Haunted Houses
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The Dark One stood amid storm tossed trees and watched as Annie sobbed over her own grave.
“I am so frightened, Dora,” she whispered. “Meg’s gone and I’m all alone. There is no one to guide me and I am weary. I want to lie down with you and sleep for the rest of eternity.”
The Dark One felt the spirits being moved by her plight. They came from out of the earth, from the sky and their voices echoed in the wind. His enemy was frightened, and he had a right to be so. As soon as he harnessed that girl’s power, he, once called Prince of Angels, would be as strong as the one calling himself God. Then the continuation of the world would be in his hands and he would wreak havoc on all who opposed him. Even now he felt those that lurked in the dark shadows drawing nearer, sensing his strength.
“Let me help you.”
Annie looked up, then shied back from his touch.
“You help me? All you have ever done is hurt anyone who has crossed your path. Why would you help me now, Lucifer?”
“I told you before. Do not speak that name.”
The skin rippled on his face threatening to expose his true features, and the fire in his eyes glowed, as he tried to control his rage.
“Don’t anger me, woman,” he warned. “You, who are without ally, cannot afford to turn down my offer.”
“An offer of eternal damnation?”
“That is not so. I will give you your life back, as promised. You will live out your allotted time and all you love will be restored.”
Annie looked down at the still, silent grave and the dark earth covering her sister.
“She was so young,” The Dark One picked up some of the soil and crumbled it between his fingers. “What a full life she could have lived, but for your selfishness; I would have destroyed the O Brien’s back then and all of this suffering could have been avoided. Yet even now you allow it to continue and another child has died because of him.”
“Then it is as I suspected, the child is dead?”
“A boy child,” The Dark One laughed.
Annie looked at him, disgusted.
“Well, you have to admit it’s amusing.”
“I find no merriment in the taking of life. Get out of my sight, Lucifer.”
This time the use of his given name had no effect on him.
“But it is your fault, if you would, but once admit it. You allow him to live and he will sire others. That woman, the one he calls wife, is not the only one he lies with.”
She could still hear his laughter as he faded back into the shadows. It was her fault, what he said was the truth. If she had given him her power all the suffering could have been avoided.
The house lay shrouded in night, as she moved towards it. All around her the good spirits beseeched her not to go there, but she was beyond reason. She moved silent as death up the steps towards the main door and stood in the shadows, waiting.
Liam groaned, as he drove up the driveway. The trees arched across his path; bending and swaying until he was sure they would scratch the paintwork of his car. He would have to see about cutting them down. A branch scraped across the roof as though reading his thoughts.
“Fuck,” he muttered, and put his foot down hard on the accelerator.
A shower of gravel, thrown up by the car wheels, heralded his arrival at the front door. Ducking his head against the storm, he ran up the steps. The key creaked, as he turned it, and before he closed the door, Annie glided by him. Inside the house was inky black, and he felt his way along the wall for a light switch. The light from the grand chandelier was harsh and lit up the streaks of blood at the bottom of the stairs. He ignored them and went towards his study. The house felt damp, a fault with the boiler, he thought, but he was too tired to correct it. The wait in the hospital seemed eternal. Four hours playing the devoted husband drained him. Hours when he could have been attending to better things. He smirked, thinking of what his dear wife referred to as his latest pillow friend. God, but women bored him. The wiles and whispered promises made his teeth itch. Whores, every one of them, but he made them pay and laughed when their words of love turned to screams of pain. Being the dumb creatures, they were, they came back for more; like whipped dogs cowering before their master.
Logs were piled beside the fire, so he threw some into the grate and set them alight. Taking his hankie from his pocket, he rubbed at his nose. The room smelled musty and a damp odour seemed to surround him.
Annie heard his every thought as though spoken and noticed how his hand shook as he filled a glass from a decanter.
I stayed as long as was necessary, he told himself. After all, the doctor said she would sleep for hours after the anaesthetic. No point in hanging around. The child was dead, best thing for everyone really. When she returned from the hospital, they could all go away for a few days as a family. Women liked that sort of things and she would soon forget the baby. Yes, a holiday would do him good, somewhere hot put a bit of colour into his skin. He held out his hands to inspect their paleness.
Outside despite the storm, the trees stretched skywards reaching out for the heavens. Fighting the force of the wind, they held their branches aloft and begged God to be merciful on one they loved. Even those who lived by the sea and knew well its ways; wondered why tonight of all nights, its voice was so loud. It roared and tossed, giant waves thundered towards the shore and shattered against rocks. The night creatures of forest and hedgerows covered their eyes and wept. “Will you abandon us?” The elements cried. “Will you let the one who was cast down have power over us, as you did to her who was part of us all?”
