.” Mr. Mouton’s voice was low as the two men gaped out the driver’s side window.
Mr. Lafitte shuddered. “I told you. I heard it just… appeared.”
Ophelia slid across the back seat of the car, pressing herself against Genevieve’s warm side so she could peer outside. The locket around her throat immediately began to pulse, but all she could see out of the small window was a crowd of people. Genevieve looked back at her and shrugged.
“I always thought people were mad to believe those rumors,” Mr. Mouton said. “The fools who enter those gates deserve everything they get.”
Ophelia rested her head against the window, the glass sticky from the morning humidity, and tuned out their voices. She was so tired. And, worse, she was worried. She couldn’t imagine what might be so wrong with her mother’s finances that the bank would send someone to their house. Her mother had always implied their estate had long been paid off, their only expenses upkeep on the grounds and what it cost for them to live day to day. That didn’t mean money hadn’t been tight at times, of course. They still relied heavily on their mother’s business and the regular income the people of New Orleans brought to their front door.
For a moment, she wondered if there was some sort of inheritance tax they needed to pay. If they’d have to begin hocking their valuables in order to transfer the estate into their names. Aside from a few pieces of jewelry and some of the antiques her mother collected, Ophelia couldn’t think of anything inside Grimm Manor worth selling. The most valuable thing she owned was hanging around her neck.
As if it knew where her thoughts had turned, the locket began to pulse again. The golden bauble had been in her family for generations, enchanted with a powerful magic that bound it to its wearer. Her mother had always claimed it guided her through her toughest times and that one day it would guide Ophelia.
Ophelia looked down at the necklace, rubbing her thumb over the embossed, damask pattern of its outer shell, the crimson jewel nestled into the center on the front. She flipped it over and read the familiar words etched into the back: Follow your heart.
She almost snorted. A clichéd sentiment that was much easier said than done. Sliding a fingernail into the locket’s clasp, she tried to pop it open. It wouldn’t budge. Her mother hadn’t been lying all those times Ophelia had asked to see what was inside.
“You’re fidgeting,” Genevieve murmured next to her, picking absentmindedly at her perfectly manicured nails.
Ophelia glanced at her sister. “I’m nervous. Aren’t you?”
Genevieve dropped her hands back in her lap and turned to look out her window, hiding her expression from Ophelia. “Everything will be fine.”
Ophelia narrowed her eyes. “Is there something you know?”
Before Genevieve could answer, the car lurched to the right, sending Ophelia sliding into Genevieve’s side.
“Here we are,” Mr. Mouton announced. “New Orleans City Bank.”
