The Crying Woman

To My Most Cherished Reader,

Throughout the time I have spent sharing these dark and impure tales with you I have labored under a great sadness. On many occasions I have been asked about the well being of my family, the comings and goings of their lives. Imagine my embarrassment when I am forced to reply with a very simple “They’re fine.” When in truth I have no earthly idea whether they are even still among the living or not. It would cause immeasurable shame to them if they were to ever know the extent to which I have plunged my hands into the sea of human misery. Not to mention what sort of hellish, twisted items I have been able to dredge up and display with all the pride of a new father showing the world his firstborn son. There can be no doubt that if they were ever to be publicly associated with myself and my somewhat deformed literary children that a profound sense of humiliation would cling to every branch of my family tree. In spite of the potential for complete embarrassment on the part of my relatives, I continue on creating and sharing these awful, chilling anecdotes. I am secure in the knowledge that there are a great many more disturbing and frightful things to have hidden on one’s conscience. One such individual is my one-time neighbor, Marion Renault.

In his early forties, somewhat portly, losing more than his fair share of his graying locks Marion was the proprietor of one of the most charming inns in all of Provence. The Dancing Reindeer was known throughout France not only because of its many pleasant and relaxing facilities, (which included but were not limited to), warm mineral baths, massage treatments, and more peace and quiet than any one individual could handle in a lifetime. All of which were lavish and wondrous to be sure, but to the savvy traveler the real source of the inn’s drawing power was the fine cuisine it offered. Couples and lone journeymen arrived from miles around to sample Marion’s wares, for he was not only master of this charming hostelry, but also served as head chef. Most patrons agreed that it was the latter endeavor rather than the former where his true talent was readily evident. His culinary creations were but a step from being called legendary. People at court still wax poetic when trying to describe his coq au vin to the uninitiated.

From the outside the resort and its keeper looked to be the picture of contentment and happiness. To increase this overall feeling of jocularity throughout his property Marion had even taken to drawing up the most charming little signs placed around the resort, each emblazoned with comical pictures of an intoxicated reindeer pointing the way to the different activity areas that could be found. If the inebriated caribou was shown taking a swim a guest knew the pool patio was not far away in the indicated direction. All seemed happy and gay when in the middle of a very robust summer season there were whispers of a most unpleasant nature beginning to circulate. Something was amiss at The Dancing Reindeer.

One morning Marion heard two of his patrons complaining of a night of wakefulness. Eavesdropping further he learned that this night of fragmented slumber was caused by their being disturbed by the most unpleasant sound of a woman sobbing. So violent and fervent was the lamentation that it woke them from their rest and then prevented them from sleeping the entire night. Most disturbing of all though is that the guests seemed to be under the impression that these mournful sounds were originating from just outside their door. Marion brought forth two of his delicious vanilla cream éclairs from the kitchen. These delectable prizes were given to the sleepless couple in an attempt to make good for their lack of rest. Looking at the remainder of his smiling patrons he could not imagine which one of them could have kept these people up last night. All the guests in the common room seemed to be in good spirits and completely free of vexation. Perhaps it was just the sound of the wind howling that kept them awake and in their sleepless state imagined the noise to be coming from outside their door.

As the breakfast rush wound down Marion thought very little more about the couple’s complaint and began preparations for the midday meal. While slicing vegetables to be used as a base for his chicken and onion sauté he noticed that one of his knives had been misplaced.

“Damn assistants,” he muttered “don’t they know how to return things to their proper place?” Marion retrieved the wayward cutlery and placed it back into his butcher’s block. The bell at the front desk rang. Wiping his hands after a quick rinse, the innkeeper trotted into the lobby to see what was needed. Upon arriving, he found the lobby to be completely vacated. Perhaps one of the children of the guests was playing tricks. He promptly returned to the kitchen only to find that now all of the knives from the butcher’s block were laid out upon the counter. Marion sighed and resigned himself to the fact that he was to be butt of someone’s joke. Just then, the bell on the front desk began furiously ringing. As Marion charged toward the lobby to try and catch the prankster, he spilled some of his vegetables and his flour tin onto the floor. He skidded to a halt when he observed once again that the lobby was utterly devoid of any human presence. The frustrated owner cursed under his breath and stalked his way back to the kitchen. He promptly let out a loud, almost womanly scream. Every piece of cutlery from the kitchen was firmly implanted in the ceiling! Sweat broke out on Marion’s brow as he noticed something even more disturbing than the knives stabbed into the ceiling. Whoever did it had not disturbed the flour on the floor in any visible way. In spite of this Marion still asked the members of the staff if any of them had been in the kitchen. It came as no real surprise after all he had seen that all of them denied being anywhere near the kitchen. He walked out to the storage shed and found the inn’s only ladder locked safely inside.

