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fillard-millmore · 2 years

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Louisa

As I finished putting away the last of my laundry, I could hear Mr. Weaver calling my name throughout the house. This has not been the first time it has happened; it hasn’t even been the first time it occurred today. Mr. Charles Weaver has been such a forthcoming man during my stay at his residence. I have the slightest clues that if he had it his way, I would not be stationed at his home. However, such a thought of that caliber is illegal, and Mr. Weaver is a practical man, a man of the law. Once I find him, he dismisses me without a single glance or movement.

While Mr. Weaver is the embodiment of nosy, his wife, Margret Weaver, is the exact opposite. She is a soft spoken, tender hearted, and frail woman, yet she has a streak of boldness in her. She had met Mr. Weaver in Philadelphia when her name was still Margret Bradford. Mr. Weaver had been enrolled in a school there at the time and met Mrs. Weaver at a ball during the season. Ten months later, they were already married and expecting their first child together. Their first two daughters had been born during the war with the French and the Indians, and their last daughter followed soon after.

The daughters had grown up in a wealthy household surrounded with fortunate opportunities. They had a French governess from the age of two and learned what was expected of them. Two of the daughters excelled in their lessons, but the middle daughter, Louisa, did not. While her sisters were experts at embroidery, singing, managing a household, and playing the piano forte, Louisa struggled in the basic tasks for her sex. Apparently before I, Private Abandon Murray, had set foot in Oyster Bay, she had already been a queer lady.

Ms. Louisa is a stark contrast to her two sisters. She is always seen in dresses that appear older and worn out with stains, compared to her two sisters that are always of the latest fashion and beg their father to allow them to wear French styles. The first time I ever saw the Weaver ladies, Ms. Louisa could have fooled me to be adopted. Each member of the Weaver family had brown hair, but Louisa had not been so blessed, because below her delicate halo, grew red hair. If one can look past her waist length fiery hair, they would see a slender and very tall woman. A woman, who in fact, stands slightly above some of the other soldiers stationed at Oyster Bay. The only competition Louisa would win against her sisters was due to her gracefulness. Ms. Louisa does not walk, she glides. It is as if the world is a sheet of ice to her and she just slides across. Her soft and swift movements are her only saving grace in her family.

She is rarely seen outside of her room and if she does step out, there are always a pair of delicate watchful eyes on her. She is not forcefully pushed to spend her passing hours with herself, but even if she was, it is probably an option she will take. Her room is completely severed from the rest of the house where the other rooms are. The family’s and my quarters are on the second floor, while Ms. Louisa’s are on the third floor. I have been up there only once, and by the condition of her bedroom door, I do not hold much hope for the inside of her room. While the rest of the house has been completely refurbished, Louisa’s door appears older than the house itself, it is wooden with scratches on the bottom half of it, most likely from a family pet in the past. The hinges barely hold the door to the wall and the doorknob is slipping out of its socket. I am frightened that if I even look at the door it will fall apart!

It is of no importance as to why I was on the third floor, but I refuse to go up there again. Once I passed the threshold of the staircase, it was as if I was in a completely different house. The household with a strong masculine presence and womanly touch had turned into one of fear and pain. It sounds silly because it is, but I have taken notice that no one else in the household, including the servants, spend their time up there. The most demonizing reason I will not willing step foot on the third floor is because of the baby. A baby’s cries can be heard on that floor, but only when one is on the third floor. The wails were so gut wrenching that they seemed too raw, too full of emotion to be coming from a baby. It could not have been Louisa because she was not in her room at the time, but it leaves the question, what is making that noise? There is no baby in this household. I checked the registry, living in the house is Mr. Charles Weaver, Mrs. Margret Weaver, their three daughters, and formerly Captain Dolion Smith. To update the registry, I changed Captain Smith’s name to Private Abandon Murray. All had been accounted for, but a baby.