The heavens lay silent. Even the light from the few stars glowing through the blackness seemed to dim. They must stand alone and be Annie’s only hope. The trees called to the earth and all who inhabited it. From out of the forest came the first creatures. Fox and deer wild cats, rats and even owls worked side by side as they dug into Dora’s grave. Earth flew left and right as sharp claw and nail pierced the soil.
“Come child, come,” The spirits urged. “Your sister is in need of you.”
A small white hand forced its way through the earth and then another until soon, Dora was heaving herself up from the dank hole and running towards the house.
Annie could feel the changes occurring. The smell of her own body sickened her. It was of mould and decay. She knew her features must be frightening and when she touched her hair she cried, a shuddering, sobbing, pain-filled cry. Small tufts as dry as straw laced her fingers. This was his fault; she looked at Liam who had dropped his brandy at the sound. Up till now, she had not allowed him to see her, but that was about to change…
“Annie, Annie,” Dora ran up the steps of the house and tapped at the door. “Annie, let me in.”
Liam looked around, trying to see where the noise was coming from. Annie’s heart ached at the sound of the long-lost voice, but she did not move. The spirits were clever; they would try to distract her. The knocking continued, and Liam who was still shaking from the cry, got up to see what it was. Dora ran past him when he opened the door. The only thing he felt was the force of the wind. There was nothing there. Not for the first time did he question his choice of house. These old places were filled with creaks and groans. Shivering, he went back to the fire.
Annie held Dora and brushed away the dried earth from her face and picked little clumps from her hair, every trace of anger gone now she had her sister back.
“You have to come with me, Annie. Mamma says so.” The child looked up at her. “It is dark, and I am cold.”
“I will come with you, I promise, but not now. You must go back and wait for me.”
“I do not want to. I want to stay with you.”
Before Annie could answer, Liam banged his refilled glass down on the side table. Dora screamed.
“It is him, Annie, Hugh.”
“No,” Annie held her closer. “It is not Hugh; it is someone belonging to him.”
“He hurt me.”
“I know, my sweet, but he cannot hurt you anymore. He cannot even see you”
“He cannot, really, why?”
Annie shrugged, unsure of what to say, but this seemed great fun to Dora, and she crept closer to Liam. Had he been able to see the long dead child, he would have lost his mind. But then so would Annie. All she saw was a rosy-cheeked, blond-haired little girl with her face pressed against Liam’s. In truth, the nose almost touching his was stripped bare of flesh. The blue eyes sparkling with mischief were dark endless hollows, and the flowing hair, tattered tendrils framing the grinning skull.
“You hurt me,” Dora whispered and reached out towards his drink.
An invisible hand swept it from the table. Liam gaped at the fallen glass and spilled liquid.
Dora delighted with her prank, ran from the room and up the stairs. Sure, Annie would scold her; she hid in the shadows on the gallery.
Liam dropped to his knees and mopped at the stain on his Persian rug. The wind shook the shutters on the window and pried them loose. The sound of the wood hitting against the frame made him scream. From within the storm The Dark One watched the tableau and rubbed his hands with glee. Lightening struck the power lines plunging the house into darkness.
Liam, glad of the firelight, took the two ornate holders from the mantelpiece and lit the candles.
Annie crept up the stairs in search of her sister. When Dora heard her coming, she ran further into the house.
“Dora, come back here.”
“You have to find me,” the child giggled and climbed upwards.
Liam looked towards the ceiling and called out to his daughters to be quiet. It was then he remembered they were not there. He was apprehensive, not about ghosts or spirits, because he believed in nothing. Still, there was someone in the house. There was no mistaking the patter of footsteps on the floor above. He wished there were more lights. Despite piling logs on the flames, the fire seemed to lose its glow, and dark shadows crept from the corners of the room. It was no use; he would have to investigate. Taking one of the candlesticks, he moved towards the door.
The hall lay shrouded in moonbeams and darting shapes moved all around him. Leaves, he comforted himself, shadows of leaves being tossed about in the storm outside and reflecting on the floor. But these were nothing so innocent. From out of the darkness the lost souls urged him up, wanting to please their master and bring about Liam’s end. They knew she was up there. The one who could set them free as the master promised. But they were hindered in their work by the others; the ones who worked beside her. Time after time strong hands reached out and pulled them back into the shadows.
