After a brief stint in Italy working under a master painter, Lawrence Stoner returns to America craving inspiration. Drawn to the wild coast of Maine, she takes up residence in a seaside hut, hoping to secure a commission from one of the wealthy summer elites.
Shortly after putting out an ad, Lawrence receives an invitation at Ashmore Hall. Despite the whispered warnings and ghost stories, Lawrence accepts and is immediately captivated by its enigmatic and beautiful mistress, Ophelia Aldane.
The number of dead continues to rise, but Lawrence finds herself hopelessly ensnared in Ophelia’s web of allure. As those closest to her begin to fall prey, Lawrence feels Death drawing nearer with every passing day. Lawrence must confront the darkness or risk being consumed as well.
Set amid the glittering excess of the Roaring Twenties, Ophelia is a gothic tale of desire, deadly beauty, and the price we pay for obsession.
After a brief stint in Italy working under a master painter, Lawrence Stoner returns to America craving inspiration. Drawn to the wild coast of Maine, she takes up residence in a seaside hut, hoping to secure a commission from one of the wealthy summer elites.
Shortly after putting out an ad, Lawrence receives an invitation at Ashmore Hall. Despite the whispered warnings and ghost stories, Lawrence accepts and is immediately captivated by its enigmatic and beautiful mistress, Ophelia Aldane.
The number of dead continues to rise, but Lawrence finds herself hopelessly ensnared in Ophelia’s web of allure. As those closest to her begin to fall prey, Lawrence feels Death drawing nearer with every passing day. Lawrence must confront the darkness or risk being consumed as well.
Set amid the glittering excess of the Roaring Twenties, Ophelia is a gothic tale of desire, deadly beauty, and the price we pay for obsession.
Lawrence let out a low groan and pushed herself up onto her elbows. She rubbed a hand over her bleary eyes as she looked out the single window to her humble hut. The sharp breeze carried in the slight tang of saltwater, and she heard the booming crash of waves against rocks. The familiar noise lulled her to sleep at night and woke her gently at dawn.
She quickly rose from bed, the beams creaking with every slight movement. She rifled through her single suitcase she had yet to fully unpack, and worked quickly to dress herself. Before she stepped out, Lawrence looked back at the single-roomed pine cabin and gave it a once-over.
Each corner was devoted to some purpose: there was a cot in one corner with a thin hay mattress, a potbelly stove and chair in the other, and a half sink and cracked mirror in the third. She gave it a satisfied nod and turned to leave, letting the thin panel doors shut behind her with a clack.
Lawrence’s seaside cabin stood at the bottom of a long trail that led up to a sharp drop-off known locally as Widow’s Weep. She wrapped her thin coat tight around her as her long, black skirts whipped around her legs. She hunkered down and fought against the wind as she began her trek up. The sun had yet to rise, so she made the hike up in the dark.
As she walked, Lawrence tilted her head up and saw the top of the cliff several miles ahead. Just a little bit off the steep drop-off stood an imposing red mansion shrouded in darkness and covered on nearly all sides with thick, dense trees. Another sharp wind smacked her across the side, so she bowed her head and continued on.
She reached the first landing point and stopped to rest on a boulder as the dark night gave way to the brilliant, soft morning. Lawrence didn’t even break a sweat; she had always had a strong constitution and was used to the exercise.
The sweet dew of rain on the pine needles and the salty tang of seaweed against the rocks filled her lungs with each deep breath. She looked out at the never-ending horizon of the sea, split only by a thin seam in the far, hazy distance. She raised her eyes to the east as the sun began to rise, ascending from the ocean’s horizon. Lawrence sat in silent vigil as the rest of Maine’s coast began to wake. After an hour or so, she rose from where she sat, brushed off her long skirts, and made the slow walk back down to her hut.
When her little hut came back into view, she smiled and shook her head.
“Hello, Stinky Boy,” she called out. “I know, I know. I’m late. Forgive me.”
The black cat that lingered in front of her home meowed loudly as it brushed up against the door to be let in. It let out another yowl when she took far too long to obey. Lawrence let out a sharp bark of laughter and picked up the pace the last few steps.
