Doppelgänger Read online

  “Too many coaches,” grumbled the driver. “Every rich person in New York picked today to visit the park.”

  Muttering something in Swedish under her breath, Anine snatched up her parasol and began opening the carriage door. “This is preposterous. Come, Clea, let’s walk. Driver, return to the park entrance and wait and then you can take us back.”

  She and Clea strolled along the edge of one of the park’s serene lakes. Its surface was eerily still, almost glassy, reflecting the trees at its far end in perfect mirror image. Down here by the path the ruckus of the carriages and the horses was much less audible. Being in the sunlight was almost thrilling; Anine had become so used to the gloomy dimness of the house.

  As they began walking a thought burgeoned in Anine’s mind. “You said the doppelgänger was angry. But it doesn’t seem angry with you. You saw it that one time, but it hasn’t…done things to you the way it has to Julian and me. It doesn’t seem to hate you. It seems to ignore you.”

  “Yes, that’s right, I guess. I don’t think the ghost cares too much about me one way or the other.”

  “And clearly Mrs. Hennessey and Mr. Shoop haven’t seen it, or if they have, we don’t know anything about it.”

  “No, I don’t think they’ve seen anything.”

  “So the spöke—I mean the doppelgänger—seems indifferent to the servants. Why do you think that is?”

  Clea shrugged. “Seems to me there’d be servants in the house whether you and Mr. Julian was there or not. There doesn’t seem much point in being mad at them.”

  “Yet the doppelgänger tormented Mr. Bradbury. He was a servant.”

  “It might’ve did that to frighten you and Mr. Julian.”

  Anine sighed. “Well, if that was its intention, it did a wonderful job.” She squinted at the sun. “If the doppelgänger cares nothing about you or Mrs. Hennessey or Mr. Shoop, that suggests that it hates us—Julian and myself—specifically. I wonder, would it hate anyone who lived in the house? Or is it something unique to us?”

  “I could see it hating Mr. Julian for what he done. But maybe it’s wrong about you. If it knows you don’t stand with Mr. Julian—if it knows you want to give the house back to Mrs. Quain—maybe it would treat you different.”

  “That suggests that it’s rational. Do you suppose it is?” Anine was suddenly struck by the absurdity of the situation and she laughed. “Look at us, debating whether ghosts are rational.”

  “I don’t know, Miss Anine. I don’t know that anyone could ever know something like that.”

  A very good point. They said little else; after a long time they turned and went back up the path toward the main entrance of the park on 57th Street.

  When they got to the carriage the driver looked curiously vexed. He had a piece of paper in his hand. After he opened the door for Anine and Clea he paused, peering at Anine through the carriage door. “While you were waiting, ma’am,” he said, “a lady came up and gave me this to give to you.” He handed the paper through the window and quickly averted his eyes.

  “A lady? What lady?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. She didn’t tell me her name.”

  Anine glanced down at the slip of paper. A message had been scrawled upon it in pencil:

  It is so improper for you to show your face in the Park

  at mid-day with your colored maid!

  And then you dare to walk with her on a path for white people!

  I don’t know what you do back in your savage country

  but this is New York! Act accordingly!

  Furious, Anine immediately crumpled up the paper and threw it out the window of the carriage. “The women of New York are no longer even trying to conceal their contempt for me,” she grunted. “Next time the note will probably be signed.”

  Clea hadn’t seen what was written on the paper but she quickly guessed the sort of thing it was. “Don’t listen to them. You a better lady than them any day.”

  “Tell my husband that.” Anine leaned forward and rapped the front of the carriage. “Driver, take us home, please.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Séance

  Several days later over dinner Julian broke the long awkward silence at the table by announcing: “I had a letter from Dr. Dorr today, a reply to my letter to him. He said he could be here Friday evening. It must be done at night, he says. And we must both be present.”

  “What must be done at night?”

  “The séance.”

  Anine was not familiar with this word. “What is that?”

  “An attempt to speak with the spirits of the dead.”

  This was a non-sequitur. “But if he’s right, the spirit here is not dead.”