Liam moved up winching at each creaking board on the stairs. Somewhere above him a door banged, and he almost dropped the candle. His heart thudded against his ribs and he held the light higher. Was there something crouched at the gallery rail? Cold fear wandered down his spine, sweat coated his upper lip and he stood uncertain of what to do. For a moment all was quiet within the house, except for the sound of the rain on the roof, persistent and melancholic.
“Fuck this,” his voice shattered the silence. “You’re dead, do you hear me. Whoever you are, you’re dead when I get my hands on you.”
“Annie,” Dora came running from her hiding place. “He is going to kill us.”
“No, he is not,” she watched the flame as it moved closer. “Not this time, come.”
She led Dora into the children’s room. The dark was the same as the light to them and the child squealed with delight her fear forgotten when she saw the array of dolls.
“Now, stay here and play,” Annie said. “I will lead him away.”
Dora nodded and picked up the nearest doll.
“Look at me,” Annie turned her face towards her. “I mean what I say. You must stay here. No matter what you hear, Promise.”
Dora nodded again and Annie wagged her finger at her.
“Say you promise. Cross your heart and hope to…”
Dora’s fingers on her lips stopped her.
“Do not say that, Annie. Remember the last time?”
Annie remembered too well and after Dora assured her, she would stay put, she went in search of Liam. Which was no hard feat, as he stumbled along the corridor, a candle in one hand and a small marble statue in the other by way of a weapon? Annie ran by him and up the next flight of stairs towards the attic.
Liam raised the hand holding the statue and wiped his forehead. His shirt clung to his back and the wool from his pants chaffed his sweat-soaked thighs. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to get out, but something was urging him on. A sinister seductiveness surrounded him pulling him towards it. The door to the attic stairs swung noiselessly open and his feet moved forward, despite his terror. Unbroken veils of cobwebs blocked his path and he pushed them aside with the statue. White silken gossamer clung to his sleeves and about his shoulders, making him glow against the black background. Someone stood silhouetted by the window.
“Come out of the shadows. I’m warning you,” Liam raised the statue higher.
Annie walked towards him, the Annie of old with her waist length hair and winning smile. For a moment Liam was taken aback, until she spoke.
“Welcome, I have been waiting for you,” leaning over, she blew the candle out.
Cora groaned, the pressure on her right arm was unbearable. Even in her drug-induced, semi-conscious state, she managed to reach out with her free hand to brush away what was hurting her. There was vague mumbling from above and her hand was clasped in a cool, but firm embrace.
“Cora, wake up now.”
The overhead lights were blinding, so she covered her face. Her mind felt hazy, her thoughts muddled, but she managed to focus in time to see the white figure beside her bed fold the blood pressure cuff.
“Welcome back,” the nurse smiled. “And how are you feeling?”
“I fell,” she tried to make sense of what happened.
“Indeed, you did. It was a miracle you didn’t break something in a fall like that.”
“I didn’t?” She held up her hands to inspect them.
They were covered in yellow and blue bruises.
“I’m afraid you have many more like that, but never mind, it could be worse.”
Now her mind was finally clear of drugs, Cora’s hand went instinctively to her stomach, and she knew her baby was gone. She turned towards the nurse and with eyes filled with fear, asked. “My baby?”
“I’m sorry, my dear. There was nothing the doctors could do.”
“No, please,” she started to sob.
“The pregnancy wasn’t advanced enough. His little lungs were unable to cope.”
“A boy?”
“Yes, you can see him later, when you’re feeling better.”
But Cora knew she would never feel any better and turning on her side, she howled for the loss of her child.
“I’ll ask the doctor for something to relax you,” the nurse patted the bedcovers.
“No,” Cora called after her. “I don’t want anything. Let me be.”
The nurse turned away, shaking her head. Cora wanted to scream, leave me alone. I want to grieve for my loss. Instead, she huddled down under the blankets and her sobbing made the bed shake. After a while she fell into an uneasy sleep. She was back at the house, standing at the top of the stairs with her arms full of dirty bed linen. Then, she was falling, tumbling over and over, the child in her womb spinning faster within her until finally, she was lying at the bottom of the stairs and the warmth between her legs pumped in time to the fading heartbeat inside.
A touch on her arm made her scream, and she struggled to sit up. Marie caught her and held her as the sobbing began again.
“It’s going to be all right, my dear. I know this means nothing to you now, but time is a great healer.”
“I lost the baby.”
“I know, the nurse told me. I said I was your mother. A small lie in a good cause,” she stroked Cora’s back.