She opened the door a crack and the cat slipped in as if he owned the cabin. Lawrence followed after and immediately set to laying out a fresh bowl of water and leftovers for him to pick at. As he began to eat, Lawrence took a seat by the stove and tossed a few thin sticks of kindling into the opening.
“You know, I can barely afford to feed myself these days, much less your fat butt too.” Stinky Boy continued to eat, head lowered to the plate. Lawrence lit a match and tossed it into the oven. She then set a small kettle on top to make some coffee. “You might want to consider pulling your weight around here. It wouldn’t hurt for you to run a broom around the place when I’m out.”
Stinky Boy raised his head at that and looked decidedly unamused. He promptly went back to his food and Lawrence chuckled to herself. Once the kettle steamed, Lawrence poured herself a watery cup of coffee and stuck her feet towards the warmth of the fire.
“We haven’t been into town for a few days,” she mused aloud, raising the cup to her lips. The cat raised its head. “What do you think?”
Stinky Boy slowly blinked, as if she had truly lost her mind. Its tail flicked back and forth as it sauntered once around the length of the cabin and then slipped out without a look back. Lawrence nodded her head.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking too, Stinky Boy. Beautiful day.”
* * *
The small, waterfront town of Bar Harbor lay nestled within Frenchman’s bay and directly south of four narrow fingers of water that sliced into the land like a grasping hand.
The coast had once been untouched and wild, with all manner of beasts wandering around the shores and lurking within the treeline. Now, a main street had been paved through the center, cutting through the wilderness like a giant gash. Pounded gravel and brick beat the wilderness back until the place resembled something like civilization. The city lines were placed like tilled plots made for seeds to grow, and sure enough, the town sprung up on its edges. It would continue to be built upon, added to, changed, and reworked for as long as humanity had a role to play.
Even as she walked down the dirt road, Lawrence tried to imagine how it might be altered in the coming years. How the world itself would be different once she was long gone. It sent a sudden jolt of fear through her, but she brushed it aside and continued on.
The bustling, lively town was entirely different to the quiet fishing port Lawrence had arrived to a couple weeks prior. Flashy cars rumbled down the dirt roads with towering trunks of luggage piled high and lashed down to the back. Lawrence watched families greet each other as they strolled down the street. Their clothes were all too fine compared to the local’s, and Lawrence had no idea where they were coming from.
She entered the local post office and waved to the older man behind the counter. They shot her a smile and gestured her over.
“Morning, Ms. Stoner,” Jeffery called out as she approached the single counter. He shot her a wry smile and winked. “How’s the mansion with the ocean view?”
“It’s a bit of a trek from the ballroom to my bedroom on the top floor, but I suppose we all must make certain sacrifices, don’t we?” Lawrence smiled as she laid out her post card and a few cents for postage on the counter. Jeffery turned the card over and stamped it without a second glance.
“This one heading to Florence as well?” he asked. She nodded as a young boy appeared from the back room with a large stack of telegrams in hand. He ducked under the counter and put on his cap haphazardly. Jeffrey leaned around Lawrence to yell after him, pointing his pencil as he did. “Don’t forget to pick up the outgoing this time, boy!”
The boy called out his affirmation as he dashed out. Jeffrey placed Lawrence’s post card in the outgoing pile. He turned back to Lawrence with an exasperated sigh.
“We’ve been sending out runners at least five times a day. I might as well take that door down to save the hinges from wearing out.”
“Who are all those people out there? I thought I walked too far and ended up in the wrong town.” Jeffrey snorted in amusement as Lawrence nodded over her shoulder to the busy streets outside. “This is not the quaint, quiet fishing town I was promised, Jeffrey.”
“To be fair, it’s still quaint, isn’t it?” Jeffrey said with a tilt of his head. Lawrence raised a delicate brow and Jeffrey shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it’s the salmon run. You are witnessing the natural episode that occurs at the end of every spring here in Bar Harbor. The only thing that follows the thaw faster than the flowers are the rich folks coming back for the summer season.”
“No kidding,” murmured Lawrence, the gears suddenly turning in her head. “I got mansions all around me. I was starting to wonder who my neighbors were.”
