Elodie's Curse

I was curious whether I would dream of Miray again the next night. In the evening, I went to bed very early and managed to fall asleep quickly. But I slept dreamlessly until morning.

The evening after that, I recreated the situation from back then. I devoured a huge döner from my favorite kebab shop, took a hot bath, and sat in front of the TV until I fell asleep. That night I dreamed that I was sharing my flat with a talking goat. After that, I gave up trying.

In the following nights, I could only remember my usual dreams. I was late for work. I was hungry, but all the food was spoiled. After two weeks, I realized that my adventure with Miray was probably an exception.

My boss had sent me and two colleagues to a training session. After a long day, my head and stomach were well-filled, and we were on the highway heading home. Satisfied and content, I sat in the back seat of the company car, listened to the steady sound of the wind rushing by, and watched the landscape slowly disappear into the twilight through the window. My eyes grew heavy, and since I had nothing else to do, I allowed myself a nap.

The car suddenly swerved sharply, and my head hit something hard.

“Ow! Damn it!” cried a familiar voice next to me.

“Miray?” I muttered sleepily, holding my aching temple. I opened my eyes. It was broad daylight, and I was in the back seat of an old limousine. The driver was about 30 years old, wearing chauffeur clothes and short-cropped black hair. Next to me sat Miray with squinted eyes, rubbing her head.

“Dian?” she asked, dazed. “Fancy bumping into you! Where are we?”

I looked outside. The sun was high in the blue sky, but in the distance, clouds were already piling up into an anvil, announcing a storm. The car was driving along a country road that ran between a forest and a field. There was nothing distinctive that could provide a more precise clue about the location.

However, I found an indication. “I think we’re in France in the late 1930s.”

She looked at me, puzzled, and I explained my reasoning. “The car is a beautiful Citroën Traction Avant, a classic that was produced in France from 1934 if I’m not mistaken. But this car looks almost brand new. You can still smell the leather.”

My companion tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder. “Where are we going?”

“To Madame and Monsieur Vignaud, Mademoiselle,” he replied emotionlessly.

“And who are they?”

“Your aunt and uncle, Mademoiselle.”

She looked at me, surprised. “It seems I have relatives here.”

We reached a long wall, drove through a large iron gate, and passed through a small forest. At the end of it, a mansion could already be seen, with its ornate facade and a tower on the side, looking more like a castle.

The closer we got, the more details became visible. In front of the house lay a large semicircular square with a fountain in the middle, which was not in operation and looked neglected. Part of the house was covered with scaffolding, the rest of the facade was still waiting for restoration. I looked up at the roof and noticed a huge clock built into a dormer window above the main entrance, drawing all eyes to it. One would expect a clock of this kind on a church or school, but it looked out of place on this house. Moreover, it was missing its hands. Only twelve strokes for the hours and an axis in the middle indicated that it once showed the time.

Our hosts were already waiting for us at the main entrance. A man and a woman in elegant clothing, whom I estimated to be in their 40s, waved to us. Beside them stood two teenage boys, obviously twins, nicely dressed in their best Sunday clothes. A butler and three maids were waiting aside.

As we got out, the lady of the house came running towards us with open arms. “Miray, my favorite niece!” she called, hugging her tightly and giving her a hearty kiss on both cheeks. The host followed and greeted his niece a bit stiffly and distantly.

“Hello, Auntie! Hello, Uncle!” Miray responded, confused. For her, the people in this dream world were just as strange as they were to me, and I admired how she tried to hide that fact.

“What joyful news you wrote us!” exclaimed the aunt enthusiastically.

Miray gave me a puzzled look. I shrugged cautiously.

The aunt scrutinized me, then turned back to her niece. “He looks nice! Don’t you want to finally introduce us to your fiancé?”

Miray looked at me, surprised. I grinned back. There were worse fates, at least from my perspective.

My fiancée forced herself to smile, extended her hand to me, and pulled me to her. “Of course! Where have I left my manners? This is Dian, my fiancé!”

She looked at me and continued, “Dian, these are my aunt, Madame Vignaud, and my uncle, Monsieur Vignaud.”

“Parbleu, please not so formal!” protested the aunt. “You may call us Zoé and Henri!” She hugged me and gave me a kiss on both cheeks, while her heavy perfume almost knocked me out. “After all, you will soon be part of the family.”

First, Zoé introduced me to her sons, named Éric and Frédéric. They shook our hands reluctantly. It was obvious they had better things to do than greet their cousin and her fiancé.

Next was the staff. The butler, who always stood discreetly nearby waiting for instructions, was named Jérôme and was an older but still spry gentleman. When Zoé introduced him, he nodded and greeted us formally. The three maids, who were currently behind the Citroën struggling to unload our luggage from the trunk, were named Agnès, Denise, and Paule. We had already met the chauffeur, Laurent, during the ride. He leaned against the car, chewing on a toothpick, watching the maids at work.

Our hostess took us by the hand. “My niece is engaged, how romantic!” she gushed. “You must tell us all about how you met during dîner!”

“Oh, it’s actually a rather boring story,” said Miray. Zoé ignored that and invited us into the house, where she left us with the butler.