When I return back to my room after Mr. Weaver had summoned me, I grab my hat and make my way outside to where Ms. Louisa and one of the household servants are waiting for me. I apologize for my rudeness and hope my tardiness will not cut their walk into town short. The walk into town is not a long one, but it is tiresome. The Weaver’s residence is located on top of a large hill that overlooks the seaside port. The trip into town is no problem for myself, however I know that the trip back to the house will be the bane of my existence. The reason for Ms. Louisa’s trip into the town is unknown to me since they are ever so infrequent. During my two week stay here, I have not seen her leave the house once. I hope that my questions will be answered when we get into the town’s center. I assume that Ms. Louisa is buying fabrics for a dress or fruits for baked goods, but we pass both the tailor and bakery without a single glance from Louisa. In all honesty, Louisa does not give any mind to anyone during the trip and the townsfolk give her the same courtesy. It is like she is not there, but she is there. Surely her movements may be one of a ghost, but she herself is not a ghost. The humble servant and I catch the attention of the townspeople on occasion, but Louisa lets nothing get in the way of her unknown mission. We continue to walk further into the unknown, following Louisa, when she comes to a strict halt. I move to the side of her, so as to not accidentally run into her. When I am at her side, I look at her and notice her peculiar gaze. She is looking at someone, the only person she has taken note of, Captain Dolion Smith. Her face is as I have never seen it before. She carries the expression of hurt, sadness, disgust, and betrayal like an Allan Ramsay portrait. She continues to look at him. It is not so much a glance or look, but more as if she is staring into his soul. To my disbelief, Captain Smith looks back at her. Albeit, it is brief, but he sees her. As soon as his eyes hit her, he looks away, and puts on a facade as if he does not notice her. He is uncomfortable, it is obvious, he has gone dead silent and is giving Louisa side glances to check if she is still looking at him. Louisa does not give up though, she continues to keep her eyes locked on him. I would have continued to observe the two’s interaction, but a great gust of wind makes me avert my gaze and fall slightly back. In a force I have never experienced before and never believed was humanly possible, Louisa whips herself around putting her back towards Captain Smith and flies back the way we came.

I ponder in Mr. Weaver’s library when there is a sudden knock on the door, then another knock, that becomes ever so consistent. I find it odd that not a soul has answered the door and I can no longer stand the persistent knocking, so I take it upon myself to answer the door. I am greeted by the face of a boy no older than sixteen with the family’s daily post. He hands it to me, and we exchange bows before he is on his way. This is when the ever so helpful and humble servant that was needed a minute ago comes to assist me. We travel throughout the house together, delivering each family member's post. I am about to return to my cocoon within the library when I notice there is one letter left. Originally, I believe that we forgot to deliver this letter to its intended recipient, but I am utterly shocked when I read who the letter is addressed to, Miss Louisa Weaver. The small notion of her being in correspondence with someone is completely preposterous to me. She has never received post while I have been here, and I’ve been told by her sisters that she barely received post before my arrival. The only logical place Ms. Louisa would be located is in her chambers and I suddenly realize that the hill the house is located on is barely the bane of my existence, instead it is the third floor. It is a silly preposition that a woman in her bedroom scares me. After all, I am a private in the British army who has spent an entire life in orphanages, and I am reminded of it every day since my name has always been an insult to my circumstances. However, Louisa is just a woman. Why does she insight so much terror in me? I make my way up the stairs as slow as I possibly can, the humble servant takes note of this and pesters me to move faster. Once my right foot leaves the last stair, I immediately start hearing the cries of a baby. With each passing step the cries get louder and louder. The humble servant continues to trot their way down the hallway without any interruptions. They take no note of the cries-, no, the wailing of this creature. By the time we reach the door, the thing is screaming. I cannot take it anymore, I want to run back downstairs to the sanctity of the library and listen to the post boy knock on the door or the girls play their instruments, fight, and sing. I cannot though, I must not run. The letter is intended for Louisa to receive, and do I really want to hide? Louisa herself has been the source of my many questions and the answers lead back to her room. She may live in the same house as her family, but she practically does not live here, I live here more than it ever seems she has. The knocking of the humble servant on Louisa’s door only brings the baby into a more intense scream. This scream is like no other I have ever heard before, but yet, the humble servant is still unmoved. Gut wrenching screams that make my heart sink to the bottom of my stomach, I feel as if the creature is using all of my internal organs for its vocal energy. While we wait for what seems as an eternity for Ms. Louisa to grace us with her presence, I have no other choice, but to stare at her door, the thin veil that so frequently disconnects her from our realm. The doorknob is practically falling off and I reach my hand for it. Nothing else matters to me currently, but the old piece of metal that has the ability to unlock me into the mystic realm where Louisa spends all of her time. I am so fixated on this door and gaining access inside that the cries of the baby fade out to me and become something of the past that is of no importance now. My skin finally makes contact with the doorknob, it is ever so slight, and it is electrifying. The electrifying shock turns into an electrifying sting when the not-so-humble, but now violent servant swats my hand away from the doorknob. Her death glance lasts for about a second when she takes Ms. Louisa’s letter out of my hand and slides it halfway under her door. Not a second later, the letter is hastily grabbed to finish its journey to the other realm.