He was loathe to even go near the kitchen again, but he knew that unless he planned on having the guests of The Dancing Reindeer go hungry he had to go back in there. He stood outside the door for many minutes. It used to be his favorite room at the resort, but now presented him with a slowly growing feeling of dread. The exiled chef placed his hand on the swinging door and gently pushed it inwards. He braced himself for anything, but he only saw the knives still in the ceiling and the mess of onions, greens and flour on the floor. For the rest of his afternoon of cleaning up and cooking lunch, Marion kept one eye over his shoulder. He told himself that it was to possibly catch any further attempts to make him look foolish, but he knew that was not true. He was afraid. In spite of his anxiety however, the rest of the day passed without incident.

Later that night, alone in his darkened bedchamber, Marion could not help but dwell on the day’s peculiarities. Over and over he tried to puzzle out a rational explanation to account for all he had seen in the kitchen, but he could not. His thoughts then turned to the inn itself. People had hinted many times at how much money he could receive for selling the place. He knew it would be a handsome profit to be sure. A great deal of money was spent in refurbishing it. He remembered when he first journeyed to Provence. What a ramshackle place this was. He almost had to rebuild the place from the ground up. He loved it here, and in the end it was this and the work he had put into the resort that kept him here. Too much hard work had been put in and too much had been sacrificed for him to ever abandon The Dancing Reindeer. His thoughts wandered pleasantly on all he had accomplished in his life. Just as his mind was about to drift into the misty borders of sleep he heard it.

Very softly, but very distinctly he heard the sound of a woman crying. A heartfelt lamentation that shook him so deeply that his very soul seemed to be awash in pity for whatever woman was plagued by such complete sadness. Without dressing in anything other than a nightshirt the innkeeper charged into the corridor to try and locate the source of the sound. It seemed to be coming from all directions, almost as if the hallway itself was weeping over some ancient wrong left un-righted. After a fruitless search Marion returned, deeply disturbed to his room. Finally after another hour of restlessness, when the weeping noises died down the worried innkeeper finally fell asleep.

Come the next morning Marion questioned each employee to discover if they had heard anything out of the ordinary. As one could imagine, not a single one heard or saw a thing, but he doubted their sincerity. How could that have been missed? Perhaps they did not wish to agitate him after the episode he told them about in the kitchen. As he finished his inquiries the front desk bell chimed. Only this time guests had arrived at The Dancing Reindeer. A noble couple, the Count and Countess de Stasny along with their newborn son were making arrangements to spend a few pleasant days at the resort. The new parents were looking forward to indulging in some of the inn’s more famous amenities, especially the natural mineral spa, which was said to have various reparative and medicinal properties. A fine paying family was just the thing to try and return Marion’s world to at least an appearance of normalcy.

The evening meal was served and received with great enthusiasm by the guests. Slow cooked, spitted pork roast infused with rosemary was another specialty of the house that was not to be missed. Many speculated on how Marion was not placed among the great chefs of Paris. As dessert was brought out the innkeeper beamed with pride. He chatted amiably with his guests when someone asked him if there was a ghost at The Dancing Reindeer. After nearly dropping his brandy, Marion scoffed at such a ridiculous notion. He told his guests that he would surely chide the staff for telling wild stories.

“Please Dear God,” he thought “don’t let this go any further.” Rumors of the inn being haunted would ruin him. Like many prayers though, Marion’s too would go unanswered.

In the middle of the night, a violent shaking awakened him. It was Marie, one of the chambermaids dressed in nothing but a flimsy nightdress. Many was the night that the innkeeper dreamt of Marie entering his room for a late night tryst, but that was clearly not the girl’s intention. She looked terribly frightened.

“Monsieur! Monsieur, wake up! I’ve seen her, the Crying Woman! Come see!” With more shaking Marion rose from his bed and hastily threw on a robe as he followed Marie into the hallway.

