The Haunting of Elspeth Goodwin

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This is a Fanfiction to the series of novels.

The names are important, they provide a clue.
For the style of writing, that's a joke too.
If you know your folklore, and Urban Legends,
you'll be able to guess how my story ends.



“Death is a debt to nature due,
which I have paid, and so must you.”

1. The Failed Endeavor of Charles W. Elliott, Rakehell.

The sodden and sullen Elspeth trod the cold country road back to Bonston and the Lawson-Peabody School on Beacon Hill that cold and foggy night. Her white empire dress dragged damply from the mist that enshrouded her, she having left her cloak back at the sizable farm owned by the Elliott family. The Elliott family, of course, being away “on some business”, leaving Charles, the scion of the family, as her sole host. She had tried to play the part of the gracious, albeit unchaperoned guest for the better part of the evening, and now that it was the worse part, she could only muse why she'd tarried in departing.

For sure, it was no comfort for a young lady to walk the miles home in a ghostly fog in the middle of the night. As unseemly an act as it was, she was not about to trust Mr. Charles W. Elliott with the task of accompanying her home; as his deceits in bringing her to his progenitors manse left her with little reason to trust him alone with her in the carriage by which she'd arrived.

A lifetime ago, she'd have ignored the furtive glances of the Elliott family's staff; the silent admonitions of their young master would have gone unnoticed. She'd have trusted Charles' weak excuses that his parents were sure to be back later that evening, or at the latest, tomorrow morning, at face value. And she'd have allowed the wine she was offered to go undiluted; as it happened, she took coffee with cream and sugar with her dinner, intent to be alert as possible that night.

But her brief tenure as a guest of the slave ship Bloodhound had cured her of the naïve trust and magnanimous lack of apprehension that a young girl might otherwise offer such a rake. And before her harrowing journey across the seas, and rescue at the hands of the stalwart, if eccentric, femme buccaneer Jacky Faber, Elspeth would have never had the audacity to leave a house via a second story window; shimmying down a fine oak tree and sprinting away to the post road in the shadows.

Of course... her narrow escape had left her clad in garments only suited for the warm indoors; the closer to a roaring fire, the better. Had she the steel to confront Charles directly, rather than slipping away from his attention via pale politeness and easy excuse, she might have stormed from his house through the cloak room, and at least retrieved her outermost garment.

But she still heel her chin aloft as any topsail, even if her tresses clung to her face from the damp. And the squelching road permeated her thin embroidered shoes. And the misty gloom left her chemise and petticoats clinging to her pale skin. And she was sure the kohl she'd borrowed from her sweet swashbuckling friend to make her eyes appear larger, more attentive at night must now be smearing in the heavy, penetrating near-rain.

She massaged her pale limbs for warmth, stamped the discomfort out of her soles, and shuddered. Rubbed her palms into her eyes to dry them, her ears and visage to steady them, slapping her cheeks lightly in the effort to The chill fall night sending her teeth chattering as she let out a low sigh. It was then she hear the soft and steady pace of a team of horses.

She turned to the echoing approach of the trolley, its humble make far removed to the fine barouche that had carried her to the home and machinations of Charles W. Elliott earlier that evening. Far from a fancy familial conveyance, it instead appeared built to honest labor, though still containing the comfort of a calash-covered headboard.

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2. The Curious Afterlife of Constance Howard.

He must have noted her with a start, she thought, given the driver's uneasy braking and jarring deceleration. She gestured limply down the road as he drew abreast of her, asking him the single word “Boston?” with a slight, chattering whimper.

He answered hesitantly, stating that he was bound through there.

“Mmm-mayhaps, kind sir, you could take me home to Beacon Hill on your w-w-way this evvvvening? I should-d-d-n't be out in th-this cold, sir.”

He tentatively offered her his hand, and she noted that despite the mean appearance of his wagon, the cut of his clothing denoted a youth of some means. The dim driving lamps shone on grand trunks instead of trade goods in the back. This young man had the plain goal of carrying a collection of worldly goods too numerous and too far for a fast buckboard.

Whether the chill of the night, or the young man's nervousness in conversing with a lady in such a state, there seemed to be a tension in his replies. But still Elspeth did her best between shivers to engage the youth with a courteous gentility.

Her hair veiled her dark eyes as she asked him, “And mmm-may I know my kind protector's nnn-ame?” And under her queries, the well-dressed student offered her his name, and purpose.