Jérôme led us up the grand staircase to the upper floor and into a drab corridor. Numerous doors on both sides led to the bedrooms of the residents and their guests. The sight reminded me of a government office or a hotel, less of a mansion.

We were first shown into Miray’s room, where Agnès was already waiting with the suitcase. It met all the clichés one could have of a bedroom in a mansion. The crimson wallpaper and dark carpet were almost overwhelming. On one side stood a four-poster bed, whose white curtain was decoratively tied to its pillars. Opposite stood a heavy oak wardrobe next to a second door and a closed secretary between the two windows. The room felt comfortable yet unreal, almost like a stage set.

Jérôme pointed to the door to the adjacent room. “Madame has instructed me to lock this door since Monsieur and Mademoiselle are not yet married,” he explained. Then he cleared his throat and added discreetly, “I’m afraid, however, that I am becoming forgetful.”

For a brief moment, he grinned self-satisfiedly before resuming his posture and leading me into the neighboring room. It was almost identically furnished. Paule was already waiting for me. She curtsied briefly and shyly when she saw me.

“Agnès and Paule will be at your disposal at any time,” explained Jérôme. Then he excused himself and left us to take care of the dîner.

“Would you like me to help you unpack, Monsieur?” Paule asked. I declined with thanks. I didn’t know what would be in my suitcase and preferred to find out alone. Paule curtsied again, left the room, and quietly closed the door behind her.

Someone knocked on the other door. “Dian?” I heard my companion’s voice. I invited her in.

“Is your maid gone?”

“Yes. I preferred to unpack my things without her.”

“I also sent Agnès away. But there was nothing unusual in my suitcase, just clothes and what one needs for such a trip. Hopefully, we’ll find a clue in yours as to why we’re here.”

I opened my luggage but found only an elegant suit, nightwear, a robe, period-appropriate casual clothes, and toiletries.

I looked at Miray questioningly. “What task do you think we’ll have to solve this time?”

She shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. What worries me more right now is dinner. Auntie will ask us about our engagement. We can hardly tell her we first met about 30 years ago on the Orient Express.”

“We’ll surely come up with something spontaneous when the time comes,” I tried to reassure her.

There was a knock on the room door. Before we could answer, it was flung open and the twins stormed in.

“Maman says we should show your fiancé the house and the garden,” Éric called excitedly.

“Maybe you can also help us solve the case,” added Frédéric.

Miray had been waiting for that cue. “What case?” she asked eagerly.

“Three bags of cement were stolen from the construction site.”

“Cement!” she sighed. “We’re here to find missing cement bags.”

I had to laugh. “Then show us the crime scene.”

The twins led us to the back of the house. The building looked even more dilapidated from the rear. The plaster was partially missing, revealing the bare brick wall. Part of it was scaffolded. Stones, cement bags, and other materials lay nearby.

We looked around. The house bordered a park that seemed severely neglected. Parts were overgrown with bushes and weeds. Beyond that was a small forest that must have once been a pleasant place for walks. A thicket of ivy, bushes, and dead wood now made that impossible.

Between the forest and the house lay a large pond. A few ducks had strayed here and watched us suspiciously.

Behind a side wing of the building, I noticed a secluded shed that had also seen better days.

“That used to be a stable for horses,” explained Éric, who had noticed my curious look. “Now our car is parked there.”

“Laurent also has a small workshop there,” Frédéric added. “He is very skilled.”

Miray couldn’t let go of the theft. “Who could be interested in stealing cement?” she asked the twins.

“No idea,” Frédéric replied, “maybe the dead girl?”

His brother gave him a nudge. “Maman says we shouldn’t talk about her when we have guests.”

Now my curiosity was piqued. “What dead girl?” I asked.

The twins hesitated a bit until Frédéric finally spoke up. “She drowned in the pond many years ago.”

“And now she’s stealing cement?” Miray asked. “Why would she do that?”

Frédéric looked down, embarrassed. “Because we stole her lion.”

“Her lion?”

Éric nodded. “A few weeks ago, we found a small, rusty lion by the pond.”

“And where is it now?”

“We brought it to Laurent. He promised to make it beautiful again.”

Jérôme approached us. “Dîner will begin in two hours. The gentlemen and lady would surely like to freshen up first.”

That suited me well, as I was very hungry.

We returned to the house. Miray went to her room to prepare for the evening. I needed to use the restroom first, and Jérôme directed me to an inconspicuous door at the end of the corridor.

The bathroom was as strange as the rest of the building. I felt for the light switch and turned it on. A single large bulb on the ceiling bathed the room in a dim, warm light. Plain white tiles covered the windowless room up to the ceiling. I noticed four sinks on one side and a proud six toilet stalls on the other. Behind a drawn curtain stood two bathtubs on old-fashioned feet. I would have expected such a washroom in a youth hostel. In this mansion, it seemed completely out of place.

I quickly did my business and returned to my room to change. In my suitcase, I found an elegant suit that seemed appropriate for dinner. It fit as if tailor-made.