“Where did you see her?” The maid led him to the third floor corridor. He needed no further guidance upon reaching the third landing. His ears were assaulted by the noise of sobbing that echoed down the hall. There would be no hiding this from the guests. An ominous blue radiance could be seen from around the corner. Before Marion could reach the turn in the hall an ice cold wind blasted through his bedclothes and practically froze him to the spot. The maid was also shivering and clutching at him either out of fear or need for warmth or both. The blue glow disappeared and it would seem that the “ghost” had departed. How could this have happened? Even though he had not seen it Marion now knew beyond doubt that The Dancing Reindeer was haunted. Word would spread and his business would completely collapse. He was envisioning his life in ruins when a blood-curdling shriek rampaged down the hall. It was coming from the royal suite!

The innkeeper sprinted back to his room to fetch his key ring and then bolted up to the suite where the Count and his family were staying. While knocking furiously Marion fumbled the correct key into the lock. He waited a few seconds (that seemed like a few hours) before entering the room without invitation. An immediate chill washed over his whole being as he saw the ghost in the middle of the room. It looked like a woman in her nightgown with her face covered by a mourning veil. This apparition’s sole pigmentation seemed to come from light iridescent blues and chalky whites. The phantom floated in the center of the room without making a sound. The Countess was crying as the couple’s newborn was still in the nursery. The parents were too frightened to move. The specter then quietly began to weep. As the ferocity of her grieving increased, the baby could be heard crying in the other room. The child’s mother looked frantically from the nursery to the ghost and back again. She desperately wanted to charge in and grab the child but the wraith was obstructing her path. The mother’s eyes widened further as she observed the phantasm harkening to the child’s cries. The spirit dematerialized and the nursery door locked from the inside. The mother bolted to the door and furiously pounded as the sickly azure glow radiated from underneath the barred entryway. Marion slammed his key into the lock, but the mechanism refused to turn. The Count was bellowing prayers and curses with equal vigor when all at once the nursery went completely silent. No sound at all issued from the child’s room. The only sound that could be heard was Marion’s key finally turning in the lock.

The room was deathly still as the innkeeper slowly and with ever increasing dread pushed the door open. The door like the rest of the room was silent as a tomb. The Countess bulled her way past Marion and tumbled headfirst into the nursery. A horrified wail burst from the room and both Marion and the Count knew. The despondent mother carried the still bundle of the newborn into the sitting room. She cradled the child against her breast and slowly almost mechanically rocked back and forth. The baby’s blanket slipped down and Marion gasped as he saw the blue, wrinkled visage staring blankly at him. The Count knelt before his wife and the two young parents grieved over the ruined body of their dead baby. Marion closed the door and walked back toward his room. Every door was opened and each contained a curious face or two. The innkeeper simply told them that the Count’s newborn child had died. He had no desire to recount all he had seen. They’d know soon enough.

Marion sent word to have a doctor sent for, but he knew this was merely a formality. The doctor arrived within the hour. With his fine clothes, graceful carriage, and flashing smile, the only thing that distinguished Dr. Maximilian Gigot from any number of wealthy aristocrats was the black doctor’s satchel he carried with him. After a quick handshake and even quicker introduction Marion escorted him to the royal suite. The Count and his wife were seated on the sofa still clutching the slowly stiffening body of their child. The innkeeper introduced Dr. Gigot. Both nobles raised their eyes for barely a moment, saw the doctor, did not acknowledge him, and continued to try and comfort the baby’s corpse. With a slowness that bordered on reverence Gigot approached the grieving couple. In a calm soothing voice he asked the question that Marion dreaded.

“What happened?” A chill stampeded down Marion’s spine as he awaited the couple’s reaction. Without a word the Countess pulled the baby’s blanket down. The doctor’s brow furrowed as he approached the desiccated body of the child. The Countess clutched her son closer when she gleaned the doctor’s intent. Once again in the gentle velvety voice the reassurance came.

“Please Madame. I am a doctor.” With a bolstering squeeze from her husband, the mother relinquished her hold on her baby. The doctor checked for vital signs, but he knew this was merely procedure. The infant had a grayish blue pallor and was noticeably cold to the touch. It seemed almost as if a chill was originating from inside it. With infinite care Dr. Gigot handed the child back to his mother. He grabbed Marion’s wrist and led him back into the hallway. Gigot whispered to the innkeeper as he closed the door behind him.

