Sleepwalker

Excerpt

Millie Brannon, June 1928

Something jolts me awake. Unsure what, I glance around. Everything is dark. I have no idea where I am.

I’m definitely not in my bed. After sitting up, I realize I’m on a couch—one of many in my family’s ridiculously large house, so I could be almost anywhere. Given my condition, I shouldn’t be anywhere other than my room, which worries me. A lot.

Locked in. I’m supposed to be locked in, for my safety and for that of everyone else within the walls—and outside.

I’ve made it into the woods before. I was young and horribly scared when I awoke. Mama and my nanny were losing their minds until they found me—they’ve told me at least a hundred times since then.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

I shove those thoughts aside and rise to my feet. My ankles wobble for a moment because I’m wearing high-heeled shoes.

Everything comes flooding back. The party. Peppy live music, dancing, laughing. Moonshine and appetizers enough for days.

How did I wind up here? I can’t remember the party ending, the guests leaving.

Think, Millie.

I press my palms down along my dress. The fabric is stiff.

Too stiff. Unnaturally stiff.

My heart leaps to my throat. I fumble around, bumping into a table and a shelf before finding a light to turn on. I’m in one of the reading rooms near the servant’s quarters. But that barely registers.

Not when my shimmery white dress is now more red than white.

This can’t be happening. It just can’t.

Not again.

My breathing grows labored as I stare down at the large reddish-brown splotch across my abdomen and hips. The tiny dots freckling up my chest, some of them on my bare shoulders and arms.

My gaze darts around. Did I bring the weapon in here?

Nothing. Not even any blood on the couch fabric. That means the blood dried before I came in here to lie down.

What happened?

Hard as I try, I can’t remember anything beyond the party. Did Papa and Uncle John make a bad batch of moonshine? If that’s the case, then it makes sense that I passed out and did…

I glance back down at my dress. My stomach lurches. I really, really hope this is because I’d made my way out to the barn and helped one of the servants to butcher an animal for tomorrow’s dinner.

But I know better. Especially after—

No. I can’t think about that. It’s too painful.

I need to figure out what happened. Why Nelly isn’t here.

Oh, heavens. Don’t tell me this is her blood. It can’t be. But it would explain why I’m here alone at night when I should be in my room, tucked safely into bed with the locks firmly in place.

This is bad. Very bad.

The last thing I remember was dancing with Fred. We were laughing and having a grand time with plenty of other couples around us in my favorite ballroom in the Brannon Manor—not the one all my parties are in but for rare, intimate gatherings.

I have to return there, even though it’s in an entirely different wing. Perhaps I should take one of the hidden passages. Then I won’t risk anyone seeing my blood-soaked dress. Not when the entire household—including each servant—knows about my sleepwalking condition and what can happen.

What’s already happened.

Despite all the hypnosis therapies and potions Mama has thrust my way, I can’t forget. Nothing works.

Nothing will bring back sweet Mae.

I miss her more than anything. The pain is still unbearable at times, despite the years.

Tears well. I swipe them away. Now isn’t the time to think about her.

What if the person whose blood I’m caked in is still alive? What if I can save him or her?

My stomach roils. Plummets.

I didn’t hurt Fred, did I? Not beautiful, lively Fred. I couldn’t have. Wouldn’t.

Not that I’d have done anything to harm Mae either—if I’d been awake, aware of my actions. Yet she’s gone. Forever.

Fear eclipses my foggy memory. Fred’s the last person I remember being with, and the thought of his demise—especially at my hand—is too much to bear. Gasping, I lean against the wall then slide down until I’m sitting on the floor. The room spins around me like I’ve had a bad batch of moonshine.

I know all about bad shine. My brother Marshall’s first attempt was horrible. I’d gotten sick then passed out. Someone had brought me to my room and locked me in.

Why didn’t that happen this time?

I have to find out. Can’t sit here, succumbing to my fright. No matter how hard the truth is, I must face it.

More tears threaten, but I manage to keep them at bay. Use the shelf next to me to pull myself up. Take shaky steps toward the door.

Why? Why is this happening again? I should’ve been more careful. If only I could remember something. Did I try to go to my bedroom? If I was sleepy, I must have. I know that routine I know as well as my own name.

I am Mildred—Millie—Brannon, born in 1905, and I have a terrible sleepwalking condition. A subconscious, murderous alter ego. A psychopathology nobody talks about outside of the Brannon family clan. I’m the family secret. One of them. Certainly the most dangerous. Not even my best friends have any idea, and definitely not any of my beaus.

That’s what terrifies me about the thought that Fred is the last person I remember seeing. If I passed out from bad moonshine around him, he wouldn’t have known to lock me away for his own wellbeing.

Taking a quick glance at my dress, my stomach roils. I’m not going to be able to keep down escargot, pastries, or hard drinks from the party.

An empty pot sits across the room. It once held a plant that didn’t survive the indoors, a fact for which I’m now grateful. I rush over to it, reaching it just in time to retch into it. My throat burns as the appetizers return. I wipe my mouth and try to ignore the acidic taste.

One of the servants will find this and clean it up. I have a more important matter—making sure Fred is still alive. Not that I prefer anyone else’s death in his stead, but I can’t bear it if poor Fred suffered at my hand. The handsome young bachelor doesn’t have a bad bone in his entire body. In fact, when I finally settle down, I hope he, of all my suitors, will be my future husband.

Please don’t let this blood be Fred’s.

I kick off my shoes so I can hurry to the ballroom faster, but I can’t let anyone know I was here, so I carry them under my arm. As I race through the corridors, I’m careful to avoid running into anyone.

When I hear voices, I duck into another hallway and take a different route. Not even the hired help can know I’m awake at this hour.

Nobody can see my dress.

But what if someone finds the body before I do?

Assuming there is a body. I don’t see how there can’t be—my dress is stiff with copious amounts of blood. Somebody most certainly died tonight.

I must hurry.