When everything was in place, I knocked on my fiancée’s door. “I’ll be right there!” she called. A few moments later, she opened the door and stood before me. She wore an elegant midnight blue evening gown that sparkled splendidly. The sleeves reached her wrists, and a deep neckline left room for a small diamond necklace. Her short hair was festively styled, and her face discreetly made up. Seeing her like that, I regretted that we weren’t really engaged. She looked beautiful.

“Will you accompany me to dinner, mon cher?” she asked, gallantly holding out her hand to me. I nodded, and she hooked her arm under mine. Together, we went down the grand staircase and entered the dining room, where the Vignaud family was already seated at the table. Their conversation stopped as we entered. All eyes were on us.

Zoé finally broke the silence. “You truly make a wonderful couple!” she exclaimed, applauding. We thanked her and took our seats opposite her at the table.

The three maids served the first course, a deliciously fragrant onion soup, in the middle of which floated a slice of bread topped with a thick layer of cheese. While we hungrily devoured it, Jérôme filled our glasses with wine.

We began the table conversation with small talk about the weather and our journey, but Zoé watched us continuously and curiously. It was obvious that she would soon ask us the inevitable question. I had to beat her to the punch with a topic that forced our hosts into a lengthy monologue.

“Zoé, forgive my curiosity, but I noticed that this mansion is a bit unusual.”

“In what way?”

“For example, there is this clock on the roof which is unusual for a country house. Or the corridor with many bedrooms and the huge bathroom at the end.”

“You’ve observed well, Dian,” our hostess praised me. “The building was originally a boarding school for girls from the upper class.”

“Why was it closed?” Miray asked. “Does it have to do with the drowned girl?”

Zoé cast a grim look at her sons. “As I hear, two chatterboxes couldn’t keep their mouths shut.”

Then she continued, “Yes, that’s true! The girl had sneaked out of her room one night. The next morning, she was found dead in the pond.”

Frédéric couldn’t resist continuing the story: “It was in all the newspapers! The police considered it an accident. Yet, shortly thereafter, the parents came by and picked up their daughters.”

Zoé scowled at her loud-mouthed son and he fell silent, embarrassed. Now it was her husband Henri who continued the story. “The school’s reputation never recovered. A few months later, it had to close. The building stood empty for many years and slowly fell into disrepair.”

“Henri bought it four years ago,” Zoé continued proudly. “We christened it Manoir de Vignaud and began restoring it. The roof had to be sealed. Some rooms have already been redesigned to be worthy of a Manoir. Currently, we are having the facade and the rest of the upper floor renovated. But there is still so much to do, as you surely noticed.”

She sighed.

“It is said,” Éric exclaimed excitedly, “that the ghost of the dead girl haunts this place.”

Zoé slammed her hand on the table. “Enough now, Éric, Frédéric! You’re scaring your cousin with such stories.”

The first course was finished. Agnès and Denise cleared the dirty dishes while Paule rolled in the next course on a serving cart.

“A specialty of our cook,” Zoé announced with pleasure, “homemade boudin noir!”

Paule placed a plate in front of me with several slices of dark-fried sausage, a portion of mashed potatoes with fried onions and caramelized apple slices. I had never eaten a dish like this before, but it tasted so delicious that Denise had to serve me another portion.

Zoé took advantage of our moment of inattention. “Miray, Dian, you must finally tell us how you met! And when the wedding will take place! I assume we are invited?”

Miray took a large sip of wine and looked around, embarrassed. Then she cleared her throat and began. “We met in London, at…”

She gave me a helpless look. I understood the cue and continued the story: “At a poker tournament. We won round after round against opponents from all over the world until fate brought us together in the quarterfinals, where we had to compete against each other. We had a hard duel, and at first, things went very well for Miray.”

“But then?” Zoé asked excitedly. She hung on our every word.

“Then,” said Miray, pausing dramatically, “then I got reckless, bet too high, and Dian called.” She looked deeply into my eyes. “I lost everything. But what does money mean when I could win his heart that night?”

She smiled at me mischievously. I almost burst out laughing, nearly exposing the fairy tale we had so shamelessly spun for our hosts. We looked at Zoé. She made a strange face, revealing both emotion and a certain disbelief. Finally, she smiled contentedly.

“These are the stories that only life can tell, aren’t they, Henri?” she asked her husband. As he was about to respond, a sharp scream echoed through the house.

We looked at each other, startled. “That was Paule!” Denise exclaimed, dropped the dirty plates on her serving cart, and ran out. We jumped up from our seats and followed her.

Paule had collapsed by the window of the salon. Her face had lost all color. When we arrived, Denise was already kneeling beside her, fanning her with air.

Jérôme approached the two maids. “What’s the meaning of this drama?” he asked harshly.

Paule pointed outside with a trembling hand. “The ghost!” she cried. “By the pond! The ghost of the dead girl!”

We ran to the windows and stared out. In the moonlight, one could clearly see a figure by the pond. It wore a tattered white dress and walked slowly along the shore. When it reached the trees, a cloud darkened the scene. A moment later, the apparition was gone.

Henri was as pale as a sheet. “This cannot be!” he finally stammered. Zoé also looked out into the garden in disbelief.