“Send for a priest. Monsieur, what happened in there?” Marion merely shook his head and brought the doctor to the lobby. He bade the front desk attendant to send for a priest and he presumed, the coffin cart.

Marion sat silently in the lobby until just after sunrise when a firm and steady knock sounded from the outside. He opened the front door with a trembling hand. It was Father Donatien. Marion instantly knew. Few men, let alone priests filled a doorway the way this one did. Donatien was well over six feet in height with broad shoulders and once had coal black hair that had grayed considerably over the years. His watery blue eyes had a freezing quality that made some individuals more than a little nervous under his gaze. It was rumored that Donatien did not enter the priesthood until later in life after his service in the King’s guard. Supposedly the horrors of war made the young captain slightly mad and as a result he gave up all his worldly possessions to become a man of the cloth. Others thought that he had entered the holy service to escape from a woman that he refused to marry. Most agreed that the old priest with the haunting blue eyes was possessed of an inner fortitude that commanded respect in spite of the idle gossip about how he became a man of God.

“Is it true?” the priest inquired, “Has a child died?” Marion silently nodded as Donatien slowly crossed himself.

“How did it happen?” Gigot rose and gave his professional opinion.

“If I did not know any better Monsignor I would say that the child gave every appearance of having been frozen to death. Not only that, but that he had been that way for a number of years.” Marion poured everyone a brandy.

“And yet I gather that this would be wholly impossible” Donatien replied, “As the child has just passed into the hands of Our Lord this evening.” Gigot nodded. The priest now fixed a piercing gaze on Marion and with a bit more steel in his voice was determined to divine the truth.

“Monsieur, what happened here tonight? Who killed this baby?” Marion drained his glass of the Medoc and related all he had seen to the priest and the incredulous physician. Donatien listened very intently as Marion told him of the ghost, the weeping sounds, and almost as an afterthought the incident with the knives and the flour in the kitchen. Throughout the tale Dr. Gigot repeatedly muttered a single word over and over again.

“Impossible.” The priest however did not say a word until the innkeeper had finished his grisly tale.

“Truly remarkable Monsieur. Surely we have much to do. We must prepare the child and his parents for the funeral rites. Then our real work will begin. Gentlemen we have two souls to lay to rest, that of the Count’s child and that of the Crying Woman.” The doctor put down his drink and stared at the priest.

“Surely Monsignor you don’t mean me?” Donatien snorted a short derisive laugh.

“Indeed I do sir. You are a healer and more often than not by all accounts dealing with the dead is a dangerous affair. We may need your expertise.” Gigot was about to voice a protest when a waved hand from Donatien silenced him.

“What say you Marion?” The innkeeper looked all around the lobby. He took in all he had worked so hard to achieve, all he had accomplished since his wife’s death and was determined not to let it go. All he ever wanted out of life was peace and security and now, an enemy he did not know or understand threatened it with imminent destruction. He finally replied in a breathless whisper.

“Very well.”

It did not take long at all for the gossip to spread like an inferno about what happened at The Dancing Reindeer. What Marion did not expect was that instead of the place being devoid of any customers he found himself without a single vacant room. Apparently once word of the haunted inn reached the nobility they all flocked to the resort like moths to a flame. Gilded carriages of every kind brought the cream of society to stay at Europe’s newest, most famous travel destination. Marion almost hoped that the damnable ghost would make an appearance. If for nothing else it would give these paying customers their money’s worth. While the phantom had not been seen, the corridors of the inn echoed with weeping sounds in the middle of the night and other more minor occurrences seemed to increase steadily. This seemed to keep the aristocrats happy. It became a wagered contention as to which of them would actually see the ghost first.

In the meantime, the coffers were steadily filling up and within a few weeks Marion had more gold than he would ever be able to spend. He didn’t mind taking the money of the nobles but the one person that seemed to move freely among them and thrive in their company was Dr. Gigot. He had taken a leave from his regular practice and stayed at the inn full time. He loved tending to all the petty medical grievances of the aristocracy. He too was being paid handsomely for his efforts. It seemed as if these people had an endless supply of gold and he was determined to walk away with as much of it as he could carry. Only Donatien seemed to wither in the company of the bluebloods. He insisted on staying in town so as not to have to tolerate these people for very long. Having to listen to these licentious libertines in the confession booth was enough to wear a man out. Debauchery and wild expenditure seemed to be the order of the day for these people. One day in the confessional was worth three marching in the army. He wondered what marvels could be accomplished if even one of these wastrels put as much money and effort into science or medicine as they did into the pursuit of pleasure.