  “Well—you know what I mean.”

  With her knife and fork she cut a small piece from her pheasant. “We must make peace with it. Get it to leave us alone.”

  “We don’t even know what it is yet. That’s the purpose of the séance—to confirm or deny the doctor’s hypothesis.”

  “But if he is right—if it is Mrs. Quain—we must come to some sort of arrangement with her. Calm her anger.”

  Julian, who had finished eating, reached for his wine glass. After a long sip he said, “If it is Mrs. Quain, it’s clear she wants us out of the house. We must convince her that that’s not going to happen. We must force her to accept her situation. That’s the only communication there is to be done.”

  Anine thought he was saying this as a warning. He’s warning me not to talk of returning the house to her. At first she marveled at his intransigence, his continued brutishness; then she realized how silly was the notion that one might negotiate a real estate transaction with a disembodied spirit. And if Mrs. Minthorn’s note was any indication, that avenue is cut off for us anyway, she realized dejectedly. So what is there to say to the doppelgänger? “I’m sorry?” It would be wonderful if Julian said that, but Anine held out no hope of it, and it seemed starry-eyed to think that the whole manifestation could be ended with nothing more than a simple apology. Thus the séance would probably be pointless. Even if it did confirm that the spöke was Mrs. Quain Julian would take it as an opportunity only to bully her more. The notion of changing their situation—or his mind—never seemed to occur to him.

  They finished dinner in silence.

  The timing of Dorr’s intercession demonstrated to Anine that Julian was perhaps more desperate to resolve the situation in the house than he let on. The Presidential campaign was now in its final weeks and the Friday night that Dorr chose for the séance happened to coincide with a major political meeting at Tammany Hall of General Hancock’s supporters, but Julian spoke not a word of regret at missing it. It was telling that he prioritized the séance over political business. Beyond the vision of the man from the West that he’d confessed to Dorr, Anine had no idea what else Julian might have seen, but she got the impression that whatever it was deeply terrified and disturbed him. Advised by Dorr that no one else should be in the house at the time of the séance, Julian gave Mrs. Hennessey, Bryan Shoop and Miss Wicks the night off with pay. Anine had told Clea that the séance was happening but she advised her not to speak of it to anyone else.

  The weather on the appointed evening was disagreeable. A cold wind blew and gray rain beat down in torrents. Thus the house was gloomier than usual when the knock came at the door. Anine opened it and Dorr strode in, shaking rain off his tall black top hat; his tiny glasses were clouded with raindrops. “The weather tonight sets quite an appropriate tone, doesn’t it?” he said with a smile. “Perhaps our spirit will be in the proper mood to speak to us.”

  This is an academic exercise for him, isn’t it? she thought as she took his hat and cape. He doesn’t understand—our lives, our happiness are at stake. If he fails here tonight nothing happens to him. But the hell will continue for us, and we’ll have one less option to de
al with it.

  They established the Red Parlor as the place for the séance but Dorr took a slow and careful tour of the house before they began. If there was a physical locus to the manifestations Anine had thought that the place on the third floor balustrade where Bradbury tied the rope was certainly it, for that was where she consistently felt the most uncomfortable. Dorr didn’t seem interested in it. He wanted to see Miss Wicks’s room in the garret where Mrs. O’Haney died and the bedroom—which Julian and Anine didn’t use—where Bradbury saw the child’s toys. With a stub of pencil Dorr made notes in a small leather-bound notebook.

  “Did either of you happen to notice the centrality of music in the manifestations of the child that Bradbury reported in his diary?” said the doctor as he stood at the entrance to the now-empty bedroom. “If I’m correct this room belonged to Percy Quain as a child. I made some inquiries. Do you know how Percy Quain makes his living today?”

  “He’s a musician,” replied Anine.

  “Yes, a concert pianist. He attended a prestigious conservatory in Europe and is known as a prodigy. If he was brought up with music from birth, as many prodigies are, what sort of toys do you think his parents would have provided him to stoke his talent?”

  Julian understood. “Musical instruments.”

