"The One Who Sees"
That was what Grand-mère Jardin called certain psychic individuals who could see past and future events that are distant in time or space. In my sis's case, she was a Retrocog (past-sighter) rather than a Precog (future sighter).
At this point, Kes was surprised and confused, but she was also skeptical. Sure, she saw and felt some weird stuff, but that didn't mean she was supernaturally "gifted."
Other people have "seen" the man in the garden, Shelia Blackshear the oni, had seen him too although what she saw was more like a misty blob rather than a solid humanoid form. Everyone else had that familiar “gut instinct" or that “hunch” that someone was out there in the dark even though they couldn't see who it was or there was “ swirling tension in the air”.
Intuition it's called. We are all born with it. Animals used this valuable sense all the time to survive in the wild, whereas anthros and humans rely more on logic and reasoning instead of instincts. In Kes's opinion, everyone's born with a sense of talents and soul gifts. Just that some people can tune into these abilities more easily than others. It's like singing or dancing, for example; anyone can sing or dance, but not everyone chooses a showbiz career or is the best talent material.
"I don't think he is there now, " Grand-mère Jardin explained, looking around gravely at her inquisitive boarders, "because I am here and I do not see.
"Marie is the only one here who sees clearly," Grand-mère Jardin always insisted on using my sister's French name even though Kes hated it, "but she will not see him when she is with people who don't see. "And it is best that one doesn't look him in the face for it is not a good sight to see."
"What?" Kes's eyebrows arched. "What is he then? A ghost?"
"A demon?" said Olivia Satoui, her face ashen.
"Only the gods could say what he truly is," the housemother replied. "Who he was I can perhaps tell you. Nearly two hundred years ago, there dwelt in this same parish an old Gentry family by the name of de Gourcuff, the eldest son, whose name was Arzhel, was rather handsome and charming, but alas, not very good. Besides being something of a cad, he was also well-versed in the dark arts.
"Eventually, the young warlock fell passionately in love with Marguerite, the youngest daughter of the Vandemar family. She was a beautiful slip of a girl, pale and gray-eyed, and already sought after by many suitors.
"Arzhel would have eliminated the competition through magical means, but the Vandemars were a powerful family. Besides being wealthy merchants, they were also powerful coast wizards, steeped in the occult wisdom of Europe's northern reaches. Marguerite herself descended from Louchi the Sorceress Queen, and like her illustrious forebear, could assume many forms.
"Arzhel became particularly riled when his boisterous burly cousin--Phillipe Clemmon appeared on the scene. Growing green and yellow with envy and jealousy, he watched from the sidelines as Phillipe cleared the field of all other rivals and the fair Margueritte returning the champion's attention. Perhaps Arzhel saw himself as a knight-errant with the formidable Black Knight being Phillipe Clemmon himself. As for Margueritte, she was from the damsel-in-distress often depicted in chivalric romances, she was a free-spirited fey woman who was a bit of a flirt. Had she known more about Arzhel's history, she would have discouraged the highborn elf's attention.
"For some time, much to the amusement of their neighbors, the pairs tried to one-up one another--Phillipe with his social and athletic skill, Arzhel with his dancing and singing voice. There were even bets placed on which suitor would Margueritte make her chosen mate. As the gossip flowed and the jokes began, it was clear that Phillipe was the town favorite; unflattering comparisons were soon made between the friendly, sociable rustic and the not-so-studly Highborn. The warlock, however, said nothing, but quietly bided his time.
"A few days after Margueritte had told him that Phillipe was her choice, Arzhel acted. In the dead of night, he went to the low places in town and met with certain individuals who cast no shadows. And at secret moonlit coves and remote moorland crossroads, he made bargained with the dark entities there and requested certain Artifacts; one of which you are all now familiar with--the peculiar Baldpate Room with its myriad of floating keys. Each one capable of opening a gateway or portals to its country of origin.
"As to that One Key that somehow snuck into Marie's possession, it's now safely bottled up in a monastic vault. Thank the gods Marie was reached in time before that One Key could let Him out. That only key is a multi-changer, capable of shifting and opening any lock, including combination types. And the longer it is kept in a person's possession, the more their obsession grows to unlock that hidden door and see Monsieur Arzhel up close."