“Oh yeah. Henry Ford’s son lives down in Seal Harbor. He’s known to come up once in awhile. I’d say we got about fifteen of the top twenty of the ‘Forbes Rich List’ walking around our streets. You want to make a change in Washington, you start at Bar Harbor.”
Lawrence inclined her head and chuckled silently. “That’s quite the little speech, Jeffrey. You should consider joining the tourist board.”
“Eh,” he shrugged, waving his hands. “My talents would be wasted on them. Besides, if I leave, this whole place will go up in smoke. Then how will the good people of Maine get their mail?”
“We shall have to give thanks to Providence every day for providing you to us,” she replied dryly with another soft chuckle. Lawrence nodded her head in goodbye and turned to go. She stopped at the door and turned back. “The newspaper office is on this street?”
“Oh yeah, next to the tailors.”
“Thank you Jeffrey,” she said, rushing out with renewed vigor.
* * *
The local paper’s headquarters sat wedged between the general store and tailor along the main street. Lawrence scrunched her nose at the stale, yellow air once she entered and spared only a passing glance around the tiny office. Boxes full of papers and files stood stacked up against the back wall as squirrel-y men sat typing at their desks. Their eyes seemed to collectively raise and follow Lawrence as she crossed through the room.
A man there, a young clerk named William, took Lawrence’s order for an ad and read it, glancing up at her occasionally until he was done. He smiled congenially and gestured with his pencil.
“You’re a painter, eh?”
“Yes,” replied Lawrence with a stiff nod. She shuffled in place, slightly uncomfortable under his assessing gaze.
“You don’t look like a painter,” he remarked offhandedly with another amused smile as he lowered his head to start filling out the paperwork.
Lawrence’s jaw clenched tightly as she shifted again on her feet, crossing her arms in front of her. He was neither cruel nor mocking in his tone, but his words stung regardless.
“What are painters supposed to look like then?”
“I dunno,” he said as he shrugged and licked at a stubby pencil, his eyes never raising from the work in front of him. If he noticed the sudden sharpness in her tone, he didn’t show it. “Just not you.”
She bristled again slightly at that and set her mouth into a thin line.
“I’ve been studying for over two years now, in Italy.”
William raised his head at that and his brow furrowed slightly.
“That’s in Europe, right?”
“Yes, it is,” she answered evenly.
“I don’t think I ever want to go over there.” He shook his head with a disturbed look in his eye. He paused for a moment before he continued to fill out the form. “My brother died over there. Somewhere in France, it’s called Saint-something. Saint Michel, I think. I don’t remember.”
“During the war?” she asked, suddenly subdued. He nodded his head with a neutral look on his face. She swallowed once and clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m, I’m sorry to hear that.”
William smiled again, his kind eyes shining as he shook his head.
“He went and died in the mud in some foreign country. Got himself shot. What a schmuck, right?” He chuckled lightly, but his eyes were pained. He cleared his throat and busied himself with the paperwork. Lawrence nodded in sympathy but said nothing.
“They told my ma he died like a hero, but I think we’d just prefer it if he was alive, ya know? I wouldn’t want to die like that,” he sighed. “I heard he gave those krauts a hell of a time, though; pardon the language.”
“I don’t blame you,” she murmured, giving him a reassuring smile. “There’s plenty of other places to go anyway, and much better ways to die.”
William nodded in agreement, the skin crinkling around his eyes as he chuckled. He turned his eyes back to the paper, reviewing it quickly. He looked back up to Lawrence with a thoughtful look.
“You know, you may have an easier time finding work if you drop your card off at some houses. These rich folks might not be in the habit of looking in the ads for painters. Then again,” he laughed, “What do I know about what rich folk do or don’t do?”
“That’s a bit forward, don’t you think?”
She bit the inside of her cheek as her gaze lingered to the window and the view out to the street just beyond. William shrugged, tapping the pencil against the desk.
“Maybe, but you never know.” He paused as he seemed to remember something. His expression immediately became serious, and he leaned forward. “If you do, though, I advise you stay away from Ashmore.”