  “Yes. Like a little silver trumpet—or a child-sized harpsichord.” With satisfaction that bordered on smugness Dorr snapped shut his little book. “There may be some theoretical doubt about whether Mrs. Quain is still alive, but there’s certainly none regarding Percy. There was a notice in the Times this very morning about a recital he’s to play next week. It strains credulity to believe that there might have been two musically-inclined children who lived in this house, one who died and whose spirit haunted Mr. Bradbury and one who lived and is playing Chopin to the Society of Music next week. When I noticed this I became even more convinced that we are dealing with a doppelgänger that can change its form.”

  Dorr’s requirements for the Red Parlor were quite simple. He requested that a chaise longue be placed in the center of the room, that the gas lights be out and that a single thick candle be placed near him in a dish on the floor. He also made a point of visiting the water closet before they began. As he sat on the chaise longue and began to untie his shoes, looking for all the world like he was about to retire to bed, Anine was a bit taken aback. “Doctor, do you wish us to…undress?”

  Dorr laughed. “Oh, no, ma’am. You and Mr. Atherton should remain fully clothed. I, however, find that spiritual communication is somewhat awkward in full dress. My method is to channel the spirit who will speak through me. If it’s a violent spirit I’ve been known to thrash about. It’s not common, but it has happened. In one encounter with an especially angry apparition I tore my clothes very badly. Not to alarm you—I don’t expect a violent manifestation in this case.”

  That’s not very reassuring, Anine thought as she tried not to watch Dorr remove his trousers.

  He stripped down to a pair of plain wool knickers. Taking off his tiny glasses and folding them, he handed them to Julian to set on the desk. Then Dorr lay down on the chaise longue and outstretched his arms. “Each of you must take my hand. The spiritual energy of all three of us must be focused on summoning the spirit in this house to speak. No matter what happens do not let go of my hands for any reason. That must be clear above all.”

  Logistically it was rather an awkward arrangement. Anine sat on a chair to the right of the chaise longue and Julian to the left. With his torso nude, his arms outstretched and his flowing beard and hair Dorr looked like nothing so much as a middle-aged Christ expecting the Passion. Rain pattered against the windows and the dim flame of the candle flickered. The house was eerily quiet. Dorr’s eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling in deep, gentle breaths. He might have been asleep.

  Julian seemed especially uncomfortable. He held Dorr’s hand with as little contact with his skin as possible. After what seemed like an eternity he said softly, “How long is this supposed to take?” Anine, mortified at the intrusion, shushed him. She looked down at Dorr who remained unchanged and seemed not to have heard him.

  Is anything really happening? Or is he a hoaxer, a charlatan? She had no idea what Julian had agreed to pay the doctor but this wasn’t the first time she considered that the whole thing might well be a fraud.

  Several more minutes passed. The room seemed to grow even more quiet. The rain on the glass was the only sound. Anine had the impression that there had previously been some other sound, something very soft, that was now absent, but for a long confused moment she couldn’t place what it was.

  Then, terror suddenly rising in her, she realized what it was: Dorr’s breaths. “Julian, he’s not breathing!” she cried out.

  Julian looked down at him. “My God!” But, given Dorr’s warning, he was reluctant to let go of the doctor’s hand. “What…what do we do?”

  At that moment Dorr’s eyes sprang open, along with his mouth which gaped wide. Anine screamed, started by the sudden jerk of the body beneath her. Dorr’s face was now a mask of surprise, frozen deadly-still. His eyes were as wide as saucers, his mouth a perfectly round O. Still he was not breathing.

  “Doctor!” Julian cried, shaking his hand. “Doctor!”

  A sound finally began to emerge from Dorr’s gaping mouth: a curious high-pitched squeal, sounding anguished, strained, like a small animal slowly being squeezed to death. The tone rasped from the back of Dorr’s throat before it finally tore loose. The cry was not human. Indeed it sounded metallic, tinny, screechy—something artificial. Every muscle in Anine’s body suddenly seized tense, especially her rib cage. As she had felt before in the Green Parlor, the claustrophobia was crushing her.

  The flame of the candle flickered.