He must have dozed off as he was suddenly awoken by a soft knock from the other side of the confessional’s partition.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been many years since my last confession.” Oh no, this is going to be a long one.

“I was once a greens keeper at this inn before the present owner took charge of it. I overheard in town that you were seen there. I also hear tell of the ghost that haunts that place. I am here to tell you that it is my fault that the Crying Woman is here.” This pronouncement made Donatien’s ears prick up.

“Go on my son.” He stammered out while the penitent continued his story.

“My wife Lisanne had died during childbirth and I had no money to give her nor my baby a proper burial. I went and asked the owner for a loan, but he refused. I was desperate so I decided to relieve his wife of some of the jewelry she kept in their bedchamber. I waited until one evening when the owner was away on business and crept into the woman’s bedroom. Unfortunately I woke the woman up and she screamed. I tried to quiet her, but she kept screaming and begging me not to hurt her baby. I cupped a gloved hand over her mouth to silence her, but I must have pressed too hard or covered too much. I smothered her. I tried to wake her but it was no use. Furious knocks came from the other side of the door. I panicked and leapt out the window. I was never found out as the killer. The owner was distraught when he returned. He neglected his duties and after the inn went out of business I found work tending graves in the cemetery including that of the poor woman I murdered. My family was thrown into an unconsecrated pauper’s communal grave. The guilt ate at me daily, more and more, like a cancer. When I heard the story of the Crying Woman…I knew.” The confessor suddenly broke down and sobbed. He found himself unable to speak for a few minutes. Donatien did his best to comfort the repentant murderer.

“My son, your sin is terrible and perhaps it is just that you have suffered as you have, but Our Lord is a just and forgiving God. He knows you are sorry for what you have done and he knows what is in your heart. Go my son. Go and sin no more.” The gardener paused for a moment before leaving.

“My penance Father?” Donatien thought quickly.

“You have suffered enough for your sin, remain faithful in tending the resting place of the dead and remain faithful to God, that will suffice.” The man thanked Donatien profusely before stepping out of the confessional. He left behind a man who was now thrust into his own moral crisis. He had read in some volumes that knowing the true name of a ghost granted certain power over it. He also knew that anything that was heard in confession was strictly confidential. He had never pitted himself against any sort of unnatural creature. He had only heard stories. He would need every advantage he could muster. He knew no mortal weapon could harm the specter so he had to devise some sort of plan. With all the people going to and fro at the resort there would be many innocent bystanders. He knew this would almost certainly be a bloody affair and the fewer people present the better. The unexpected always managed to rear its ugly head.

This axiom was never truer than when the priest received a message from Gigot, imploring him to make haste to the inn immediately. It was not long before he arrived and a feeling of trepidation washed over him. The Marquise de la Croix was checking into the inn with her three month old daughter. They all knew that the ghost had not been seen since the death of the Count’s infant son. He also knew that none of the guests had since arrived with a baby…until now. Marion saw the priest in the lobby and rushed over. Donatien cut him off.

“I know. I saw the child. This gives us no time for delay. Given what you’ve told me about the last appearance of the phantom it most likely will show itself again and try to do harm to that baby.” Marion seemed to be lost in thought only lending half an ear to the clergyman’s counsel.

“Monsieur! Are you listening?”

“Huh?” Marion snapped out of his inner reverie.

“I said I must make preparations. If the ghost does appear in the child’s room I want to be able to prevent its disappearance.” The innkeeper’s mouth went dry as the priest continued.

“Only when it is trapped can it be put to rest.” Marion felt an awful taste rise in his mouth as the priest’s plan dawned on him.

“You will use the child as bait then?” Donatien quickly seized the innkeeper above the elbow and pulled him through the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

“Listen to me very carefully Monsieur. I myself will be committing a great sin by using information that was learned in the sacred confessional and will have to answer to Our Lord for it, but make no mistake, by learning the true name of the ghost that haunts this place will grant me certain power over it. It is not much, but it may be enough to do what I must do to finally give it peace, thereby keeping any more innocents from dying needlessly. And if that means I must have a child in the room with the wraith to accomplish this end then I would gladly do so. A priest’s first duty is ministering to and comforting souls in peril and I can think of no greater need than that of the woman who is forced to walk these halls. Do I make myself completely understood?” Marion nodded silently but had little time for contemplation. His guests were waiting so he screwed a smile onto his face and reemerged to see to the needs of his patrons. He did not see Donatien again until after dinner. The priest was shaking hands with and bowing before the Marquise de la Croix who wore a mask of anxiety etched on her face.

