Sleep, Dearie, Sleep: Episode Two

You’re reading Sleep, Dearie, Sleep, a historical epistolary horror in which progress, modernity and reason are confounded by ancient, forgotten realities. This is Episode 2.

Previously, Archie received a promotion and his first commission, and the go-ahead to bring his family to America. But his construction project got off to an ominous beginning.

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Original photo by Jimmy Emerson on Flickr (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

Diary, 24 December, 1792

I write this from the study of the house I have procured in Asheville. I am alone, as I have given the housekeeper leave to spend Christmastide with her own family. As such, the house is quiet, but it is not an unhappy silence, as I need only to imagine the joy and bustle come next Christmas, when my Bridget and little Fiona will be here to enliven the home with their presence. As for this Christmas, I have a bottle of cognac and a small fire here in my study to warm me, and thoughts of my loves and of Christmases past and future to bear me company. I also have the anticipation of receiving a letter from Bridget in the days or weeks to come, with confirmation that she is making her way to me soon with our girl.

Old Man Winter arrived in Appalachia on the heels of the solstice. I’d had half a mind to keep the men working on the bridge through Christmas, as we had fallen so far behind schedule, and being two men down, even under the best of conditions and on days when the work went smoothly, the loss had slowed things. The sun was still shining and there was nought but the occasional frost when Atsadi and his brother warned that there would soon be ice and snow. They spoke to me of signs in nature, of wooly caterpillars and a proliferation of acorns and the habits of squirrels, and on the day of the solstice, after a heavy fog lifted and clouds gathered overhead, they said they could smell snow.

Trusting they knew what they were about, I dismissed the men to their homes, and not a moment too soon. The first flurries appeared not an hour after the last man had set out. By dawn the next morning, when I departed for my own home, there was already a thick layer of ice that made it difficult for my horse to traverse the road. We were able to make some progress by walking alongside it where possible, where the leaf covered ground provided some traction. Thankfully, the ice and sleet soon turned to snow, making it safer to travel on the road and improving our time.

Nevertheless, I cursed my decision to remain another night. I should have left with the men. But I could not bring myself to depart just then. With all the calamities that have plagued the project, setting it so far behind, I thought perhaps time alone, without the distractions of managing a work crew who were worn and weary and all too ready to return to their families for a time, would allow me to give proper consideration to the various problems and their possible solutions.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, as I have not as yet had opportunity to record said calamities, other than quickly scrawled notes to aid my memory of the matters. It was mid November — the 14th, two weeks to the day from that diabolical night that still haunts my dreams — when an unseasonable warm spell brought with it a monstrous storm. Thunder and lightning fit to wake the dead accompanied a Biblical downpour that flooded the river bed beyond its banks and sent a rushing torrent of water which demolished the foundation columns that were close to halfway built.

As if that weren’t bad enough, the storm also spawned a cyclone that made its way up the riverbed and laid our camp to waste. Atsadi led us all to a cave for shelter, but Davies stubbornly remained behind to see to the animals and try to salvage what he could. When we returned to the camp, three horses were missing, one of the oxen had to be put down, and Davies was nowhere to be found. We spent the next three days searching, and found two of the horses, both having succumbed to their injuries. But of the third horse, and of Davies, we found no sign.

It was all I could do to convince the men to return to work, with me as their acting foreman until I can hire a suitable replacement. Setting them to the tasks of rebuilding the camp and cutting new foundation stones, and leaving a competent and well-respected man named Lee in charge, I returned to Asheville to procure new horses, replenish our supplies, and deliver the tragic news to Davies’ wife, a task I did not relish. She took the news better than I expected, remaining hopeful that Providence somehow protected her husband and will return him safely to her. I do not share her hope, but I left her with the comfort of her illusions.

Nine days I was gone, and when I returned, I found the camp in as good an order as I could hope to expect. With some of the tents damaged beyond repair, many of the men had to share, three or four to a tent. Such cramped conditions have not been good for morale, and tensions were running high when I returned. Nevertheless, they made good progress in cutting and transporting new stones, and we were soon able to begin rebuilding the foundation.

Within two weeks, the new columns had been built back up to where they had been before the storm. It was at this point, in mid-December, when a tremor, uncharacteristic for the region, shook the ground violently enough to frighten the men and topple half of the north bank’s foundation. Fraser was in the process of hoisting a large and heavy stone into place when the quake occurred, knocking him off balance and causing him to become trapped under the fall of stones. He survived, but his leg was crushed beyond the abilities of our surgeon to repair, and so he was carried home by two of his fellow Highlanders.

All this I held in my mind as I stood on the riverbank, watching large, wet flakes of snow settle softly on the foundations. The northern foundation stones had been reassembled, and a few additional feet had been added to each column since the quake. Would I find them still standing when I returned? I felt an unease in my wame at the thought of leaving off construction. Or rather, something about this whole project had begun to fill me with a vague sense of dread. The men went about uttering complaints about curses and ill omens, which I dismissed as old-fashioned superstition and nonsense.

Yet Atsadi’s warning haunted my memory as much as the bleating of that poor, doomed goat. As I stood there on the bank, pellets of ice mixed with the snow pelting my face, I could believe in angry spirits and cursed ground. I felt like an intruder, as though I had crossed a threshold where I was not welcome. It was almost as though I could sense a presence there with me, a malign intelligence watching me, studying me, bearing down on me with the angry, icy wind.