As I settle myself for bed, I hear a knock upon my door. It is the humble servant checking upon me. The visit is to make sure I am in my room and if I am in need of any more candles. I respectfully refuse and they are on their way. I settle myself back into bed and let my thoughts take over as I stare at the ceiling. The events that transpired on the third floor today are on the forefront of my mind. What about that door is so perplexing to me? It is just a door. I have seen and touched doors before in my life, what makes this one so different? I know what makes it different, Louisa. How can a simple woman make my perception of something as simple as a door change? Why… why… WHY? I continue to ask myself this as I make my way up the stairs to the third floor. Even my endless one-word question cannot protect me from hearing that demon’s language. Step after step the wailing gets louder and louder, but I will not stop, as I am determined to find my way through that portal. For my determination, I stand and stare at the doorknob longer than I should admit to, but my eyes bounce between the scratches at the bottom, to the hinges, and then back to the knob, where they settle for a long while. I will not relent, and neither will the wailing from inside. Like a magnet, my hand is now on the doorknob and will not let go. The longer I stand there, the more the heart shattering cries pierce through the air. The turning of the knob is one quick movement, the door is now slightly ajar, and the demon can no longer be heard. It has stopped and the house is back to the silence it never left.

The door opens itself and I am met with nothing. It is a dark square room where nothing appears out of the ordinary. I should not step inside, I know this, it is not my room. It would seem criminal of me to step into a lady’s room in the middle of the night without a chaperone, but I cannot stop my own movements. My actions are ungentlemanly, no-, unspeakable, but I must cross into this unspeakably foreign realm. Once I am past the door frame, everything is as it was before. There are no more cries from the baby and the room is still a dark square. The walls are damp, and the paint is not uniform throughout the room. The walls appear mostly covered with the color gray, but every so often a spot of color can be found. Louisa’s bed is on the wall adjacent from the wall the door is on. It is missing bed sheets and has only one pillow. On the wall parallel to the door, there is one window and next to it is a desk. The desk has but a few items on it and the chair is missing. On the last wall, parallel to the bed, is the most expected, yet completely mind-boggling discovery. A crib, with a small and very thin piece of gray veil covering it. I slowly make my way out from under the door frame and begin to draw closer to this object. I inhale and exhale with every step I take and look down at the object. I know what I am expecting, but am I ready? I grab hold of the veil, as if it were the magnetic doorknob and pull it off of the crib to expose it. I drop the veil and take two steps back. Nothing. Just as the room is, there is nothing in the crib. From where I am standing, I look at every visible crevice that is available to me. There is no baby. Absolutely nothing, and no other indication besides the crib would indicate that there has ever been a baby in this room. I make my way to the window and only stare. I look out as if I were looking for something and expect to find it, but I am not looking for anything and I let my thoughts take over. Until I think about Louisa, now my mind goes silent and only now. Where is she? This is her room, which she rarely leaves, and it’s the middle of the night. Where can she possibly be? My eyes fall upon the desk next to the window. Upon the desk is a necklace, with what appears to be an eye painted on the pendant, a copy of the book “Pamela” with a lock of hair located inside the book under the cover, and one sketch that is truly horrific. An underdeveloped, skeletal baby. Its limbs are short, there is a large bump above its heart, and it has one eye completely colored in. This shaded eye has one tear falling from it. I put the sketch down when I see another piece of paper below Louisa’s copy of “Pamela”. I lift up the book and notice that it is the post from the morning. My eyes graze the letter and I stop breathing. The bottom of the letter holds the pain and fear of this room. So sternly and so distastefully added, is the identity “D.S.”, and I know exactly where Louisa has gone.