Cora sat up and brushed the tear-soaked hair from her face.
“It was a little boy,” she sniffed. “They said I can see him, but I’m afraid. Can you believe that? I’m afraid of my own baby.”
“We all fear death. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Would you come with me, to see him, I mean?”
“Yes, of course I will. I’ll go and ask the nurse.”
Marie left the room and returned in minutes.
“You will need to be taken down in a wheelchair. As soon as they have a porter free, they will send him in.”
During the time they waited, Marie told her how she had taken the children home with her. About Emily and finally, because she knew Cora needed to know, the house’s secret.
For a moment, Cora forgot her own grief.
“Then this Annie, this young girl, has been there for hundreds of years?”
“Yes, poor thing. Trapped in time and bound by a terrible curse to Liam’s family.”
“Is there nothing can be done to free her?”
“Nothing, Emily fears she’s become so desperate in her search of eternal rest she will try to kill Liam.”
“I hope she does.” Cora was trembling with rage. “I hope she tears out his rotten heart.”
“Yes, “Marie sighed. “But if she does, she’s damned. She will belong to the darkness forever.”
“Oh, the poor child,” Marie was unsure if her cries were for Annie or her dead baby.
The sudden whistling from the hallway made them look up and a wheelchair trundled in the door, pushed by a rosy-cheeked porter.
“Your chariot has arrived, my lady,” he joked, as he helped Cora into the seat.
His cheery manner soon abated when the nurse came in and he learned of their destination. It was a solemn, silent little procession that left the room. No one spoke, as they waited for the lift, or even when they descended deep into the bowels of the hospital and along the echoing corridor to the morgue and the chapel of rest. There was more whispering as the porter and the assistant conferred, finally…
“Mrs. O Brien. I’m Joe Hayes. I’ll take you in to see your baby.”
“Thank you,” Cora held out a trembling hand to Marie.
“You’ll be fine, love,” Joe assured her.
She glanced towards the chapel doors and the stained-glass cross fixed in each of them. Somewhere behind those doors lay the body of her child, pale and cold and dead. She wanted to scream, but instead she held tighter to Marie’s hand. The wheelchair jolted as Joe kicked off the brake, and she closed her eyes. She was aware of the doors opening and cringed, expecting a rush of cold air. But there was nothing like that. The room felt warm; there was no harsh smell of disinfectant nothing, but silence.
Marie let go of her and Cora heard her walk forward. Still, she did not open her eyes.
“Ah, God bless him.”
Marie was leaning over a frilled baby basket when Cora peeped through her fingers. There was no coffin, no candles, none of the scary stuff.
“What’s he like?” Cora started to cry.
“A perfect little baby; a little transparent, but that’s to be expected. Come, let me help you.”
With Marie holding her, she moved towards the basket. A sob caught in her throat when she saw her baby. He was as Marie said, perfect. His skin so thin she could trace each vein beneath it. His fingers were curled into tight fists and his mouth pouted into a perfect cupid’s bow.
“Poor little thing,” Cora’s tears flowed as she stroked his tiny hands. “You never stood a chance did you, son?”
Marie bought a hankie to her eyes. Cora was right; he never stood a chance. Hatred for Liam O Brien and for all men like him welled up, so she had to walk from the room as tears threatened.
She had managed to compose herself when Cora was wheeled out. No longer crying, she seemed more at peace, and the hand that grasped Marie’s no longer trembled. The porter soon had Cora back in bed and left with a mumbled “sorry for your trouble.”
Marie was anxious to be back with Emily and the children. So, kissing Cora and promising to be back next morning, she left the room almost colliding with a doctor who was entering.
Outside the wind whipped up, and Marie shivered drawing her coat closer. The forecast said a clear night with a touch of frost. Now, as she looked up at the moon and the dark clouds racing across it, she wondered where the weathermen got their predictions.
Cora studied the doctor standing at the end of her bed.
“Let’s have a look at you,” he indicated at her to pull up her robe and pressed on her stomach.
“It’s amazing you didn’t break anything. I have seen people die from shorter falls than you had. Did you ever think of doing stunt work?”
She did not answer and his face grew serious.
“I’m sorry about your loss. There was nothing anyone could do.”
“Yes, I know. Thank you,” she answered automatically.
“Can you remember what you tripped over?”
“The sheets, I think. I was changing a bed.”