His was one Randolph Carter, Providence born, and traveling north and west to the Miskatonic Valley in Massachusetts, where he hoped to continue his metaphysical studies at the fine college there. And though he seemed a timid and worried sort, Elspeth found herself warming, ever so slightly, to the curious, poetical young man.

But still the primordial fog clung to her thin dress, and she shuddered at the damp. Suddenly aware of herself, she chattered out a whimper at her state, her eyes sullen. “Th-this-s-s was nnn-no nnn-night to be out. I should have ssss-st-stayed in bed. It'sssss just-t-t-t-to cold.”

The act of offering her his fine frock coat seemed to give him enough nerve to finally ask Elspeth her name. And although she had little reason to doubt his honesty in revealing his identity; as she enshrouded herself in his latent warmth, she couldn't bear to give him hers. It would be simply too embarrassing as it was; with a stern lecture awaiting her at the Lawson Peabody, and a good week's worth of wearing a serving girl's dress and, with any mercy, only the light punishment duties to be assigned for her improprieties this night. To further let out her name, potentially allowing this story of her foolishness to make its way about town, would be too much for her to bear.

“Mmm-my nnn-name is:”, she drew in her breath, calming her chattering teeth, “Constance Howard.”.

Constance Howard, she mused, had a rather jocund posthumous existence. Constance Howard was the ready alias for every girl of the Dread Sisterhood at the Lawson-Peabody now, and a well worn nom de guerre it had become, given the mischief that a Lawson Peabody schoolgirl was likely for.

Constance Howard, poor yet resilient, her thin arms often red from the laundry soap, still wore the finest of ladies dresses (albeit borrowed from her wealthier sisters.) to every masked ball in the Massachusetts Bay. On one memorable occasion, dancing with and charming every boy, all evening long, at two separate parties on the same night.

Constance Howard, achingly shy, retiring to a fault, daughter of well-heeled puritans, still braved the stage alongside the rising starlet Polly Von in a number of revues with the Fennel & Bean theatrical company. Reciting her beloved Shakespeare as Hermia to Von's Helena, Olivia to Von's Viola, Isabella to Mariana.

Constance Howard has an account at Mr. Yale's book store on School Street. She routinely orders the sort of novels that a proper young lady should not even know the names of. And at least three different Constance Howards have paid for the tab on that account.

Constance Howard, well born daughter of a southern plantation owner, still worked the wrathful forge of her ire to pen an article for an abolitionist newspaper, thrice damning the 'hedonistic' practices of the slave holding gentry. The paragraph correlating the practice of breeding to “A Christian of professed pious standing seeking to debauch himself as any swart Caliph in his Harem!” was so inflammatory that the abolitionists nearly felt the need to attach an editorial apologia. But it was roundly guessed at, if not discerned through some logical working, that she may have had some personal witness to such matters.

But Elspeth need not share any of this with Mr. Carter, only the name itself. Only that quiet cloak of anonymity to protect her from some further mortification.

She warmed physically by and by, but their conversation still held the preternatural aura of quiet discomposure. Randolph remained pensive in his regard to her, almost afraid. Was he so ill at ease with the fairer sex that he must offer his coat to a lady on his outstretched fingertips? True, she was in a rather humble state. And she nearly flushed as she realized that she may look less than seemly, damp white garments, exposed to nature as she'd been. She wagered even “Madame Boudine's Girls” would have at least made sure to provide a worthier countenance to a gentleman rescuer.

“I was at a dinner party.” She weakly tried to explain. “It didn't turn out as I'd expected.”

He only glanced at her through the corner of his eye, his wary attention likely being cast in several directions at once, and she let it go at that. But she turned her face towards him non the less, gazing at him sad eyes. He almost seemed to start as she brushed her hair behind her ear to regard him better.

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3. The Grey Stone and the School.

The murky nighttime vapor merely clung to the forests between the ill-used Elliott estate and Boston proper. As they neared that great harbor town, a deceptively soft gale, dry with overcast horizons swept towards them. Elspeth couldn't credit the weather's drying effect on her clothing, as it did little to improve her temperature. And her teeth were set to chattering as she tried to hum herself a tune to pass the time once again.

Randolph swallowed hard as the trolley crossed the Common up to windswept Beacon Hill, a shudder of unsteady nerves crossed his spine. Elspeth could only wonder at the young man of such obvious education an means. But she smiled wanly as they drove quietly through her second home, even at this late and quiet hour. The only lights of life far from them, down the hill towards the dockside taverns.