“Ashmore? What’s that?” she asked, interested.
“It’s the big red house near Widow’s Weep. Maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s the main trail along the coast.”
He reached into his desk and pulled out a map, pointing out where it was. They both bent their heads to get a closer look. Lawrence studied it and confirmed it to be the same house she saw on her morning walks. A strange feeling sizzled up her spine, and she inhaled sharply as William continued.
“I figured it was mostly abandoned by now, but the lamps came back on recently. No one’s been able to talk about anything else for days. I’d just steer clear of it if I were you.”
“Why’s that?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.
“It’s haunted,” he stated, matter-of-fact and unblinking. Lawrence couldn’t help but laugh a little at his seriousness. “And cursed.”
“You’re joking,” she said as she huffed out another laugh. Uncertainty threaded through her as he continued to stare at her in complete sincerity. “You are joking, aren’t you?”
“Mostly everyone thinks so too. You see, it’s the three lamps outside the house. When they come on, bad things start happening.” He leaned forward slightly, as if letting her in on a secret. “You know the last time those lamps came on was sixty years ago? I think it was in the winter of 1868. Maybe ‘69, I’m not sure. Shortly after they came on, a plague went through this town and three others in the area. The state quarantined us; they closed the trains and wouldn’t let anyone leave. Almost a hundred people died before it just ended. Like that.” He snapped his fingers, leaning back in his chair. “The lamps turned off, and people stopped dying. Like I said, cursed.”
“Right,” Lawrence said slowly, leaning away from William. Whether or not she was entirely convinced was made more plain by her disbelieving tone. “That seems more like a coincidence than actual evidence.”
“Sure, but no one knows who the owners are either. They never come out.” He then smiled as he remembered something. “When we were younger, my brother and I would dare each other to get as close as we could before we got scared. We’d always end up running away. It was a lot of fun, actually.”
Lawrence grinned at William’s faraway look as he reminisced about his childhood. His lower lip jutted out a bit and she chuckled. When he looked back at her, his face flushed and he quickly averted his eyes.
“What about servants?” she asked.
William shook his head. “There’s this one old housekeeper who sometimes comes into town, but she’s kind of gone around the bend. She talks nonsense to herself and then goes right back up the hill to the house.”
“Well, I don’t really believe in ghosts,” she said with a little smirk. “Or curses, for that matter.”
He finished up the paperwork and ripped out a little pink slip, which he then handed to her as a sort of receipt.
“Nobody believes in the boogeyman, until they have a reason to.”
“Thank you,” she said as she took the receipt and tucked it into her pocket. She turned to go and was halfway out the front door when William came rushing after her.
“Hey!”
She turned just as he rushed to meet her, and he handed her the map from his drawer. She turned it over and saw he had marked the locations of houses with names. “What’s this?”
“Thought it might help you on your crusade to make a dime in this town.” He gestured to the houses and a few of the scribbled names. “These are the owners of the houses, and I put the butlers’ names too, if I know them. Tell them William Ross sent you.”
“Wow,” she said, touched by the gesture. She met his eyes and nodded her head. “Thank you, William. Really.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said, another flush creeping up his neck. “Your ad will be out in the next paper. Editions come out on Sundays. Welcome to Bar Harbor.”
* * *
Lawrence took a slow stroll out of town and went down the main road in the opposite direction of her hut. The division between the estates and village was a stark one. The simple buildings and plain homes closer to the bay gave way to the wide estates and towering mansions that sat further apart the longer she continued on.
Grand homes occupied the land along the water’s edge, carved out and claimed like pieces of pie. The newer ones closer to town were all whitewashed manors with long, sweeping driveways and well-trimmed lawns that stuck out against the natural dark foliage of the surrounding forest and land. The older estates closer to Widow’s Weep were a bit older in style, but no less impressive; however, they seemed perfectly content in that, and showed no interest in competing with their newer, more ostentatious neighbors.
Lawrence idly wondered why anyone bothered moving out into nature if they insisted on defying it at every turn. Those sorts of people saw the wilderness as something to be tamed, and it was hideous. Nevertheless, she kept her opinions to herself and hummed to herself as she trod along.