The twins, on the other hand, were visibly delighted. “Didn’t I tell you, Cousin?” Éric triumphed, nudging Miray, while Frédéric kept his eyes on the pond, hoping for an encore.

Then we saw the butler rush to the pond and look around. Finally, he looked up at the house and threw his hands in the air in resignation before returning to us.

The rest of the evening we spent in silence. Everyone was lost in thought. Paule stood apathetically in a corner of the dining room until Jérôme could no longer bear the sight and sent her to the kitchen. He and the other two maids quietly served the last course, a crème brûlée. The tension in the room was palpable. When I dropped my spoon, everyone flinched and looked at me reproachfully.

After we finished eating, we decided to end the evening. The festive mood had left us all.

I lay in my bed and couldn’t sleep. Dense clouds had covered the moon, plunging the room into total darkness. The house was unfamiliar and old, and its structure creaked and cracked as it cooled down from the hot day. My thoughts circled around the question of what our task might be. Undoubtedly, the haunting by the pond was part of it. Was it really the ghost of the drowned girl that we had seen there?

For a while, I dozed off until I was awakened by a freshening wind whistling through the window cracks and rattling the panes. A deep rumble announced the thunderstorm that had been lurking on the horizon all day. It approached quickly. In the bright light of a flash, I caught a glimpse of a silhouette in the room from the corner of my eye. My blood froze in my veins. Rooted to the spot, I stared into the corner until another flash revealed that it was just my bathrobe.

“Pull yourself together,” I scolded myself. “You’re acting like a little child afraid of thunderstorms.”

I turned to the other side and tried to fall asleep.

The large grandfather clock in the salon struck one. A few seconds later, a loud, dull thud shook the whole house. I sat up in bed, my heart racing wildly. More thuds followed in a slow, rough rhythm. They sounded like the steps of a giant.

I turned on the bedside light and jumped out of bed. My knees buckled, they were as weak as rubber. I supported myself on the nightstand, forced myself back on my feet, and ran into the corridor. Zoé was already standing at her door, wearing her nightgown, and looked at me with wide-open eyes. Behind her stood Henri, just pulling his robe over his nightwear.

The door next to me opened, and Miray looked around. “Someone knocked?” she tried to joke.

The next dull thud shook the structure and echoed deeply through the whole house.

Éric and Frédéric appeared at their room doors. “What’s that noise?” one of them asked sleepily.

“Are you behind this?” Zoé interrogated her sons. They shook their heads vigorously.

Another thud jolted the house.

Now we heard footsteps coming towards us. It was the three maids, followed by a panting butler and the chauffeur. They must have left their attic rooms in panic, as they all wore their nightclothes.

“What is it?” Zoé asked around.

“I don’t know, Madame,” Jérôme replied anxiously.

“The noise seems to come from everywhere, Madame,” Laurent added. “You can hear it throughout the house.”

“It’s surely the ghost!” Frédéric exclaimed excitedly. Paule screamed at the thought and fell into Denise’s arms, who held her comfortingly and gave the boy a reproachful look.

Miray and I went to the grand staircase, followed by Jérôme and Laurent. We waited there for the next tremor, which promptly came.

“It seems louder here,” Miray noted. “Let’s split up. Jérôme and Laurent, you go downstairs! We’ll search this floor.” They nodded and hurried down the stairs.

We opened a makeshift lattice door and entered the part of the building under renovation. Miray felt for a light switch. When she found it and turned it on, a few dim light bulbs hanging from simple wires illuminated the construction site. The workers had stripped the old plaster from the walls, exposing the underlying brickwork. The floor was bare wooden boards, covered in a thick layer of dust and rubble. Another tremor shook the house, causing some plaster to fall. I got goosebumps.

Cautiously, we moved through the construction site. The noise seemed louder the closer we got to the tower. Then there was one last tremor before silence returned. In the distance, one could hear the rumbling of the departing storm.

We waited a while to see if the haunting was really over. Then we returned to the Vignauds, who were already waiting for us with worried faces. The butler and chauffeur followed shortly after.

“There was nothing downstairs, Mademoiselle,” Laurent reported. “How about you?”

“Nothing here either,” Miray reported, puzzled. “We should try to get some sleep. Tomorrow we will get to the bottom of this.”

We returned to our rooms. I lay in my bed, turned off the light, and stared at the canopy. After this eerie event, sleep was out of the question. When I turned my head to the side, I saw through the gap under the adjoining door that the light in Miray’s room was still on. I knocked quietly and was invited in.

Miray sat in her bed and looked at me. She had thrown her robe over the chair of the secretary. Now she wore a white nightgown. For the first time, I saw her in short sleeves, and I immediately noticed her strong arm muscles. I also saw a scar on her left upper arm from an old injury.

“Dian, I guess this is not the right time for a hanky-panky between fiancés,” she said with a cheeky grin.

I agreed with her. “What do you think that was?”

“No idea! But there must be a rational explanation. Or do you believe in ghosts?”

“Not really, but these dream worlds have nothing rational about them.”

Miray nodded and yawned heartily. “Hopefully, the witching hour is over now. I’m dead tired. Let’s continue tomorrow.”