The old woman took a sip of her tea before regarding her listeners darkly. "As to the final fate of Phillipe Clemmon, we have some account. According to the gossip vine, just three days before his wedding, he was shaving before a mirror. Whatever horrific sight he glimpsed over his shoulder caused the straight razor to slip across his throat."
Jaws dropped, followed by a series of shocked gasps. Across from Kes, Anna the shy nerdy girl blanched before clamping her hands across her mouth. My sis glanced back to Grand-mère Jardin questionably.
"All and all there was a lot of blood," the housemother went on with a sonorous voice, "and a look of extreme terror still etched across his dead face... as if he looked into Hell itself.
"As for Marguerite, after nearly wasting away from grief, she eventually married again this time to an Icelandic seer from the Vestmanna Islands and went back with him never to return."
"And Arzhel?" Shelia asked before the same question even left Kes's mouth. "What happened to him?"
"There was a dreadful 'accident'... or maybe it was a deliberate act devised by the vengeful Vandemars or maybe someone from the demonic realm.
"While he was walking home, he was savagely attacked by something and his face was disfigured. Magic couldn't fix everything and the surgeons at that time couldn't do detailed facial features.
Around the table, there were exclamations of shock and disgust.
“Oh Gawd!” Abricot Lewis exclaimed, sitting up so fast that her chair scraped against the oak flooring with a screech. Everyone sitting around her winced.
"Well damn," murmured Shelia with a rueful shake of her horned head. "That sucks."
"Très terrible," Grand-mère Jardin gave a nod of agreement. "He had been so handsome, and now... he had nothing left... except for the eyes. So he became like a freak of nature and had to go about wearing a thick veil. And all his friends and former lovers stayed away because he was so hideous to look upon
"Eventually, his father commissioned a well-known Venetian mask maker to create a replacement face for his son, and a very realistic replica it was, with eye, nose, and mouth holes. But still, people treated him like a pariah, some going as far as mocking him to his new face. So his parents brought him here, it was a summer residence back then and hired some servants to aid and watch him, but they didn't watch him closely enough. Not long afterward, he was found lying in the middle of a topiary maze, an empty laudanum bottle by his side."
“Oh...my…gods,” Anna whispered in shock. "Poor guy."
Shelia crinkled her nose in a slight frown. She blew out a slight raspberry, clearly unimpressed by the shy girl's sentimental piffle.
"So why does he bother coming back then?" Kes asked, clearly baffled by all ghosts' behavior. "If he had so much suffering here?"
"Qui sait?" Grand-mère Jardin simply shrugged her narrow shoulders. "Qui sait avec certitude... why he comes? Or where he goes exactly when he is not here. Like I said before, it is better for one not to see him ...not even to console him. As one popular saying goes--Il ne faut pas se fier aux apparences--'One should not trust appearances.'
"In life, he used his good looks to lead people astray, and now... Well, he's like a Venus flytrap waiting for its attractive petals to lure in prey. Already five people have looked and four have died within two or three days. The fifth... hélas... still quite mad, I'm afraid."
Suddenly and without warning, a shrill, ear-piercing scream echoed through the study. Everyone shot bolt upright in their seat, eyes wide in terror. The next moment, everyone was taking the stairs two at a time in a mad dash for Carrol's room. The scream had issued from that direction and, for one panic-stricken moment, Kes had visions of that pudgy American lying in a pool of blood like the unfortunate Monsier Clemmon or being dragged bodily away by that Thing that once had been of the living.
Upon entering the second-flood hall, they instead, found Carrol slumped over in Nissa's arms.
"Izora again," the granddaughter said grimly, holding Carrol up with great difficulty. "This time as L'Ankou."
“Quoi?” Grand-mère Jardin asked incredulously, pushing her way through the muttering crowd. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"
"Ce gamin changeling Izora!" Nissa burst out frustratedly. "Ma terreur d'une demi-soeur! She's been trying to get Carrol traumatisé enough to leave the house, maybe even go back to les États I've caught her a few times, dressed up as other monsters." She drew herself up and flashed an indignant glance down the hall toward the corner room where 'Ce gamin changeling' was skulking. "Including that misérable Monsier Arzhel!"