“Yes, that may well be, but it doesn’t explain this,” he rolled back the bedclothes and traced his fingers along a thin red mark on her ankle. “Do you remember how you got this?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Mmm, it’s strange. Your leg must have encounter something sharp. It is worth looking into, but not tonight. You need your rest.”
“Yes,” Cora was unable to tear her eyes away from the thin, blood red line around her ankle.
“There seems to be a storm brewing.”
“Sorry?”
“I said there seems to be a storm brewing. It’s the wrong time of the year for this sort of weather.”
“Oh, yes,” Cora’s attention went back to her leg, so she did not hear him leave.
The effects of the day begun to take effect, and she sank back against the pillows exhausted. There were no more tears left, instead she felt numb. Eventually she fell asleep and her dreams were filled with nightmare images. The one thing she remembered clearly as she awoke was lying at the bottom of the stairs and looking up at the terrified face of a young woman, and the thin piece of wire tied across the top step. Sweat coated her face as the realisation hit. Liam killed her son and had she died in the process; it would not have mattered. Her eyes flew to the clock in the corridor outside. She had only been asleep for half an hour. Easing her way out of bed, she stumbled towards the wardrobe. Her flesh was so battered it felt as though it tore with each movement. The clothes she had been wearing when admitted were folded neatly on a shelf. Though the skirt was blood stained, it was wearable and there were a few crumpled euro notes in the pocket to pay for a taxi. The corridor was quiet; there was no one to stop her flight. The night seemed darker than usual, despite the full moon, and the wind whipped her hair around her face as she stepped outside. She was leaving her baby behind in a hospital full of strangers and heading home to Liam to carry out the teachings of her religion, an eye for an eye.
“It’s getting very dark,” Laura pressed her nose against the window and looked out into the deepening gloom. She had grown tired of waiting for Marie to return and turning to Emily asked. “What’s taking her so long?”
“Perhaps the traffic is bad. It has turned out to be such a windy night. The power lines could be down. Who knows what damage this storm is causing?”
“Yes, but it’s not a real storm,” Laura traced her finger down the pane following the path of a raindrop.
“Why, of course it’s a real storm,” Emily replied. “You can hear it, can’t you and see it?”
“Yes,” Laura shrugged, slipping down from the window seat, and joining Emily and Shelly by the fire. “I mean it’s not caused by the weather.”
“That’s silly,” Shelly stopped writing in her copybook and looked up. “It has to be cause by the weather. You’re weird.”
“I am not,” Laura grabbed at the copybook and a tug of war ensued.
“Stop that at once,” Emily shook her hankie at them with all the power of a demented butterfly.
Laura let go, causing Shelly to fall back against the fireplace and bang her head.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Emily eased her way up from her seat.
“I don’t care. I’m sick of her calling me names.”
“That’s no reason to hurt her,” Emily rubbed at the small lump already beginning to form at the back of the child’s head.
“I didn’t mean her to fall back, did I?” Laura glared at her sister.
“Yes, you did,” Shelly sniffled. “I hate you. You’re a pig.”
“Well. If I am a pig, you must be too.”
“Well, you’re an even bigger pig.”
“Girls give over that nonsense at once. You do not know how lucky you are to have one another. If I had a sister, I might not have ended up in that dreadful place.”
This stopped them, as each had a picture of Hillcrest seared into their memory.
“I’m sorry,” Laura offered. “It’s just people at school are always calling me names. They say I am weird because I see things they can’t. They call me witch and other things.”
“I always stick up for you,” Shelly said.
“Yeah, I know, sorry.”
“It’s OK,” Shelly retrieved the fallen copybook.
For a while peace was restored. Shelly went back to her homework, Laura leafed through a magazine and Emily stared into the flames remembering better times. She had to agree with the child. Marie was taking her time. There was a shuffling beside her, and Emily looked across at Laura who was holding the palms of her hands over her ears.
“Have you an earache?”
She shook her head.
“Why are you doing that?”
“Voices.”
“What do you mean?”
“Voices, in my head.”
“She always hears voices,” Shelly threw her eyes skyward.
“What are they saying?” Emily was intrigued.
“Crying, Annie’s crying and a man, I think it’s my Dad saying help me.”
Emily looked towards the dark window. “She’s out there?”
“Yes, I tried to tell you that. She’s in the storm.”
“We have to save her. We have to get to the house.”
“Shelly, get your pencil case,” Laura ordered, and taking her own from her satchel, she emptied the contents onto the coffee table.
Between them they had over sixteen euros in lunch money.
“This should be enough for a taxi,” Shelly said.