“Hello, good afternoon,” she said to the housekeepers and butlers who answered the door. They all answered with a suspicious look and before they could tell her off, she handed over her flimsy card and lowered her eyes in deference. “My name is Lawrence Stoner, and I’m an accomplished portraitist. William Ross referred me?” At the mention of his name, some eyes brightened and hostilities were tempered. “I’ve just returned from Florence where I studied under an Italian painting master. Perhaps you’ve heard of Roberto De Luca? No? Oh, well he’s quite a famous sculptor and painter. Anyways, if your masters have any interest in securing a formal portrait, I’d be honored to submit my name for consideration. Thank you very much. Have a good day.”
She made a point not to linger, and quickly moved on. She traveled from house to house without rest, and by the time she reached the end of the very long line of estates, a thin sheen of sweat covered her brow and her shoulders heaved as she stopped to catch her breath.
Lawrence studied the map during her short rest and turned her eyes up to the final home at the top of the hill.
“Silly,” she murmured to herself as her feet automatically moved forward towards Ashmore. She had never before trekked to the highest point of Widow’s Weep, and as she did so then, she felt it appropriately named. All that separated the top from the over two hundred-foot drop into the gulf was a steep cliff-side.
Ashmore stood in stark contrast to the other homes along the lane, new or old. The red-brick Georgian seemed almost modest in comparison, concealing itself within the trees around it. A thick forest of spruces and firs surrounded the perimeter and discouraged visitors of every kind. Off to the western side, Lawrence caught sight of a short trail that no doubt led to somewhere more intriguing.
She strode up the rocky path and straight up to the dark oak door. As she crossed the porch, she took a passing notice of the three lanterns out front that were indeed lit, flickering even in the bright afternoon day. She knocked sharply three times and waited.
The door opened a sliver and an old woman answered. She kept her silver hair in a tight, clean bun and her black dress was hard-pressed, crisp, and terribly old-fashioned. Her eyes were the most prominent feature on her face, as they were large, wide, and cloudy. She stared directly at Lawrence with a hard frown and waited for her to speak first.
“Hello, good afternoon. My name is-” Lawrence began her speech in the most deferential tone she could muster.
“Go away,” the lady whispered. Her voice cracked before she cleared it, coughing lightly.
“I beg your pardon?”
Lawrence leaned in a bit to hear her better. She forgot her prepared speech at the unexpected interruption. The housekeeper’s head trembled as she tilted her head forward.
“Leave! We don’t want anything you’re selling. Go,” she repeated in a hushed, urgent tone.
“Well, I’m not selling anything ma’am. Not exactly. My name is Lawrence Stoner. Friends call me LJ. I’m quite an accomplished portraitist. I’ve just come back from rigorous study in Florence. If your masters would be interested in securing-”
“Aldane,” the housekeeper whispered, interrupting Lawrence once again. “My lady’s name is Aldane.”
“Aldane?” Lawrence repeated. “Alright, well, if Mr. or Mrs. Aldane would be interested-”
“Oh no,” said the woman immediately. “No man. No master.”
The housekeeper shook her head at the mere implication. Despite her age, the woman’s voice was strong and clear, like the deep-ringing gong of a bell. The old woman had a habit of tilting her head slightly sideways, which gave her an air of constant curiosity.
“How very modern,” smiled Lawrence. “And you are?”
“I am Ms. Hettle, the housekeeper,” answered the lady after a moment of hesitation.
Despite what the young man at the newspaper office had said, Ms. Hettle seemed quite alert. Even at first impressions, she was not at all how he described. Although her attitude was restrained, Ms. Hettle was not unfriendly. If anything, she seemed afraid. Though, Lawrence couldn’t understand what she could possibly be afraid of.
“Oh, I see,” breathed out Lawrence with a smile. She held her hands behind her back as she shifted her weight back and forth. “Well, it certainly is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Hettle. William Ross referred me.”
At the mention of his name, Ms. Hettle neither stirred nor seemed to recognize who that was.