  The anguished tinny sound came again from Dorr’s open mouth. It previously sounded so alien, but now Anine suddenly thought she recognized it: it was the tone of a small silver trumpet.

  Anine’s heart pounded. In the next terrified instant she felt Dorr’s hand suddenly squeeze hers with savage force. His body lurched. The movement began in his hips and was a sudden single heave like the flopping of a freshly-caught fish on the deck of a boat. There was tension in his body. The muscles of his arms and upper torso were as taut as ropes. It felt like Dorr was fighting against something that had taken over his body.

  His head cocked suddenly to the side, meeting his left shoulder. The contortion was ugly more for its suddenness and instantaneousness than for the awkward position in which he ended up. Now Dorr was gasping, struggling to expel words, but his mouth was still gaping open. “Haaaaaaaaa!” he wailed. “Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Haaaaaaaaa!” At first it sounded like laughing but then became simply hissing.

  This was followed by the sound of the trumpet. It was not a clear note, but a mangled one, squeaky and haphazard.

  The trumpet is the voice of the spöke, Anine realized.

  “Haaaaaaaahhhh…hooooooooooo…heeeeeeeeehhhhhhhh!” Lurching again, Dorr managed to snap his mouth shut, but only for an instant. It opened again but only partially and his jaw quivered. Straining against the spöke he began to form anguished words, slowly and with what sounded like great and painful effort.

  “Whooooooo…arrrrrreee…YOU?”

  His head cocked again. The trumpet made two terrible noises. They sounded like flatulence but still with that same tinny metallic quality. Doubling up again, Dorr’s mouth contorted into a horrible crooked leer, one corner of it twitching. The cords in his neck were so taut they looked like they would burst through his skin.

  “Arrrrrrrrrrreee…yoooooooo…DEAD?”

  The spöke did not seem to like this question. It behaved in a way that Anine could only interpret as punishment. Dorr’s mouth snapped back shut very forcefully, so hard she could hear his teeth clacking together. Then it opened again and snapped shut once more. Dorr’s body bucked and twitc
hed on the chaise longue, his bare feet kicking and flailing. Anine heard him fart loudly. Again and again the spöke snapped Dorr’s mouth shut, then pried it open again as with brutish invisible pliers. Amidst the gasping and the grating tinny sounds of the trumpet Anine thought she could hear Dorr—the human Dorr—crying in pain with each blow.

  “Stop it!” Anine cried. “Give him a chance!”

  “CUNT!” Dorr blasted. The spöke had seemed to release his mouth. Anine recoiled from the insult. As if the spöke wanted to be sure she understood, it repeated the epithet in Swedish: “FITTA!”

  “Please,” Anine gasped. “Stop this—please—”

  “Don’t snivel!” Julian said sharply. “Be angry with it!”

  “BUGGERER!” Dorr shouted.

  “Get out of our house!” Julian retorted.

  “KUKSUGARE!” This word came out in an ugly snarl. Anine had heard this term only once in her life. It meant cocksucker in Swedish. It was all she could do to keep hold of Dorr’s hand, which in addition to crushing hers was drenched in cold sweat.

  Dorr arched his back, so far that it looked as if his spine would break. His mouth contorting again, he seemed to regain some control of himself. He sat up slightly, gasping for breath, crushing Anine’s and Julian’s hands. In the dim flickering light of the candle flame Anine could see sweat breaking out on his brow.

  “Arrrrrrrrrrrrre…yooooooooo…Quaaaaaaaaaaaaaaain?”

  He grimaced as another trumpet sound came out of him. It was as twisted and anguished-sounding as the other notes but there was another quality to it, one that sounded like agreement.

  So it is Mrs. Quain. For a moment she thought she could feel the burning anger of the spöke. It was hard to breathe; her corset felt tighter than ever.

  Dorr’s body suddenly seized with a series of small, sharp gasps. It sounded like he was being stabbed repeatedly, once every second. Between these gasps the ugly voice of the doppelgänger came again, but it still sounded metallic, like someone trying to speak through the little silver trumpet.