Embarrassed, I looked at her bed. I was afraid to sleep alone, but I couldn’t possibly ask my companion if she would let me crawl under her blanket. So I wished her goodnight, went back to my room, and quietly closed the door. From the bed, I stared at the light gap for a while until it went out. Shortly after, I fell asleep.

The next morning, the sun shone into my room, making the events of the previous night feel like the memory of a bad dream. I looked out my window and saw that my fiancée was already awake and jogging in the garden in improvised sportswear. She repeatedly had to dodge the large puddles left by the nighttime thunderstorm.

My stomach growled, so I freshened up and went downstairs for breakfast. In the salon, I met Jérôme, who looked at me with dark circles under his eyes. “Breakfast is served on the terrace, Monsieur,” he said, pointing to an open veranda door. There, Henri and Zoé were already seated at the table and greeted me with scratchy voices. Paule curtsied awkwardly and helped me to my chair while Denise took a coffee pot from a serving cart. As she did so, she knocked over a cup, which fell and shattered. Agnès looked at her reproachfully and went to get a dustpan.

A few minutes later, Miray entered the terrace and sat down next to me. “I hope you’ve left me something,” she said cheerfully, taking a croissant. Of all of us, she seemed to have survived the night the best, perhaps apart from the twins, who were still sleeping.

Laurent came running from the side wing. “Monsieur! Madame!” he called excitedly. “Come quickly! You must see this!”

We jumped up and followed him. He led us to the far side of the wing. There, he pointed to the wall of the house. In large, red letters, the name ELODIE was smeared on the plaster.

Henri turned pale. “Is this supposed to be a bad joke?” he shouted angrily and stomped back into the house.

“Is that the name of the dead girl?” Miray asked.

Zoé looked worriedly after her husband. Then she shook her head. “No, the dead girl was named Claire. Elodie means nothing to me.”

We returned to the breakfast table and ate our food thoughtfully. After that, Miray and I went to my room, where she silently looked out the window.

“What an adventure,” I sighed. “We have a ghost by the pond, this bone-chilling thumping in the night, and now this name on the wall.”

“The wrong name, not the girl who drowned in the pond. None of this makes any sense!”

She flopped onto my bed, and I sat beside her. Together, we stared into space.

“Miray?” I finally asked. “What will happen if we fail to solve the task? Will we be trapped in this dream forever?”

She looked at me with her icy blue eyes and seemed to carefully consider her answer. Then she suddenly jumped up. “We’re not there yet, Dian! I’m sure we’ll find an explanation for this haunting.”

We went down the grand staircase to the entrance hall when the doorbell rang. Agnès hurried over and opened the door to a man, about 40 years old, well-dressed, of sturdy build, with a puffy red face. He took his cigar out of his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke into the maid’s face.

“You took your sweet time, girl!” he growled. “Come on, take me to your master, he’s expecting me.”

“Who shall I announce?”

“Who shall you announce? My name is Farges!”

Agnès curtsied and led the visitor into the salon before leaving. We went down the stairs and watched him from a safe distance. He strutted around the room like a rooster in a henhouse.

When Paule entered, he rudely ordered her to bring him a cognac and gave her a slap on the rear. She curtsied obediently and hurried off. “And bring the good stuff,” Farges called after her, “not that swill Henri serves his guests!”

Then he noticed us. When he saw Miray, he grinned broadly, laid his cigar in an ashtray, and smoothed his thinning hair.

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure yet!” he exclaimed delightedly, walking towards her. “Antoine Farges, broker, but you may call me Antoine. And what is your charming name, Mademoiselle?”

“Miray,” she introduced herself unenthusiastically, “I am the niece of Madame and Monsieur Vignaud.”

“Enchanté,” he purred, grabbing her hand and giving it a mock kiss. He then gave me a short, disdainful look. “That’s your brother, I assume?”

“No, that’s Dian, my fiancé.”

The oily grin instantly fell from his face.

At that moment, Paule returned with a tray holding a well-filled cognac snifter. Farges took it, sipped it, and grumbled, “Well, it’s acceptable.”

The maid curtsied and stood discreetly in a corner, waiting for new instructions.

Farges took another sip and looked me up and down. “Your fiancé, huh? He looks like a pauper, Mademoiselle Miray. Don’t waste yourself on such a good-for-nothing! You deserve better.”

“You’re probably thinking of yourself?”

Farges nodded patronizingly. “Why should you settle for less?”

“What a generous offer,” Miray thanked him, taking a step towards Farges. “But there’s a problem. I don’t associate with bullies who lack respect, intelligence, and good manners.”

That hit the mark. Farges’s face turned red with anger. He raised his hand threateningly, but Miray didn’t move and looked him straight in the eye. She seemed to almost hope that he would slap her. His hand trembled, then he capitulated, downed the cognac, and shouted at Paule, “Is there nothing to drink in this damn house? Girl, fetch me the whole bottle!”

At that moment, Agnès entered the salon and led Farges into Henri’s study. We looked at each other, surprised by the scene that had just unfolded before us.

“That was very brave of you, Mademoiselle,” Paule whispered from her corner. She was trembling all over. “It seemed as if you weren’t afraid of Monsieur at all!”