“Um, would it be possible then to leave my card for your lady? Otherwise, I’d be more than happy to come back at their earliest convenience. I can bring some of my work. I live just down the trail.”
Ms. Hettle listened quietly, wringing her hands and worrying her lip. Once Lawrence was done, she opened her mouth to speak, but then stopped short. She shot a nervous look back over her shoulder into the dark house, as if something were coming. She turned back to Lawrence, this time with a frantic, desperate look across her face.
“Please,” she said, in a low and fervent voice. “You should go! Go far away.”
“Sorry?” said Lawrence, taken aback by the sudden fear and urgency that gripped the older housekeeper. “What’s the matter?”
“You don’t want to leave your card here,” warned Ms. Hettle. She shook her head again and gestured for Lawrence to turn back from where she came. “Go. Go!”
Lawrence remained stunned for a moment before she suddenly erupted into laughter and reached into her pocket.
“Oh, but I do!”
She held out the card with her information towards Ms. Hettle and placed it gently into her hand. The housekeeper reared back at the sudden contact and pushed Lawrence’s hand away. She opened her mouth to convince her once more, but stopped.
As if someone had called for her, Ms. Hettle inclined her head slightly and looked back into the dark house, listening. She whimpered lowly and ducked her head down. Out of curiosity, Lawrence tried to look past Ms. Hettle’s shoulder, but neither heard nor saw anything from within the darkness. Ms. Hettle turned back to Lawrence with a strange expression.
“Wait just a moment.”
Before Lawrence could answer, Ms. Hettle quickly shut the door. She lingered on the porch for a few moments, waiting patiently, when something caught her eye.
Beyond the immediate trees around the main drive lay the short trail she had spotted earlier. It led to a hidden grove that covered a private pond and garden. The garden, despite being slightly overgrown and untamed, was otherwise magnificent. Nature was given free rein to run its course, and it stood out in sharp contrast to the well-trimmed bushes and manicured lawns of the other estates.
The pond housed a large, green gazebo with Italian columns and metal ivy and flower filigree. Marble statues of gods and tragic figures of myth all dotted the garden, their faces frozen in varying expressions of delight and sorrow, rage and horror. Each was so different in style and aesthetic to the other that it seemed certain their acquirer had traveled far and wide in their collection.
Lawrence went no further and stood in the center of the grove. She admired the dozens of camellia trees and each of its hundreds of blossoming flowers. She gazed at the flowering buds in wonder and touched the soft pink and white petals. Their delicate, sweet fragrance perfumed the salty breeze and was made all the sweeter by the slight dew leftover from the previous night that settled on their petals and leaves. It was a wonder that something as fragile as camellias could grow in an area that seemed suited only for the sturdier evergreens and pine trees that otherwise covered the rest of the state.
“Miss?” A voice called out from behind her.
Lawrence quickly turned and saw Ms. Hettle scurrying up towards her, pushing down her black skirts as they got kicked up by the wind. Her back remained slightly hunched as she walked, but she was sure-footed wherever she stepped.
“Over here, Ms. Hettle!” Lawrence called out, waving before she remembered it to be an unnecessary gesture. Ms. Hettle redirected and stopped a few feet off to catch her breath, patting her cheeks as she suddenly grew hot.
“You mustn’t wander off!” She exclaimed between pants of breath.
“I am terribly sorry,” Lawrence said, sincerely apologetic. She turned and gestured to the lane. “I was waiting and saw these lovely trees. I couldn’t help myself. The garden is absolutely beautiful!”
“Yes, from what I remember, it was quite lovely,” Ms. Hettle murmured as she folded her hands primly before herself.
“Have you been here that long, Ms. Hettle?” Lawrence asked.
“Since I was about fifteen, miss.”
“My, you must know this place like the back of your hand then.”
“Yes,” she said, stilted and restrained as ever. There was something quite charming about the older woman, and Lawrence could only smile, amused. She turned her head back to the flowers to admire them for a moment longer.
“I really love camellias, so this is a wonderful surprise,” Lawrence said after a few moments of passing silence between the two of them. “I adore them, but they’re not really native to America. You can imagine my delight at seeing them here, so well taken care of.”
