Robert Beatty - Serafina and the Black Cloak

She heard him in the main kitchen, opening the doors of the cast-iron ovens. If I’d hidden there , she thought, I’d be dead now.

Then she heard him clanging through the copper pots, looking for her in the ceiling rack. If I’d hidden there , she thought, I’d be dead again.

‘There’s nothing to be frightened of,’ he whispered, trying to coax her out.

She listened and waited, trembling like a field mouse.

Finally, the man in the black cloak made his way into the laundry room.

Mice are timid and prone to panic-induced mistakes at key moments .

She heard the man moving from place to place, rummaging beneath the sinks, opening and closing the cabinets.

Just stay still, little mouse. Just stay still , she told herself. She wanted to break cover and flee so badly, but she knew that the dead mice were the dumb mice that panicked and ran. She told herself over and over again, Don’t be a dumb mouse. Don’t be a dumb mouse.

Then he came into the drying area where she was and moved slowly through the room, running his hands over the ghostly sheets.

If I’d hidden there . . .

He was just a few feet away from her now, looking around the room. Even though he couldn’t see her, he seemed to sense that she was there.

Serafina held her breath and stayed perfectly, perfectly, perfectly still.

Serafina slowly opened her eyes.

She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep or even where she was. She found herself crammed into a tight, dark space, her face pressed up against metal.

She heard the sound of footsteps approaching. She stayed quiet and listened.

It was a man in work boots, tools jangling. Feeling a burst of happiness, she wriggled her way out of the machine and into the morning sunlight pouring through the laundry windows.

‘Here I am, Pa!’ she cried, her voice parched and weak.

‘I’ve been gnawin’ on leather lookin’ for you,’ her pa scolded. ‘You weren’t in your bed this mornin’.’

She ran forward and hugged him, pressing herself into his chest. He was a large and hardened man with thick arms and rough, calloused hands. His tools hung from his leather apron, and he smelled faintly of metal, oil and the leather straps that drove the workshop’s machines.

In the distance, she heard the sounds of the staff arriving for the morning, the clanking of pots in the kitchen and the conversations of the workers. It was a glorious sound to her ears. The danger of the night was gone. She had survived!

Wrapped in her father’s arms, she felt safe and at home. He was more accustomed to mallets and rivets than a kind word, but he’d always taken care of her, always loved and protected her. She couldn’t hold back the tears of relief stinging her eyes.

‘Where’ve ya been, Sera?’ her father asked.

‘He tried to get me, Pa! He tried to kill me!’

‘What are you goin’ on about, girl?’ her pa said suspiciously, holding her by the shoulders with his huge hands. He looked intently into her face. ‘Is this another one of your wild stories?’

‘No, Pa,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘I ain’t in any kinda mood for stories.’

‘A man in a black cloak took a little girl, and then he came after me. I fought him, Pa! I bit him a good one! I spun round and clawed him, and I ran and ran and I got away and I hid. I crawled into your machine, Pa. That’s how I got away. It saved me!’

‘Whatcha mean, he took a girl?’ her pa said, narrowing his eyes. ‘What girl?’

‘He . . . he made her . . . She was right in front of me, and then she vanished before my eyes!’

‘Come on now, Sera,’ he said doubtfully. ‘You sound like you don’t know whether you’re washin’ the clothes or hangin’ ’em out.’

‘I swear, Pa,’ she said. ‘Just listen to me.’ She took a good, hard swallow and started at the beginning. As the story poured out of her, she realised how brave she’d actually been.

But her pa just shook his head. ‘You’ve had a bad dream is all. Been readin’ too many of them ghost stories. I told ya to stay away from Mr Poe. Now look at ya. You’re all scruffed up like a cornered possum.’

Her heart sank. She was telling him the God’s honest truth, and he didn’t believe a word of it. She tried to keep from crying, but it was hard. She was going on thirteen and he was still treating her like a child.

‘I wasn’t dreamin’, Pa,’ she said, wiping a sniffle from her nose.

‘Just calm yourself down,’ he grumbled. He hated it when she cried. She’d known since she was little that he’d rather wrangle with a good piece of sheet metal than deal with a weepy girl.

‘I’ve gotta go to work,’ he said gruffly as he separated from her. ‘The dynamo busted somethin’ bad last night. Now get on back to the workshop, and get some proper sleep in ya.’

Hot frustration flashed through her and she clenched her fists in anger, but she could hear the seriousness in his voice and knew there was no point in arguing with him. The Edison dynamo was an iron machine with copper coils and spinning wheels that generated a new thing called ‘electricity’. She knew from the books she’d read that most homes in America didn’t have running water, indoor toilets, refrigeration or even heating. But Biltmore had all these things. It was one of the few homes in America that had electric lighting in some of the rooms. But if her pa couldn’t get the dynamo working by nightfall the Vanderbilts and their guests would be plunged into darkness. She knew he had a lot of things on his mind, and she wasn’t one of them.

A wave of resentment swept through her. She’d tried to save a girl from an evil black-cloaked demon-thing and almost got herself killed in the process, but her pa didn’t care. All he cared about was his stupid machines. He never believed her about anything. To him, she was just a little girl, nothing important, nothing worth listening to, nothing anyone could count on for anything.

As she walked glumly back to the workshop, she fully intended to follow her pa’s instructions, but when she passed the stairway that led up to Biltmore Estate’s main floor she stopped and looked up the stairs.

She knew she shouldn’t do it.

She shouldn’t even think about doing it.

But she couldn’t help it.

Her pa had been telling her for years that she shouldn’t go upstairs, and lately she’d been trying to follow his rules at least some of the time, but today she was furious that he hadn’t believed her.

It’d serve him right if I didn’t listen to him.

She thought about the girl in the yellow dress. She tried to make sense of what she’d seen: the horrible black cloak and the wide-eyed fear in the girl’s face as she disappeared. Where had the girl gone? Was she dead or somehow still alive? Was there still a chance she could be saved?

Snippets of conversation drifted down the stairs. There was some sort of commotion. Had they found a body? Were they all crying in despair? Were they searching for a murderer?

She didn’t know if she was brave or stupid, but she had to tell someone what she’d seen. She had to figure out what had happened. Most of all, she had to help the girl in the yellow dress.

She began to climb the stairs.

Staying as small and quiet as she could, she crept up the steps one by one. A cacophony of sounds floated down to her: the echo of people talking, the rustling of clothing, dozens of different footsteps – it was a crowd of many people. Something was definitely happening up there. We’ve got to keep to ourselves, you and I. Her pa’s warning played in her mind as she climbed. There ain’t no sense in people seein’ you and askin’ questions.