Miray chuckled briefly. “Afraid of that blowhard, Paule? His authority is all he has. Getting backtalk was surely a new experience for him.”

We went into the garden to search for clues. We started with the pond. It looked as neglected as the rest of the estate. The water was murky and largely overgrown with reeds and bulrushes. A narrow footpath, completely overgrown, ran along the shore.

“If there were any tracks, they’ve been washed away by the thunderstorm,” Miray noted resignedly. “We’re getting nowhere here. Let’s examine the house wall.”

On the side wing, the name was still smeared on the wall in large letters. The writing, which seemed deep red in the morning, now had a brownish hue. My companion moistened her finger and wiped it through the color. Then she looked at the result and finally murmured, “This doesn’t really help us either.”

I had a different opinion. Miray had become so fixated on her search for clues that she had apparently missed an important trait of our unpleasant visitor. “It can only be Farges,” I voiced my suspicion aloud.

“Farges? How do you figure?”

“He said earlier he’s a broker. He surely has an interested buyer for the house and is trying to drive the price down with the haunting. Maybe he even wants it for himself.”

“You think he played the ghost by the pond?”

I nodded. “And he smeared a random name on the wall. It did not fail to have an effect.”

“The name was written with animal blood, I suspect. That could only have come from the kitchen.”

“From the kitchen? Why do you think that?”

“The homemade boudin noir last night, remember?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“That’s fried blood sausage!”

“Yuck!” I exclaimed, looking at her in horror. “You let me eat that?”

“It seemed to taste excellent to you, the way you wolfed it down and even asked for seconds.”

She pounded her fist against the wall, but it was competely unimpressed. “What about the tremors? They definitely came from inside the house.”

“We’ll figure that out too.”

When we searched for the source of the thumping last night, we had the impression it got louder the closer we got to the tower. So we decided to start our search there. Inside the tower was a stone spiral staircase. We climbed it and found an old wooden ladder at its end, leading to the top.

Miray suddenly turned pale and stared fearfully at the hatch at the top. “Dian,” she said in a trembling voice, “please be kind and go up the ladder alone. Will you do that?”

I looked at her, surprised. Where had the brave Miray gone who had just confronted a strong man?

“You’re afraid of heights?” I asked, concerned.

She nodded, embarrassed.

“Then let me handle this.”

I climbed the ladder and reached a circular, unused room under the open beams of the conical roof. A row of windows provided a panoramic view of the pond and the park. Some panes were weathered and broken. Shards and droppings from pigeons and bats lay on the floor. The intense smell of excrement and dust almost took my breath away.

“Nobody has been up here for a long time,” I called down, coughing. “Let’s get out of here.”

I climbed back down the ladder. Next to it was an old wooden door that creaked and groaned open, revealing the attic. We searched for a light switch, but the attic wasn’t electrified. A bit of light filtered through a few oval dormer windows with foggy panes. Old, rusty bed frames, blackboards, school desks, and other furniture from the school days were stored there. We could faintly hear the ticking of the roof clock’s mechanism, slow and steady.

“There’s nothing here but junk,” Miray observed. “Maybe the tremors came from the cellar.”

We closed the door and descended the spiral staircase to the cellar. It was a labyrinth of corridors and chambers filled with supplies and wine bottles. Cables and pipes ran along the walls and ceilings like veins. But we found nothing that could have caused the night’s noise.

Through an iron door that could only be opened from the inside, we reached the garden on a remote side of the building. Frustrated, we sat on the edge of the fountain.

“We’re getting nowhere,” Miray sighed.

I nodded. “Do you think Jérôme could bring us some coffee and cake for refreshment?”

“Don’t tell me you’re hungry again!”

She looked at the roof clock, then grumbled, “That stupid clock without hands is driving me crazy.”

Suddenly, she jumped up and stared at the roof.

“Damn it! We’re such idiots!” she exclaimed. “Who goes to the trouble of winding a clock that has no hands?”

We hurried back up the tower, entered the attic, and found the clock mechanism in a dark corner. It was an open metal frame with numerous gears that moved almost imperceptibly slowly. A long pendulum swung back and forth, and a small dial showed the time.

Next to the clock was a makeshift wooden frame equipped with boards that looked like flaps at the top. On the boards lay large chunks of cement. Each flap was held by a latch. Gears and chains connected these latches to the clock.

“There’s our ghost!” I cheered. “The clockwork was tampered with. It operates the flaps, and the weights fall one by one.”

“And everything is already prepared for another ghostly hour tonight,” Miray added. “Now look there!”

She pointed to a corner next to the clockwork. Someone had left an old, tattered dress, a brush in a bowl of dried blood, and a few empty cement bags.

“Looks like we found our ghost’s hideout, Dian. Can you disable the mechanism somehow?”

I pointed to a small lever on the clock. “I could just turn off the chimes, that should do it.”

“It would be better if our ghost doesn’t find out that we discovered his secret.”

I thought for a moment. “I could take the chain off the gear. Then it looks like it slipped off.”

Miray nodded. “Very good! Looks like we have a plan. Tonight, we’ll prepare everything and then lie in wait.”