The older lady’s brows knit together, but she remained silent.
“There’s a lovely little story I once heard about camellias that made me mad about them. Would you like to hear it? Well, I suppose it’s actually quite sad. Anyway, there was a god named Te who fell in love with a mortal woman named Hemera. Te fell in love with Hemera after he saw her sleeping under a great oak tree. As she slept, he gifted her with hundreds of white camellias as a sign of his love. One day, Te left Hemera but promised to return soon. He did not understand, though, how fragile and brief human lives were, or are, I suppose. When he returned a hundred years later, oblivious and blissfully happy to return to his lover, he was shocked. Although he had not aged a day, his love had long passed on to the other side of the Great River. Out of grief and despair over his lost love, Te lay on the bank of the Great River and vowed never to rise from it again. As a god and an immortal, Te would never cross it the way his love had, so he simply lay at the edge, as close as he could get to her. From his body, a great tree of red camellias bloomed.”
Lawrence paused as she thought back on the tragic story. She turned back again to Ms. Hettle, who remained silent.
“Sometimes I think about that. I mean, if the story is to be believed, he’s still waiting for her, lying on the bank of that river. Quite sad, but lovely, isn’t it?”
“Yes, miss,” the housekeeper responded dutifully. It was clear that she was only engaging with her as much as was absolutely necessary. Lawrence chuckled again, not offended in the slightest. Ms. Hettle then stepped forward with her hand out. It had a slight tremor as she extended it, as if she had no wish to do so.
“I’ll take your card, miss.”
“Oh, is Mrs. Aldanes at home then?” Lawrence asked, intrigued.
“No,” replied Ms. Hettle immediately. “No one’s home. I’ll take it.”
“Oh, of course.”
Lawrence handed over the card, which was then pocketed immediately. Ms. Hettle folded her hands in front of her again and bowed politely.
“Have a nice day.”
She turned away and rushed back into the house, almost as if she were fleeing. Lawrence watched her retreating figure disappear into the dark entrance, and as her eyes rose to the great house, her gaze caught on the window in the east tower. She squinted, holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the bright glare of the sun. There, she saw a figure in the window.
Some dark, unmoving shadow stood a few feet from the glass. Although far away, Lawrence felt positive that whatever it was looked right at her. Her skin went numb, and the hairs on her neck rose. A strange sensation went through her like needles skittering across her skin that set her on edge.
She reasoned in her mind that it was not just her imagination. She fought for logic to win out over the irrational whisper of fear that overwhelmed all those clear thoughts. There are no such things as ghosts. When she looked closer, there was no questioning that it was a real person. Lawrence smiled in relief and waved. The figure continued to stand and stare, shifting slightly further back into the darkness. Something in Lawrence’s gut twisted, and her hand froze mid-wave.
There was a loud pop, and Lawrence ducked down out of instinct. Down the road that had brought Lawrence up to Ashmore, a sleek, white car throttled noisily as it raced up. It sped up the path, kicking up the dirt into a large cloud that billowed out behind like a cape. It turned sharply and skidded up the drive on the estate closest to Ashmore. The engine let out another loud bang. The trio of young people in the car laughed loudly, singing at the top of their lungs. Lawrence felt a twinge of envy as she watched them go by, jealous of the company and the good time they were having.
Once they were out of sight, Lawrence turned back to the tower. The figure from the window had disappeared. Only the curtain swayed slightly in place.
For a brief moment, Lawrence wondered if she had truly seen what she thought she had. She chose not to linger on the property for too long and turned back to walk home before the sunset beat her to it.
* * *
The summer nights on the coast remained unforgivably cold and every slice of wind managed to find its way through the slats of Lawrence’s cabin. She lay dozing on the lumpy mattress of her cot, huddled under the thin, wool blanket in an effort to create a concentrated sphere of heat. Every so often, the firewood in her stove popped and it lulled Lawrence into the warm embrace of sleep.
For an hour or so, there was an undisturbed peace. First, the cot and wood ceased creaking, and silence descended. As if doused in water, the oven’s fire extinguished and threw the cabin into absolute darkness. The door to the cabin shook slightly, as if someone were pressing on it from the other side. The handle began to jiggle and then went slack.
