TransformationsofCatherine

    The event which I am about to relate to you is as incredible as any I have found in my diligent studies of the fiction of the unknown, yet it is with unfaltering conviction that I write of its absolute truth. The following lines are written in a state of complete mental competency, and I shall not be swayed to believe otherwise (for what can one trust if not the knowledge of her own sanity, or, conversely, its absence?)
     I have been living with my dear brother Charles and his wife, Louisa, in the house in which I had spent my childhood. Days are spent, quite predictably, walking about the grounds and helping Louisa with the running of the house. Evenings are spent pouring over strange mythologies and dark tales, sketching scenes from my daily walks (for my memory serves well for such things), writing an occasional poem (which probably would have been better left to rot within the confines of my mind), and trying to recall what little skill I had acquired on the harp as a child. During these long winter months, however, I am accustomed to retiring to my chamber quite early. It was on such a night that the event which is to follow occurred.
     I feel I must, once again, affirm my sanity on both this night and the night in question. I could not have been more sane had I been Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria herself.
     I had retired quite early on the night of the event, and I promptly fell asleep. When I awoke some hours later, I found, to my great pleasure, that my dearest childhood friend, Catherine, was standing at the foot of my bed.
     I was not particularly surprised to see her there at first, as Catherine and I had always used obscure entrances to each other's bed chambers as children. There was a great fir tree which grew outside of my window, and with but a touch of dexterity and a single, slightly perilous leap, a young girl could scramble from the window to the ground and back up again in no time. Neither of our mothers had survived our infancies, thus we were both raised without the benefit of a strern maternal hand. It is with this that I attempt to justify such unbefitting behavior. Catherine, however, was still prone to such unseemly conduct. She was never able to follow the rules of proper society.
     Catherine had always been far bolder than I, but she was extremely persuasive, so I somehow always seemed to find myself scurrying out the window after her for a midnight romp through the churchyard, or an eerie tale-telling down by the creek. Catherine was exceedingly talented in the telling of such stories, but she did not believe in the mysterious, thus she was not at all frightened. I on the other hand . . . .
     "Oh, Emma," she'd laugh, "don't be a ninny! Surely you don't believe in such silliness?"
     Certainly, I did, but I was quick to lie.
     One particular nocturnal adventure has always stood out in my mind, especially in light of recent events. Catherine had been haunting me for days with whispers of "I've got a terrible secret," thus when she appeared on my window ledge promising to tell if I would follow her into the night, I leapt at the opportunity. I chased her all the way to the churchyard, where we finally collapsed in a giggling heap. I felt horribly uneasy, but I was so terribly curious as to the content of Catherine's secret that I was willing to endure the apprehension.
     "You know what?" she taunted.
     "What?"
     "I don't believe in God."
     I stopped giggling. My eyes widened and my mouth hung open like a gaping entrance to the fiery pit of Hell, through which Catherine was certain to go. I was shakingterribly and Catherine just laughed and laughed. I ran home as quickly as I could, and spent the rest of the night praying that God would forgive me for being best friends with a heathen.
     Much to my relief, my friend continued to go to Sunday services. I tried to believe that she had been jesting, but neither of us ever spoke of it again.
     And now here was this same child climbing trees to my window ten years later. Certainly I was allowed to stay up for as long as I wished now. She could easily have used the door if it was such an urgent matter as to require my immediate attention. Furthermore, why had she not awakened me?
     Of course the moments immediately following deep sleep are never very clear, thus it took me some time to think of the other reasons why it was so odd for Catherine to be in my chamber. For one, she was supposedly fifty miles away, in Stockton, staying with one of Louisa's cousins. Charles had arranged to send her there to save her good name following an evil incident involving the son of a peddler, as she had no living relatives. This brings me to another queer thing about her presence in my chamber: Catherine was with child. Not only was the Catherine in my chamber quite trim, but I had received word from her that very morning that all was well. and that the child could be expected "anytime soon." Even if she had given birth the very day she had written, she would certainly not be well enough to travel fifty miles, let alone to climb trees.
     I looked quizzically at the figure at ther foot of my bed. She wore a brown satin gown with lace at the collar and cuffs, and a cameo brooch was affixed to the high neck. Her long auburn hair was arranged on top of her head in what had once been a very aristocratic style, although it was now quite disheveled. She looked exceedingly pale, and her eyes were dark and sunken. She had looked so much younger before she left!
     "Emma," she said, "I haven't much time, so listen carefully. The child is a girl, born yesterday. She's to be called Hannah, and will be raised by a family in Stockton. You must find her. Find her, when she is old enough, and tell her about me. Tell her about her mother."
     A piteous look came over her face as she reached slowly for mine. I felt my eyes moisten as she leapt back with the speed of the finest race horse just before her fingers touched my cheek. The expression on her face changed instantly to one of pain and horror, as if my face was emitting the heat of a roaring flame.
     "Catherine," I said, reaching for her arm.
     "No," she shreiked, recoiling and leaping for the window, "you mustn't. Just promise you'll find her."
     "Yes, but ---"
     "And Emma?" she said, putting one foot out onto the ledge, "Pray for me . . . please? I'm so sorry."
     I didn't know what she was sorry for, but she was gone before I could ask.
     As I begin to relate this las portion of my visit with Catherine, I recall how hopelessly I had searched for an acceptable explanation.
     Catherine did not climb carefully from the ledge to the tree. She leapt. I ran to the window, hoping to see her safely perched in the tree, but expecting to find her a crumpled mass far below.
     I saw neither. She was gone. Absolutely gone. I even went outside to look for her right away. She had simply vanished.
     I am fully aware of the cruelty inherent in the words which I am about to write, but I had been experiencing such fear, such confusion, since the incident; and I was beginning to believe that I had lost any semblance of sanity which ever I may have possessed. It is for this reason, and this reason alone, that I greeted the news of Catherine's passing with relief. It seems that Catherine died in her sleep in Stockton six days ago, on the very night on which I had spoken with her. She had given birth to a girl child the day before.

                                                       *                      *                      *

     Catherine has returned! It has been longer than two years, and I had nearly forgotten the vividness of the first experience. She left not ten minutes ago, and she has left me far less comfortable than she did on our last parting. She seemed in such torment, so pleading. So much about her had changed.
     I must try to calm myself, or every word I write will be nothing but the ravings of a mad woman! So much has changed, and I want to record it all --- her appearance, her behavior, everything.
     I shall begin with her appearance, as this was the first alteration I observed. If you can recall my last writings of her apparition, I might have mistaken the ghost for living flesh, had it not been for the strangeness about her behavior. This was no longer possible, for she no longer looked human. She was . . . well, ghostly. She was an airy, transparent form, surrounded by blue mist, intangeable, ethereal. She wore the same gown, but it now had a much different effect: it hung loosely off of bony shoulders and it was weathered and tattered. The brown satin had faded noticeably but the rich original color could still be seen inside the folds of the cloth. The lace had yellowed and was hanging, detatched, from the cuffs. Her hair hung loosely around her shoulders, with the