. Marie’s address book was beside the phone, so they found the number of a taxi firm. Laura, taking charge, helped Emily and Shelly into their coats and stuffed the notes and coins into her pocket.
“We better leave Marie a note,” Emily said.
Laura tore a piece from the back of Shelly’s copybook and scribbled a short message. Outside a horn tooted and she ushered the others out.
“You see?” She whispered to Emily, as she helped her down the steps in front of the building. “The sky is crying.”
Marie arrived back at the flat just as the taxi drew away from the curb. She ran inside pulling of her headscarf and unbuttoning her coat. She knew something was wrong. It was too quiet.
“Emily, children,” she called, her voice echoing back in the stillness. Their coats were gone from the hallstand, but everything else was still there. Her eyes were drawn to the copybook on the table and the note lying on top of it. Picking it up, her eyes grew wide in terror at the six words printed in childish scrawl. Annie’s back, gone to save her.
Marie was at her desk earlier than usual next day. To take the afternoon off, she would have to get her work completed. The fact it was so early meant there was no phones to delay her sorting of the post. Rachael breezed in just after nine and was soon followed by Liam. Marie saw by his bleary eyes and hangdog expression; this was not to be one of his better days. She had arranged the post on his desk in neat piles and she heard him shuffling through it.
The next few hours passed in a flurry of phone calls and appointments. The usual sad panorama of his clients filed past her desk and disappeared into his office. They reappeared, either looking smug or dejected. None of them paid her any heed, other than giving their name. It was almost noon when a lull came. Cora would be waiting for her at 1 o clock as arranged, and she could not let her down. But just as she was about to rise, Liam came storming from his office.
“I’m going out.”
“I need the afternoon off,” Marie managed to get in.
He stopped and looked at her.
“I have a dental appointment.”
“Since when?”
“This morning. I’ve been up with toothache all night.”
“I’m surprised you have any teeth left at your age,” he smirked at Rachael, but she looked away.
“My appointment is for one thirty and it may take a couple of hours.”
“You’ll go when I come back, understand?”
“I’ll go at one.”
“Do that and you can stay away.”
They stood face to face, prize fighters squaring up.
“If that’s what you want, I quite understand.”
He looked across at Rachael who was gaping open mouthed at them. Though he hated to admit it, he needed the old witch.
“Very well,” he gritted his teeth. “Go at one, but don’t make a habit of it. And you,” he turned to Rachael. “Don’t screw anything up.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
He glared at her and slammed the door behind him so hard, they thought the glass would break.
Cora spent much of the morning sitting by the window watching the driveway. The night was uneventful with no unwelcome footsteps or strange sounds. Laura seemed more subdued at breakfast, or was she imagining that? Her mind was in so much turmoil she did not know what to think.
Annie sat opposite her, but Cora was unaware of her presence. The only sounds came from the grandfather clock in the hallway, as it ticked away the minutes. All around them the house sighed and settled. As the morning wore on, Cora became more anguished. She would not rest until she found out the house’s secret.
It was well after noon when she saw his car appear. She ran to the kitchen and stood with her back to the knife block, waiting. He did not come straight in or even call her name. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, and it was a few moments before he came looking for her.
“Ah, there you are.”
Cora gripped the edge of the worktop.
“I want you to change my bed linen.”
“Your bed linen?”
“Yes, wash and dry the same linen that’s on it.”
She stood looking at him for a moment before answering.
“I have other linen.”
“For fuck sake will you do as I ask? Strip off the old linen, wash it and replace it. It’s hardly rocket science.”
“All right,” Cora dodged by him, and Annie followed.
Cora pulled the quilt from its cover and gathered up the sheets and pillowcases. Neither of them realised Liam had crept up behind them. Cora was struggling along the gallery towards the stairs; the linen bundled up in her arms when she heard the noise. She stopped and listened. It sounded like breaking glass, then…
“Cora, help. For God’s sake help me, I’m hurt.”
She dropped the linen and ran towards the stairs. Annie realised too late, what was about to happen. In the seconds it took for her to register the cord pulled taunt across the stairs, Cora’s ankle met it and she fell. Her back, her side, her stomach bounced hard off each step, until she landed on the marble floor. Annie looked down in disbelief at the battered figure. She smelt the blood that was yet to show seeping from between Cora’s legs. Annie heard him speaking but couldn’t see to whom he spoke. She was clutching the banisters so hard her fingerprints scorched and blackened the wood. Once again, she had failed; another child died. The rage within her roared, and she felt herself change as she charged down the stairs.
