The Vorrh

mortally wounded ghosts into blocked passages, insane turrets and flights of stairs which ascended, essentially, to absolutely nowhere – but always away from the nucleus of her grief.
    Muybridge had heard it all, but his memory was selective and grievously affected by his need. Sarah Winchester was a woman of influence and beauty; he admired her purity. She had never remarried and was fiercely loyal to the memory of her deceased family. She would understand him, he was sure of it. She must have heard about the incident with Larkyns. He was certain that she would appreciate his justification and see him as a chivalrous gentleman as well as, he hoped, a significant artist.
    The carriage stopped before the garden entrance of the growing house. He stepped down and walked up the path, passing by the fountain and up to the porch. The pillared entrance was cool and elegant, a mechanical glade of craftsmanship. The door opened and a hushed man took him inside.
    The house was immaculate and squeakingly new. It smelt of polish and sawdust, both scents sharpened by subtle undertones of varnish. The hand-fitted marquee flooring was perfect and infinite; he seemed to follow the man forever, unable to resist occasionally dropping back for a closer examination of each detail and angle. They entered a hall whose possessions outnumbered all the other rooms put together. In the centre stood a piano that dominated the furniture and pictures. These were obviously the occupied parts of the house. The other rooms were token, superfluous, but these rooms had life. He could feel her presence in the next room.
    The hushed man left him standing and went ahead, closing the door behind him. His anxiety twitched his hat and cane and he longed to lay them down, but dared not risk causing offence. He fretted and looked around the room, said belongings tapping against his leg. Murmured voices could be heard and then the door opened and his host stepped forward, holding her hand out in greeting.
    ‘Mr. Muybridge, thank you for coming.’
    He was shocked by her appearance. The lady of his historical glimpses was utterly changed. She had thickened, become solid, not with fat or ease, but as if the gravitation of the world around her had changed. She had become compressed by her circumstances, by the weight of the house. Her face was lined and hollowed, yet each line was somehow attached to the plumpness of her skin; she was a contradiction of form, almost as if the contours of her expression had been painted over the wrong surface. The layers of make-up, stencilled over her once flawless complexion, gave her face a strange hint of varnish. Only her teeth remained perfect, though her eyes had retained a glimmer of something constant and disconcerting. In the distance, hammering could be heard, but he tried to ignore it. He bowed slightly and gave her his hand.
    ‘Thank you, Mrs. Winchester,’ he said, a boyish blush blooming under his pale skin. ‘I was delighted to receive your invitation.’ She smiled graciously and led him through to the smaller sitting room, where tea was already laid out on a small dining table. They sat and spoke politely of weather and acquaintances. After twenty minutes of stiflingly obligatory formalities, the conversation at last began to move towards the purpose of her invitation.
    ‘The Stanfords have been introducing me to your work, Mr. Muybridge. I must say, I am quite impressed.’
    ‘Thank you, ma’am. May I ask which photographs you have seen so far?’ he asked.
    ‘Oh, pictures of mountains, a volcanic place and the primitives dancing in a circle.’
    ‘Ah, the Ghost Dance,’ he said with glee. ‘I am the only person ever to have photographed it.’
    ‘The Ghost Dance?’ she said, her attention caught in exactly the way he had hoped. ‘What is that?’
    ‘It was a belief held by many native tribes that they could summon their dead to help them stand against the settlers who were moving west. They imagined an uprising and a joining of clans, dead and alive, to hold what they regarded as their sacred lands.’
    Sarah shifted forward slightly in her hard-backed chair. ‘When exactly did these dances occur?’ she asked.
    He gave her the dates of his prints and she fell silent, her mind quickly calculating their significance. A staccato quietness filled the room and she looked at the floor, the corner of her mouth twitching softly, as if something was working in her throat. It seemed wise to change the