“It is agreed then. We must prepare the child’s room.” Without another word, Donatien charged off to his church to gather his wares. He felt a tightening in his muscles and freshness in his breath that brought memories of his youth flooding into the present. It was what some soldiers called the “Battle Fever”. Thoughts of his days in the Royal Guard, the battles fought, the men he killed, and the victories all marched through his mind. Only now he was preparing to do battle with a foe that was not of this world. Like any military campaign he had weapons that would aid him. He had the creature’s name. If the books were correct this would keep it stilled. And he had an idea (untested as it was) on how to finally put the wayward soul to rest. He stuffed some different items into an old pillowcase and went directly back to the inn.
In the chamber of the Marquise, Donatien moved the furniture as far against the walls as possible leaving a great open space in the center of the room. Marion and the very reluctant Dr. Gigot soon joined him.

“All that remains now,” Donatien advised, “is to wait.” Soon the sun was down and the tension between the three men increased. Gigot had twice drained his brandy flask while listening to Marion fret about this or that. He offered the innkeeper a drink to settle his nerves but Marion refused. Only Donatien seemed composed. He was calmly preparing for what was to come. The priest was on his knees, sitting back on his heels, breathing slowly and deeply. Gigot listened and heard Donatien offer up a prayer for strength and vigilance. The rhythmic sound of the clergyman’s breathing had a relaxing influence on his compatriots. The doctor could feel himself drifting into sleepiness. He knew it must be the brandy taking effect. The physician’s eyelids seemed to be made of lead as slowly but surely he fell asleep. Gigot was having a fitful repose inundated with dreams of crying women. His heart began racing when the crying women all began calling his name. Suddenly he was being forcefully shaken and his eyes snapped open. His vision focused and he saw Donatien gripping his shoulders. The priest whispered to the startled doctor.

“Wake up Gigot. Listen.” Softly like a distant echo the healer heard the sound of a woman grieving. The priest clamped his hand over the doctor’s mouth and whispered,

“Remain silent and stay hidden. Marion keep down even if you see the…” Donatien was cut off as an iridescent blue glow filled the chamber. A frown of disquiet spread across Donatien’s face. He reached into his cassock and produced a silver crucifix that glittered in the sapphire radiance. The innkeeper was visibly shaking as the phantom woman slowly materialized, Her form steadily filled out and it was readily obvious that she was on her knees with her hands over her face and sobbing violently. Donatien’s heart went out to the poor woman. Tonight her suffering would end. (He hoped.) The priest rose to his feet and brandished his crucifix. The ghost with her veiled countenance buried in her hands did not notice Donatien crossing the room toward her. As the clergyman came within no more than two steps of the spirit the baby began crying. Donatien froze as the phantom and turned toward the braying child. Outside the room the Marquise was torn between wanting to charge in and rescue her child from whatever hellish thing was in there and obeying the priest’s order not to enter the chamber until he had emerged…dead or alive.

“Lisanne Stop!” Donatien commanded in a deep imperious tone. The ghost was heedless of his words and slowly floated toward the baby.

“Lisanne, I command you to stop!” The books must have been wrong! His weapon didn’t work! If he didn’t act the child was doomed. The priest tossed a vial full of holy water on the apparition that sizzled as it passed through the translucent torso. The ghost turned, and hissing menacingly faced Donatien at last. The priest steeled up his courage and spoke.

“Your suffering is at an end. Your grief is at an end. Your…” The clergyman’s speech lodged in his throat as the Crying Woman reached out and stabbed her fingers into Donatien’s shoulder. Howling in pain at the absolute cold coursing through his body the priest fell backwards. The crucifix clattered to the ground. Instantly both Gigot and Marion sprang from their hiding places. The ghost paid them no mind though and once again floated to where the screaming baby lay. She reached down into the crib only to thrust her hand backwards as if some unseen flame had horribly burned her. Donatien felt as tough someone had stabbed him with daggers made of solid ice, but he still managed a throaty chuckle as he watched the Crying Woman recoil in agony. Only he knew that earlier in the day he had stuffed the lining of the baby girl’s crib with consecrated communion wafers! The child was safe for time being and thus thwarted the ghost turned her wrath toward the newly emerged men. Gigot was on his knees tending to Donatien’s injuries, which looked more or less as though they had been caused by severe frostbite.
The spirit was still clutching her smoldering hand as her veil slipped around her neck. She turned to face the innkeeper and Marion’s eyes bulged from their sockets as he beheld the terrible face of the phantasm for the first time.