Liam was looking down at his wife’s still form as Annie came towards him, her blackened hands reaching for his throat. A scream from the doorway stopped her, and she turned to find Laura and Shelly standing there. Shelly ran to her mother sobbing and calling to her, but Laura stood with her hand clasped over her mouth. She saw what the others could not, the burnt skeleton with its tendrils of hair sticking to its bones. The gaping mouth and hollow, cobwebby eyes though sightless, could still see her.
“What did you do?” She whispered.
“I did nothing,” her father answered. “Your mother had a fall. An ambulance is on its way. Take Shelly and wait in there.”
He ushered them towards the sitting room. As soon as they were inside, he ran to the top of the stairs. Taking the claw hammer from its hiding place, he pulled the nail from the skirting board and tucked it and the wire into his pocket. The scattered bed linen was thrown to the bottom of the stairs.
“Such a silly thing to happen,” he muttered.
From close by he heard the wail of sirens and ran back down to play his role of concerned husband.
They were loading Cora into the ambulance when Marie drove up. Liam rung and asked her to call, saying there had been an accident.
“What happened?”
Liam ran his hand through his hair.
“She was coming down the stairs with some sheets. She must have snagged her foot on them. I warned her not to do heavy work in her condition.”
Had she not known of his treatment of his wife and his desire to be rid of the child, she might have believed him. Instead, she looked towards the window and the two tear stained faces framed there.
“I’ll have to follow the ambulance,” Liam said. “Will you take care of the children for me?”
“I have an appointment, but I’ll take them with me. I’ll keep them overnight if need be.”
“Good, yes, do that.”
“We have to hurry,” the paramedic called.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Liam ran to his car.
Marie shivered as the paramedic climbed inside and sat beside the white, still form of Cora.
The house smelt sickly sweet when she entered the hall, like flowers that had lost their bloom. The children were squashed together in one small chair, their fingers entwined.
“Will my Mam be all right,” Laura asked.
“I hope so, dear,” Marie held out her arms and Shelly slipped from her seat and ran to her. Laura remained seated, though her lower lip trembled. They both knew who Marie was, having met her on their rare trips to their father’s office. Laura liked her on sight. She smelled sweet like a baby, and she talked in a funny way.
“Your Dad wants you to stay with me overnight, so we’ll need some things from your rooms.”
“No,” Laura jumped up. “Don’t go upstairs.”
“I’ll only be a moment,” Marie promised. “Just while I get your pyjamas.”
“I’ll show you,” Shelly offered.
“No,” Laura screamed, throwing her arms around her sister.
“Very well; I’ll go up alone. Just tell me where your room is.”
“We can sleep in our undies.”
“I can’t sleep without teddy,” Shelly whimpered, and before Laura could offer any more resistance, Marie walked from the room.
That child is really frightened she thought, but when she saw the pool of blood at the end of the stairs she could understand why.
Annie was sat huddled in a corner of the children’s room; her features normal again, now the hatred had subsided. She watched as the old lady rummaged around, pulling open drawers, and taking clothes from them. Annie sensed the woman’s goodness, and she cried out. Marie froze, as the shuddering, sobbing, pain-filled cry echoed around her. She turned and looked around the room. Her first instinct was to run, but when it came again, its pain touched her.
“I’m lost and I’m frightened,” it cried.
“Oh, dear Lord,” Marie heard the words clearly. Picking up the teddy bear, she ran from the room and bundled the children into her car.
“I have to visit with someone,” Marie explained. “And I need you to come with me. “It’s a nice old lady I promised to call on. It’s not far away.”
“I’d rather go to the hospital,” Laura said.
“This is important. It’s something I’m doing for your mother.”
“Oh, OK.” Laura sat back and watched the bushes on the roadside flash by.
“Why were you home from school so early?” Marie asked.
“The heating broke down and everyone was complaining about the cold, so we were sent home.”
“Disgraceful,” Marie snorted. “And they didn’t have the decency to let your mother know.”
“It’s only down the road,” Laura sighed. “We often walk home.”
“Still in this day and age.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Marie had no idea if this was a smart answer, but it sounded decidedly so.
Hillcrest Rest Home was not on a hill, neither did it have any hills around it. It stood, quietly decaying behind rusted gates, that creaked and groaned as they drove past. Even the few trees surrounding it appeared jaded. They hunched and stooped; their branches stripped clean by the late autumn wind. Ivy trailed down the walls and dark roots sprung from the earth and grasped at the building, as though the land wanted to reclaim it; to suck it down so it was no longer an eyesore. The Home itself had seen better centuries. The paint was picked clean from the windows, and the door was so damp, the rotten wood showed through. All the front windows were misted over. There was no answer to Marie’s hesitant knock and the door swung open when Laura pushed against it.