I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of spending the night in the dark attic, but it was indeed the simplest way to catch the person behind the haunting.

After dîner, we retreated to our rooms early on the pretext of being tired from the previous night which had been far too short, and under Aunt Zoé’s smug grin, who didn’t buy this excuse.

Unfortunately, we had no flashlight in our luggage. So we used the twilight to sneak through the construction site to the tower and then to the attic.

In the poor light conditions, it wasn’t easy to disable the mechanism. I took the chain off the gear and arranged it to look like a defect. Meanwhile, Miray had pushed an old bed frame into a corner, placed a mattress on it, and camouflaged it with two school desks.

“Now we wait,” she said, brushing the dust from her clothes. We took off our shoes and lay down side by side on the creaking bed.

The sun had already set, and only a little pale moonlight came through the oval dormer windows. The steady ticking of the clockwork had an almost hypnotic effect on me. Occasionally, I heard the faint scratching and scurrying of a mouse.

As the night progressed, the attic grew colder. We cuddled together to keep each other warm. It gave me a cozy feeling of security to feel Miray so close to me. As eerie as the situation we were in was, I still hoped it wouldn’t end too soon.

Finally, at one o’clock, the clockwork started to rattle loudly. The mechanism with the weights remained motionless.

“No haunting tonight,” Miray whispered to me.

“Yeah, our ghost won’t like that,” I whispered back. “I’m curious to see who will come to check.”

But no one came. At some point, I heard Miray snoring softly. I decided to let her sleep until I heard something. Then I too fell into a dreamless sleep.

A shaking woke me, and I opened my eyes. The soft light of dawn filtered through the windows into the dusty air of the attic.

“Wake up, Dian!” my companion whispered. “I don’t think our ghost will come now. Let’s go back downstairs.”

I got up, stretched, and went to the clockwork. The chain still lay next to the gear, and the weights were on the wooden frame. Whoever had constructed this had undoubtedly mechanical skills and craftsmanship.

On my way back to the bed, I stepped on something sharp and screamed loudly.

“What’s wrong?” Miray asked, startled.

“It was foolish of me to walk around here in socks,” I scolded and pulled a small, round splinter of wood from my foot. “Luckily, it wasn’t a rusty nail.”

“Let me see that,” she asked. I gave her the splinter, and she examined it closely. Then she grinned broadly. “You just found the missing piece of the puzzle. Now I know who our ghost is.”

“Because of the splinter?”

“That’s no splinter! It’s a broken toothpick that was chewed on.”

“It’s Laurent!” I exclaimed, surprised. “He was chewing on a toothpick while the maids were unloading our luggage.”

“Right! He wasn’t present when the ghost appeared by the pond. He has access to the tower and the kitchen without arousing suspicion. And he is strong and skilled enough to build such an infernal machine.”

“Finally, we have a hot lead! What do we do now?”

“Now we take advantage of the early hour and search the old stable before Laurent shows up. Maybe we’ll find more clues.”

We left the attic and reached the garden through the cellar. As we approached the stable, we noticed the door was open. It led to a small workshop. Next to a massive bench drill that drew the eye, tools hung neatly arranged on the wall. Various woods, stones, and other materials were stored on a shelf. Across from it, a desk stood by a window, and Laurent sat at the desk, asleep.

His head rested on the desktop. Then I noticed the bloody stone next to him. A red puddle slowly spread out and dripped from the desk.

“The secret seems bigger than I thought,” Miray sighed. She briefly examined the lifeless chauffeur before opening a drawer in the desk, rummaging through it, and pulling out a small necklace with a medallion. Inside the locket were two photos, on the left a picture of Laurent and on the right a young woman. The initials EC were engraved on the outside.

Next, she took out a small metal figure and examined it from all sides.

“That’s probably the lion the twins found by the pond. What do you think?”

She handed me the figure. It was a small lion made of cast iron, standing on a metal plate and roaring. I immediately recognized what it was.

“That’s the hood ornament of an old Peugeot! What a beautiful piece. Unfortunately, it’s badly oxidized, and the left front paw is broken off.”

In the meantime, Miray had found a folder with newspaper clippings in the drawer and read the first snippet. She showed it to me and pointed to a photo.

“Do you recognize her? That’s the young woman from the locket. She was hit by a car and killed, and the driver fled. Now guess what her name was!”

“Elodie?”

“Bingo! She was Elodie Collard. She must have been very close to Laurent.”

“We can no longer ask him who she was.”

Miray nodded before continuing. “Another article states that Henri’s Peugeot was stolen the same evening while he was at a souper with friends. The police suspect a connection between the accident and the theft and ask witnesses to come forward.”

She looked sadly at the motionless victim.

“That he is now lying here is surely no coincidence. Laurent had probably suspected from the start that Henri was the driver in the accident. But suspicion wasn’t enough, so he took the job as chauffeur to find evidence.”

“And then the twins brought him the hood ornament!”

“Yes. Laurent must have recognized it immediately, just as you did. Now he had the proof that the Peugeot wasn’t stolen but disposed of in the pond.”

It all made sense.

