You are now entering the Haunted Gallery of Hampton Court Palace. In 1541, Catherine Howard, Henry VIII’s fifth queen, learned that she was to be charged with adultery, a crime punishable by death. Legend has it that Catherine, terrified and desperate, broke free from her rooms and ran along the processional route in the hope of finding Henry in the Chapel. Just before Catherine reached the door, she was seized by guards, who dragged her away, struggling and screaming. If the king did hear her frantic pleas, they went unanswered.
I stop to stand in front of what seems to be a royal family portrait. Henry is sitting front and center, looking puffed-up, pale and constipated in his over-the-top kingly garb. If this is how he looked with Tudor-era airbrushing, then God knows what he looked like in real life.
Catherine was eventually beheaded at the Tower of London along with her suspected lovers, Thomas Culpepper and Francis Dereham. Her body remains entombed in the Chapel within the Tower walls. Many believe that Catherine’s ghost can be seen running through this very gallery, wailing for mercy as she tries to reach the king. Catherine was Henry VIII’s youngest queen. He was fifty at the time of her death and went on to marry again.
“Asshat,” I mumble, switching off the recording and finding the king’s likeness even grosser than I did ten seconds ago. A dependable theme in history is that there’s a surplus of powerful perverts, and they always seem to be men.
Thank goodness we no longer have that worry in modern times. Ha.
It’s thoughts like these that’ve led to my current romantic dry spell. I tried to date, I really did. Especially last year. I approached my search for love like I would a psychosocial experiment—with curiosity, openness, and objectivity. Even when going for my PhD took everything out of me, I went on a date every other Saturday for six months, meeting up with potentially murderous Tinder dabblers and partaking in less perilous, though more embarrassing, singles’ pickleball and game nights. Scientifically, my findings were a failed experiment. Non-scientifically, they were a dumpster fire. The DMs I received in the process were unadulterated nightmare fuel. If I had a dollar for every angry boner pic that sprung forth from my inbox like a haunted jack-in-the-box, I could buy this castle.
So, when Zoe suggested a girls’ trip as a mental reset, it didn’t take much to get me on board. She’s a devout Anglophile who had her heart set on the windswept shores of England, and I was more than happy to hop the Atlantic with her. We’ve visited all the main tourist attractions, and today’s visit to Hampton Court Palace is our last palatial hurrah. We’re flying back into LAX in two days.
Reaching the end of the hall, I’m reading through a Haunted Gallery informational placard when I start to hear music playing. It’s soft but insistent, leading me to look down at the audio device I’m holding. The screen still says it’s paused. I pull the headphones off, but the music keeps playing, growing louder and louder. The melodic instrumentals have an underlying harshness to them. The beat is jittery. I can decipher an organ, a horn, and the sharp pull of strings. Maybe this is how they announce the palace is closing? I tilt my gaze up, trying to find the speaker system, but see nothing but the white painted ceiling.
“Excuse me,” I say to a woman who’s folding up a paper map a few feet away. “Do you know what that music is for?”
Her eyes are confused as she looks back at me. “What music, dear?”
“Sorry. Never mind.” She walks past me as the music kicks up with a pulsing drumbeat. My ears start to thrum. Loud noises have always been overpowering for me, and as I feel the familiar tightening in my rib cage, a sweet, soft voice begins to sing.
“Pastime with good company, I love and shall until I die. Grudge who lust but none deny, so God be pleased thus live will I...”
The music surges, and I feel a slicing pain behind my eyes.
“Does no one hear that?” I lift my hands to my ears, trying to block out the screeching sound. I think I’m yelling, but I can’t be sure. Whipping around to look for help, the few other visitors in the hall are either admiring the art or talking among themselves. No one has heard me. It’s like they don’t see me at all. The voice sings again, sounding so close that I start to wonder if it’s coming from inside my own head.
“The best ensue, the worst eschew, my mind shall be. Virtue to use, vice to refuse, thus shall I use me.”
The lyrics fade into a high-pitched hum, and my chest constricts. I can’t catch my breath. I’m slipping into a panic. I try to think of the calming techniques I recommend to my patients during their episodes, but all rational thought feels out of reach. The only word in my consciousness is “chapel.” I need to get to the chapel. I don’t know why, but I know that I do.
My life depends on it.
I take off in a run, and I don’t stop. My thighs are burning, my heart is pounding, but I’m almost to the chapel doors. They’re closed now. Weren’t they open before? Everything else ismuddled, but I can see the doors clearly. The chips in the dark wood. The rusted iron of the hinges. I reach my clammy hands out to push against them—they’re so cold that they burn, and before I can force them open, everything goes dark.
“Catherine...”
This voice sounds far away. It’s not Zoe’s. Or the one I heard singing. This one is deep and steady. Pulling me back to break the surface even though I want to stay where I am.
“Can you hear me?”
I blink my eyes open as the world slowly comes into focus. I’m laying down with my back to the floor, and the first thing I see is a pair of soft green eyes. Mossy green with a ring of blue around the edges. I take in the bigger picture, finding that the eyes belong to man with a well-defined chin and wavy chestnut hair. He seems my age, no more than mid-twenties. His facial features are almost perfect except for his nose. It’s crooked at the base, seeming forced back into place. He must have been in a fight or two. “Are you well?” he asks through a crisp British accent. He slips a hand under my back, helping me to sit up.
“I don’t know,” I answer. A wave of dizziness flares behind my forehead as I take a deep breath. He smells like honey and smoke as he stays crouched down beside me, looking me over with a scrutinizing gaze. I notice that he’s wearing a Renaissance costume. It’s a cross between a male ballet dancer and a lacrosse player, and if I’m honest, it kind of works.
I look down and see that I’m in a costume too, and from Party City this dress is not. I can tell from the tension against my rib cage that I’m corseted in. I lift my arms, and my pale blue sleeves have intricate silver detailing and are heavy at the wrists. Judging from the weight against my lap, I must be wearing multiple skirts.
“Why am I dressed like this?” I ask the man. “Where is Zoe?”
The young man is puzzled, sitting back a little on his heels. “I don’t know who that is. Shall I fetch one of the other ladies-in-waiting? Or a physician?”
I shake my head, twisting around to take in my surroundings. I think I’m still in the Haunted Gallery of Hampton Court Palace, but all the tourists are gone, including Zoe. The art and decor are different—still historic but newer. Less preserved, somehow. Maybe I’m in a back employee area. So many rooms were roped off and locked as Zoe and I walked around this afternoon. When I look forward, I see the chapel doors—the same ones I touched before I fell.
There’s a pit in my stomach as I push myself up to a standing position, feeling the full bulkiness of my garb. I sway on my feet and the young man quickly stands as he reaches out to steady me. He has a hockey player’s build and is tall enough that the top of my head barely reaches his chin. We’re closer than I thought. His cheeks warm, though his expression stays composed, as he takes a step back.
“My apologies, Lady Catherine.”
“My name is Lily,” I tell him. “Did Zoe sign us up for an immersive experience or something? Because if she did, I’m not into it.”