I cannot catch my breath as I run down the hill into town. I am running with an ungodly speed past the town’s center and the various shops and businesses. I finally see my destination, there is not a single candle lit throughout the house, the darkness consumes it. There is no need for me to open nor kick down the door because someone has already done that for me. I travel up the staircase, swallowing three stairs with each step and see what I came here for. I cautiously move under the door frame, as to not alert anyone of my presence, but I surely think my speed and sound have already done that for me. When I am under the door frame, I see Louisa standing above Captain Dolion Smith from the side of his bed. She is wearing a stained shift and a gray colored robe. She continues to look down at Captain Smith, just as she did when we were in town yesterday. Her face carries the same emotions of hurt, sadness, disgust, and betrayal, but her eyes stare deep into his soul. Louisa still continues to ignore my presence and Captain Smith still has not awoken. I catch a glimpse of Louisa’s right hand, but she has her body obstruct my view. Her left hand is empty and hanging by her side. I do not believe the same thing can be said about her right hand. She is holding something, but what? She begins to raise her right hand to Captain Smith’s right check. The object in her hand is a mere extension of her fingers. I look at the musket in the room and notice Captain Smith’s bayonet is missing. It is now being used to caress his checks, by the woman who did not refer to Captain Smith as I would. Only then does Captain Smith begin to stir. His eyes first gaze at the bayonet on his check and then to the woman who wields it. I see Louisa give Captain Smith a smile. A toothless smile that goes from ear to ear and Captain Smith reciprocates with an unsure and weak smile back to her.

Captain Smith’s smile never falters when Louisa digs his bayonet into his jugular. She guides the tip of the bayonet right into the center of his throat and pushes it as far down as it can go. The strike inward is a quick and stealthy blow, but its removal is tantalizing and painful. It is obvious that she is keen with her own movements, she knows exactly what to do. After she removes the bayonet from one of his vital life sources, she slides it down to his chest and prods it over his heart. He reaches his hands for hers, but only his left hand finds her right wrist. He looks at her with pleading eyes, that once held the colors of the darkest teas, but have now morphed into blood shot eyes that have bloody tears falling from them. His head falls back, and he tries to fight Louisa when she digs his bayonet under the layers of his skin, just enough to pull all the layers back. The battle he musters is in vain though, for she does not stop, but instead goes even slower as she works with her canvas. Once she peels back the various layers of skin and muscle, she finds what she wants, his rhythmically slow beating heart that has forgotten about her up until the very end. She does not give this life force the same respect of one blow as she had for the other. Between each rib cage she drags the blade horizontally over the mushy membrane, just enough for it to bleed out and stop beating. After his beating drum has stopped, Louisa stares at his grotesque corpse. With a movement that is as startling as the rest, she goes for his lips. She does not begin to stab or prod or slit his lips, instead she begins to slash them. Up, down, diagonally, vertically, every movement she can possibly make has become a stroke to her masterpiece. She wants it this way, she wants his lips to be so contorted that he cannot use them as he pleases in the afterlife.

She takes a step back from her work and acknowledges my presence with a single glance. With this glance, I know exactly what she is asking me to do. I shuffle to grab my former Captain under his arms and Louisa takes him from under his knees. We prepare to take him down the stairs, both of us are walking forward with Louisa’s back to me. Still the picture-perfect vision of grace, Louisa never falters. She glides down each step, while I stumble on every other one. I cannot tell what I am in awe of more, the transgressions I just saw conspire or the ability of the members of this household to sleep.

I follow behind Louisa like a dog with my tail between my legs, my master has just called, and I am at her every beck and call. We make our way through the town the way I came and I’m sure the way Louisa came too. Again, I find myself following Louisa through the town with an unknown destination. As she glides into the town’s center and I continue to shuffle behind her, I begin to have my doubts that Louisa even has a destination, but that’s not like her. I come to a sudden stop when Louisa halts and drops her former “companion’s” body. I do the same as her and drop Captain Smith’s body in the town's center, for all to see when Apollo’s light comes to greet us. I am unsure of where to look when Captain Smith’s mutilated corpse is on the ground. Louisa just continues to stand and stare at him, like she had when he was sleeping, and I find myself staring back and forth between the two spectacles. Captain Smith’s blood covers both himself and Louisa, from head to toe. Captain Dolion Smith died of a broken heart. She broke his heart like how hers had been broken. She had taken his precious lips from him and in a movement I must have missed, she did the unspeakable to him that no man could ever imagine. I am disgusted with his behavior, but I am appalled by her. My eyes still bounce between the two of them, while her eyes fixate on Captain Smith and she utters the word, “abandon”.

#american revolution #oyster bay #gothic #american gothic #gothic story #female hysteria

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