Of course, in the warm safety and sanity of my study, I know this for the fanciful delusion that it was. But at the time, I knew — knew — that the bridge could not continue without exacting a toll, though I knew not what that toll may be. And without considering the full implication of my words, I opened my mouth to utter a prayer. “Let it be finished,” I whispered, “and I will pay whatever you ask.” I meant to direct my prayer to Providence, but in the moment, and in my desperation, I cannot say with certainty that I would have refused help from the other direction, I am ashamed to confess.

It does not signify. We stand on the cusp of a new year, one that will bring to me my family, along with every hope of an early spring. I must keep a sober mind as we move ahead and not allow silly superstitions to cloud my thinking. In January I will meet with Master Hoban and the Governor to discuss our progress and any adjustments that must be made to the schedule, and I am confident that all will be well.

To Archibald Stewart Craig

Asheville, North Carolina, the United States

2 November, 1792

My Dearest Archie,

I read your letter with so much joy at the prospect of being reunited. I cannot tell you how much I miss you and how my heart longs to be with you again. Yet I must confess that I find the prospect of sailing to America on my own, even with Fiona and my maid Maggie to attend us, a frightening one. But no more frightening than living on my own and overseeing the estate these last two years. It does my heart good to know you are pleased with how I’ve handled it in your absence.

I wanted to waste no time writing back to you. I’ve already sent a note to the solicitor, and he will come in two days’ time to help tie up the loose ends here, so you needn’t worry. Jim Murray was already planning a journey to Glasgow next week, and while there he will search out Captain Forsythe and arrange for our passage. If all goes well, I hope to find myself in your arms no later than next April. My heart is fit to burst just thinking about it.

Fiona has indeed grown much since last you held her. The wee babe who was saying her first words and taking her first steps when you left is now a precocious little redhaired lass, full of sweetness and sass in equal measure. Her favorite pastime at the nonce seems to be pestering me with questions. Why is the sky blue by day and black by night? Why does milk come from cows? How did Whiskers get kittens in her belly? Why do the MacKenzies set milk out for the faeries, and shouldn’t we also? All that sort of childish inquisitiveness. I can hardly keep up with it.

She asks many questions about you, as well, and I speak of you to her at every opportunity. I can’t say how much she remembers you actually being here before, but I often find her talking to your portrait, and she’s ever so excited at the prospect of sailing on a ship to go see her da’.

Speaking of portraits, I had hers done for her third birthday, and I asked the artist to also paint a miniature for you, which I’ve enclosed so you can see how much your wee babe has grown.

I won’t plan to write again, since I will be able to bring you any news that happens in the coming weeks in person. We’ll likely already be on our way to you by the time you get this. Pray for our safe journey, as I pray that the Lord keeps you safe. If He wills it, I will see you soon, my love. Oh, how I love you, my Archie. Pay no mind to the tear stains on this letter. I promise you, they are tears of joy at the thought of our soon reunion.

With all my heart,
Your Bridget

Diary, 1 February, 1793

January was an eventful month, despite the cold refusing to let up. We’ve had more snow and ice deposited on the region, making travel difficult and leaving aside any possibility of returning to work on the bridge.

Just as well, since my duties here in town have kept me too busy to keep a record, let alone overseeing an active construction project. The first such duty was a meeting with Mr. Hoban and the Governor. This occurred on the heels of a Lodge meeting, which included a ceremony in which I was bestowed the honor of elevation to Perfect Master. I cannot disclose the details of the ceremony here, but at the meeting both Hoban and the Governor were full of congratulations and also sympathy for my troubles at the building site.

However, it did not come without a stern edge to it, reminding me of my duty to uphold and honor my new degree and show my trustworthiness and integrity through my devotion to completing the project entrusted to me. Although they were all smiles as they graciously granted me an additional six weeks, I detected a threatening undercurrent which made it clear to me that the future of my architectural career hangs on keeping this new deadline.

I wish I could say with certainty that six more weeks will be sufficient, but even as I wait for the weather to allow us to return, problems continue to plague me. Rumors about the catastrophes have spread, causing me difficulty in finding anyone willing to take on the job of foreman. The poor, unfortunate Davies is still missing, and his wife has apparently accepted the unlikelihood of his being discovered alive, having petitioned the courts to hold an inquest and declare him deceased.

Having given up a new foreman as a lost cause, I called the workmen to a meeting to update them on the new deadline, plot a schedule for completion and offer a promotion and a raise to any of the more responsible fellows willing to take on the foreman’s role. However, less than half of the men bothered to appear. Fraser and the other Highlanders are refusing to return to work, and they’ve convinced a good many of the rest of the crew to join in their desertion.

I can see from this that I need not only worry about coming in on time, but also within budget, as nothing short of an increase in wages will convince either the crew to return to their work or new men to take their place.

My one consolation has been a letter from Bridget, letting me know that she is on her way to me. She also sent a miniature painting of Fiona, and I cannot stop goggling at the image. The tiny babe I left behind is gone, in her place this wee, dainty lass. I cannot wait to hoist her in my arms and kiss her bonnie red head, and I hope not to miss one more hour of her growing up from thenceforth.

I am also hopeful that having Bridget lie next to me again will ease my sleep, which of late has been plagued with terrors. I do not mean bad dreams, although that is certainly a regular occurrence. But I keep waking up frozen, unable to move or speak, with a sense that someone, or something, is in my room. Somehow I know, when I lie there paralyzed, that I am being visited by the same presence I sensed on the riverbank during my last night there, when I whispered that desperate, foolish promise.

Of course, sense returns to me in the morning. I know this is nothing more than my own anxiety about the project. Soon, though not soon enough, my wife will be here to share and ease my burdens, and construction will begin again. Somehow, I have faith that it will all work out. It must, for if it does not, I will be ruined.

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