“No.” he softly whispered to himself. Donatien ignored the pain in his shoulder and rose to his feet. He charged the innkeeper and tackled him to the ground just evading a blow from the phantom that was clearly aimed for Marion’s head. Marion still had a glazed look of terror on his face as the priest tried to jar him back to the present. All the innkeeper could do was whisper over and over,

“No it can’t be. No.” Donatien seized the frightened man and struck him a mighty blow across the face.

“Monsieur! What is it?” Marion only managed to stammer and stutter.

“E…E…E…” Meanwhile the doctor was hurling insults of the vilest sort at the ghost. He then wrenched a looking glass from the wall. The Crying Woman turned to face him and let fly a most hideous wail when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. The doctor further taunted the wraith by placing his hand into and out of the baby’s crib with no ill effects. The ghost was enraged and swatted its icy hands toward the doctor, but Gigot was too quick for the dead woman. Gigot bobbed and weaved like a boxer and managed to avoid the spirit’s attacks while constantly shoving the mirror in her face that it might better see its unholy visage.

Donatien grabbed a handful of the innkeeper’s hair and dragged him to his feet. The clergyman physically turned Marion’s gaze to the ghostly woman and spoke in his ear.

“Marion! Who is that?” Tears rolled down the proprietor’s face as he quietly replied,

“It’s Elizabeth, my wife.” Donatien instantly whirled Marion to face him.

“WHAT?” The innkeeper spoke rapidly.

“Elizabeth was my wife. After our baby was born it died one night in its sleep. Elizabeth was distraught. She blamed herself because she slept in a separate room and felt if she had been sleeping in the same room with the baby she could have prevented her death. Months went by and her melancholy increased until one night I came home and found Elizabeth dead. She killed herself, but not before she had dug up our little Diana. She was still clutching the child’s corpse while she laid her wrists open with my shaving razor.”

Without another word, Donatien sprang across the room and snatched up his crucifix.

“Elizabeth!” The ghost suddenly ceased its combat with the doctor. Slowly she turned and floated toward the newly emboldened priest.

“Elizabeth! Stop!” The Crying Woman halted immediately and stared at Donatien with a vacant look in her eyes.

“Elizabeth, listen to me. You are not to blame for your daughter’s death.” Spectral tears began to roll down Elizabeth’s face.

“Your baby rests in the arms of the Lord. She is waiting for you to join her. You have grieved enough.” She slowly nodded. Donatien made the sign of the cross in the air with his crucifix which glowed with a powerful, white light.

“Elizabeth, in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, your sins are forgiven. Go in peace and sin no more. May your soul rest in peace.” With this pronouncement of divine absolution the blue pallor around Elizabeth slowly faded away. The chill of her presence was replaced with radiant warmth that flooded the room. The Crying Woman’s ghost was replaced by the soul of Elizabeth Renault who smiled at her husband and gently faded away.
With tears in his eyes, Donatien clapped a hand on Marion’s shoulder. He turned and saw Dr. Gigot swigging hard at the bottle of brandy that he procured from the liquor cabinet. Donatien smiled and gently picked the baby up and emerged from the room into the grateful embrace of the Marquise. After a few words of solemn thanks from the very relieved mother of the newly rescued baby, the priest departed and walked back to his parish. He was determined that he would minister much more attentively to imperiled souls still on earth so that he would not have to rescue them from beyond the grave. Dr, Gigot went on to great fame and fortune as “physician to the elite” in Paris. Every now and then however the memories of all he had seen at The Dancing Reindeer made it necessary to enlist the aid of a cognac bottle to help him sleep. And what of Marion? Soon after the events I have related, he sold the resort at a huge profit and lived out the rest of his days working in one of the finest restaurants in Paris as a pastry chef. He never remarried.

Word Count: 6653