“Why did Laurent stage the haunting?” I asked.

“Maybe to make Henri nervous. He walked around the pond as a ghost to show that he knew where the Peugeot was. He smeared Elodie’s name on the wall because he knew Henri would understand the message. With the loud thumping in the night, he wanted to increase the pressure on him.”

“And his goal? Did he want Henri to turn himself in to the police?”

“No,” boomed a powerful voice behind us, “the bastard wanted to blackmail him.”

We turned around and saw Farges. He stood in the door, pointing a gun at us. Behind him was Henri, pale and intimidated.

“What’s your role in this story, Monsieur Farges?” Miray asked. But then she understood. “I assume Henri let you go for a drunken joyride in his Peugeot. You were the one driving when Elodie was killed! You then threatened Henri. If he didn’t help you, you would tell the police he was the driver. So you invented the story of the stolen car and gave each other an alibi, saying you were at the souper the whole time.”

“You’re a smart girl,” Farges nodded. “After the haunted night, Henri called me over. He found a blackmail letter on his desk and asked for my help. Well, I took care of it, just as I will take care of this problem here.”

“What are you planning?” Henri asked anxiously.

“I knew these two would only cause trouble! We’ll tie them up and gag them. Then I’ll set fire to the stable. By the time the fire department arrives, everything that could incriminate us will be a pile of ashes.”

Farges pointed his gun at Miray. “Come on, take a rope and tie up your fiancé. It will be my pleasure to tie you up personally.”

“Give it up, Farges,” Miray said calmly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Farges laughed loudly. “You misunderstand the situation, Mademoiselle. I’m the one with the gun.”

Then everything happened very quickly. With a swift move, Miray grabbed Farges’s arm and pushed it aside so that the gun was no longer pointed at us. A shot was fired, shattering a window. She then twisted into her opponent and disarmed him. The gun fell to the floor, and she kicked it to me. Next, she threw Farges with a hip throw, sending him crashing loudly to the ground in front of her. She kept his arm twisted and pinned his body with her foot. Helplessly, Farges writhed under her control. He tried to break free, but she twisted his arm until he finally gave up.

“And what good is your gun now, Monsieur Farges?” Miray asked her defeated opponent, who lay motionless before her.

I picked up the revolver and pointed it at Farges while Miray helped him up. We then led him and Henri to the house, where Jérôme, alerted by the shot, came running towards us. He was surprised by the sight but immediately returned to call the police.

As we reached the house and Zoé saw her husband, she ran to him, hugged him, and asked what this was all about. He remained silent until the police arrived. Then he confessed the whole story of Elodie, Farges, and the chauffeur. He and Farges were arrested and taken away.

“With that, Elodie’s curse should have come to an end,” Miray noted, pointing to the green circle on her wrist. “Let’s pack. I think our presence is neither required nor desired anymore. After all, I just handed my uncle over to the police.”

“Though it wasn’t him who drove the car,” I noted as we went to our rooms.

She nodded. “That’s true. I hope he can prove that in court. Farges will try every trick in the book to save his own neck.”

After I packed my things, I stood with my suitcase in Miray’s room, watching her pack her last items. Something was bothering me, and finally, I found the courage to ask her.

“How did you deal with Farges? It looked like martial arts.”

She nodded, embarrassed. “It was. Just don’t ask me which kind.”

Even though I had noticed that Miray was strong and kept herself fit, this new side of her surprised me.

“That’s why you weren’t afraid of Farges in the salon yesterday when he wanted to hit you.”

“I almost wished he had,” she said sadly. “Then I would have broken his bones yesterday, and Laurent might still be alive now.”

“In any case, I find it very impressive!”

“Do you? Actually, I detest violence.”

The contradiction puzzled me. “Then why did you learn it?” I asked her.

She made a serious face. “I didn’t ask for it. Two dreams before we met, I found myself as the only woman in a martial arts school somewhere deep in Asia. The school was in total seclusion, like a monastery in the middle of a vast wasteland. My task was to defeat the master in combat. I was stuck in that nightmare for almost ten months until I finally succeeded.”

I was shocked. So far, the dreams had lasted at most a few days and were mostly fun. That they could last for months was unexpected.

“What about your scar on your upper arm?”

“Looks like someone’s been looking at me very closely,” she remarked, and I blushed.

Then she smiled briefly and nodded. “The scar is from a fight at that school. My opponent had a torch and burned me there. I’ve had it in my dream journeys ever since.”

“Does that mean if a shot from Farge’s weapon had hit us, we could have died?” I asked, horrified.

She shrugged. “Let me know when you find out.”

As Agnès and Paule carried our luggage to the car, we said goodbye to Aunt Zoé and the twins. We then shook hands with the maids before Jérôme opened the door of the Citroën for us. “I’m afraid our chauffeur is currently indisposed,” he said formally, “so you will have to make do with me.”

As the car started, we looked back one last time and waved goodbye until the house disappeared behind the trees. The car passed through the large gate and turned onto the country road.

“Are you ready?” Miray asked, extending her arm.

I nodded. “Until the next dream, Miray.”

Then we touched our wrists, and everything went black.