At least the Pig & Whistle was still open. In theory, it meant that she wasn't egregiously late without proper accompaniment. Charles Elliott's mother and father would have been proper chaperon, had they in fact been home on the night she was invited to dine with them. And she couldn't properly assume where they were, or how long they were to be gone. But too many of her suspicions seemed confirmed by the blue hair ribbon lying on the floor under the head of Charles bed. She'd spied it out the corner of her eye during her tour. And that the color so precisely matched a ribbon binding a maidservant's hair together set her well-founded anxieties to a boil.

She let out a soft groan of frustration at her ruminations on the evenings events, but at least she was almost to the top of Beacon Hill, to the front doors, and more importantly, the rear doors of the fabled Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls. The clopping of the horses' hooves and the low creak of the wheels announced their final arrival at the top of the hill.

Elspeth might have allowed Randolph Carter to step out and offer her his hand from the ground; but as his back was to her, towards the doors of the school, a sigh of relief finally releasing from his tensed chest, there was a sudden flash of lightning and a mighty crack of thunder.

Mistress Pimm! The searing midnight phosphorescence illuminating her stoic features, her mouth a grim line. With a gasp Elspeth slid away, silently down and off the headboard, young Master Carter's form, she prayed, shielding her ever so briefly from the stern disciplinarian's sight. She sunk to the ground and raced in silence around the rear of the trolley, hoping to secret herself around and into the servant's entrance. Begging to all gods she could name that the wind and gathering squall might cover the sound of her footfalls.

She heard bits of the Mistress' laconic questioning to Randoph's intent. Heard him say her name. “Constance Howard” That he'd brought her back to this fine educational establishment from some distress on the road to Boston.

And she heard Mistress Pimm's reply in the quiet before a second peal of thunder, “There is no student here named Constance Howard, young man.”

Elspeth hugged her shroud to her as she raced past the school. A shroud? A frock coat! Randolph Carter's fine coat was still about her shoulders, it's dark coloring hiding her in the night, but she dare not carry it indoors or be known a thief, if to none other but herself! She cast it off her shoulders and it came to a rest on a stone above the ground.

Randolph Carter pointed over Mistress Miranda Pimm's shoulder, “But there! That white form!” But as Mistress Pimm turned to follow his gaze, another flash of lightning raced across the sky, obscuring the night in its sudden brilliance.

At the sound of thunder Elspeth was already in the servant's entrance. Might as well accustom oneself to the sensation, she chided herself. There was no escape from Pimm, she could uncover nearly anything untoward regarding her establishment. She panted from her run, the night kitchen finally letting her some warmth to her weary bones.

Peg gasped and gaped at Elspeth Goodwin's countenance. “Jesus!”, she exclaimed, “What've ye been through girl? You look but half dead!”

Pimm squinted into the gloom, striving by sheer tenacity to force the night to relent, to give up it's secret. She could smell the air of mischief of some sort, as was often the case these days. She appreciated it. The practice, she felt, had honed skills she'd thought she'd long forgotten. “I believe we can find your answers there.” She began, and bidding Randolph follow her, she strode around the side of the mighty schoolhouse, through the graveyard.

“What?” Elspeth asked dumbfounded.

“Jes look at yourself, dearie! You call this 'returning in style'?, Peg replied. The husky woman reached for a polished platter to hold up to Elspeth.

Randolph Carter shivered, his arms hugging himself for warmth as he followed the imposing gray woman through the glowering cemetery, the air of distant stables walled by some other, more disturbing smell. The odor of long burnt wood like a ruined forest, despairing in the presence of the sepulchral. A slow interrogatory played across the hindmost part of his mind. Here lies the marble garden of Beacon Hill, but where is the church that these souls once played at? Why the broken wall in such disrepair?

Mistress Pimm had stopped at part of her own answers for that evening, and the beginning of a new inquisition. But the puritan stilled herself, and allowed what she must in her heart feel was inevitable, to happen as the young man approached both her and the cloth covered stone before her.

Lightning flashed, and Randolph Carter screamed to the hells and heavens, to a bleak and unfathomable world writhing in innumerable ways around him.

In the kitchen, Elspeth winced at her visage. Her normally pale skin nearly bone white, driven paler by the kohl that smudged her eye sockets and cheeks, lending them a skeletal appearance. The dress had clung with the mist, then billowed like a wound sheet as she ran through the graveyard.

And as Mistress Pimm called through the servant's entrance with a loud “Peg! The boy's fainted!”, Elspeth already knew the name upon whose grave she'd thrown the frock coat.