The door first pushed open slightly and stood ajar for a moment before it swung wide open without a noise. A gathered darkness outside the door moved through the room easily, floating towards Lawrence with intent. It lingered by her bedside for a moment as if looking down and assessing her.
A slender hand with sharp nails reached out towards Lawrence’s covered figure and pulled back the blanket to expose her sleeping profile. It paused for a moment before it lay a hand across her brow. The fingers traced along the soft outline of Lawrence’s face to her jaw and continued down further to the valley of exposed skin at the hollow her neck. It pushed down her nightshirt and tilted her face so the moonlight illuminated her more clearly.
“Is it you,” the low voice murmured. “Have I found you at last?”
The creature shrouded in darkness brought its head down to Lawrence’s. The hands caressed Lawrence gently and its lips placed soft kisses across her face and down her neck. When it reached the top of her left breast, it bared its teeth and bit down.
Lawrence awoke with a start with a pounding headache and the bright sunlight in her eyes. She immediately grabbed her chest and felt a sharp pain as she clutched at it. The pain quickly subsided to a dull throb that matched the slow beat of her heart. She rose from the bed on shaky legs and staggered over to her cracked mirror. She looked down at her exposed chest through the clouded reflection.
On her left breast, four small stinging marks lay across the top where blood had dried and crusted over. A thin line of dark crimson ran down to her belly. Her heart raced as she quickly wet a rag and cleaned herself with shaky hands. She concluded it to only be a spider bite. Once she was clean, she drank enough water and chewed on an old crust of bread until the nausea and lightheadedness subsided. She chose not to go on her walk for the morning, and returned directly to bed.
“That silly clerk’s stories got to me it seems,” she murmured under her breath as she pulled the blankets tight around herself. “No such things as ghosts, Lawrence Stoner.”
She continued to repeat it to herself like a prayer until she believed it.
Our main female character, chatty and introspective artist Lawrence (LJ) Stoner, might do well to listen when warned to stay away from dark entities in Bar Harbour. Even a local, stray cat warns her.
She not only dares to approach a house she’s been warned to avoid but accepts a dinner invitation there. She waves off friendly warnings about the house as superstitious or silly, and I question her narrative reliability, her sanity, and even her culpability.
As the story unravels, evidence of LJ's complicity in local murders piles up. She admits to taking off on an Italian escapade after her parents’ sudden death, ignores warnings and make hasty decisions, and those she’s connected with tend to die. LJ’s lackadaisical acceptance of Ophelia’s firm and unreasonable terms for her portraiture is mind-boggling. Who is LJ, and why can’t she seem to see her missteps? Is she playing the innocent?
The stark contrast of LJ’s tumultuous relationship with Ophelia stings when set against LJ’s new friendships with the wealthy and amusingly frivolous trio of Augusta, Patrick, and Edwin. Ophelia’s estate, Ashmore Hill, and the trio’s home, Canary Green, create the ideal moody, Roaring Twenties mixed with Gothic settings, one lively and the other reeking of death and darkness.
To break up the tension, Ophelia’s humorous bits are flawlessly placed between eerie descriptions and disturbing scenes. Philosophical reflection in conversations add a deep layer of meaning and thoughtfulness. Moments in the hidden garden and the strange nightly sounds of Ashmore remind me of The Secret Garden, while a costume party at Canary Green is an opulent highlight of the novel, reading as a nod to The Great Gatsby’s house full of rich pals.
Namkoong’s detailed characters are compelling, especially the not-always-self-aware Edwin, Patrick, and Augusta's with their big hearts and open hands. They openly invite LJ into their lives, only to have her return the favour by unwittingly bringing death and danger to their home. Even in the face of horrific supernatural events, LJ's friends bring a certain life to the bleak theme of death and murder. Without them, the story would evoke an entirely different impression.
Ophelia is an original and clever vampire mystery dotted with weird and eerie events. Death is treated as tragedy rather than romanticized, but at the same time, vampires are viewed with a sense of fascination and an air of mystique.