“Phew,” the children cried in unison.
Marie had to agree. It smelt of mould, boiled cabbage, and something much more overpowering.
“It smells of pee,” Laura concluded.
“Is that any way for a young lady to speak,” Marie hushed her, but she had to agree it did smell of urine. It emanated from the faded carpet.
“Hello, is there anyone there?” Marie was bristling now. There was not even a reception desk.
“Paging nurse pissy pants.”
“Will you behave?”
But it was no use Laura and Shelly were too caught up in the joke.
“Hello,” they moved towards a door at the bottom of the stairs. The latch no longer worked, and it swung noiselessly open. They stepped into what was once a sitting room. Although it was early afternoon the light was already starting to fade, and only the embers of a fire lit the room. Chairs were arranged to form a circle and a hunched figure sat on each one.
“I’m frightened,” Shelly whispered.
Marie had to admit the scene before them was surreal. No one moved or spoke. She felt along the wall for a light switch. Even the wallpaper felt damp on her fingers, and relief surged through her, when she felt the cold switch and flicked it down. The light in the centre of the ceiling came on, but the bulb was much too low for such a large area and threw the room into shadow. Still no one moved. It was if they were unaware of the change. Marie looked around at the men and women sitting there and her heart ached, because she saw the despair etched in each face. These were the unwanted people, the ones considered no longer useful to society or their family. They had been sent to this place, this elephant’s graveyard to await their death. She saw the neglect they suffered. Dried food clung to the clothes of the feeblest and stained their faces. Hastily spooned by impatient hands into mouths unable for the load, it was allowed to spill over and lie wherever it landed. Her eyes travelled downwards, and she touched the papery dry skin on the hand nearest to her. It felt dry and cold, but her touch sparked something in its owner, and the old woman looked up and smiled. Then, noticing the two girls hiding behind Marie, she whispered, “children.”
Instantly the others came to life. Those who could heaved themselves up from their chairs and came towards them. Others held out their arms in longing for the softness of a child once more. Marie wanted to ask them where their children were, or what they had done to warrant such a sentence in this awful place. Instead, she urged the girls to speak to the old people, whispering they were lonely and needed someone to talk to. Soon Laura and Shelly overcame their reserve and were telling everyone about their school and their friends, and were no longer afraid of the fingers touching their hair or holding them close.
Marie bent down to the old woman, who was still holding on to her hand as though it was a lifeline and asked. “Do you know which of these women is Miss James?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know anybody’s name, my dear.”
“Are you new here?”
“I’ve lost count of the years I’ve been here. I think it’s about ten or more.”
Marie shook her head in disbelief. Ten years and she did not know anyone’s name. This place was surely the nearest thing to Hell.
None of them heard the footsteps on the corridor outside. The door was thrown open and an angry voice asked. “Who turned on the light?”
“I did,” Marie turned to find a grim-faced nurse framed in the doorway.
“Oh, yes, I see,” she became flustered and ran her hands down her stained uniform, trying to brush the filth away. “I don’t like any of the guests to move in case they fall. I’m never far away and they only have to call.”
“I’ve been here for over…” Marie looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes and I’ve tried to attract someone’s attention a number of times.”
“Well, I was probably down in the kitchen preparing supper,” she was growing angry now. No one ever answered her back.
“Are there no other members of staff?”
“I really don’t see why it concerns you, or what business you have here.”
“I am here to see an old friend of my family’s, a Miss James, Emily James.”
“Well, you won’t find her in here.”
“That,” Marie said. “Is blatantly obvious. Where is she?”
For a moment she was afraid Miss James was dead until the nurse, deciding she was obviously trouble and it was best to let her have her way, gestured towards the ceiling.
“She’s upstairs. She has become very weak over the past few weeks, so she spends most of her time in bed. If you follow me, I will take you to her room, but I have to say I’m not one bit happy about this intrusion. I do not even know you and have only your word as to who you are. After all, you could be anyone.”
“Yes, your right. I could be anyone; even the health inspector.”
“Are you threatening me? I run this place in accordance with nursing home regulations.”
“Then believe me those so-called regulations need to be revised. But, since I have business elsewhere and have neither the time nor the inclination to bandy words with you, I would appreciate seeing Miss James.”
“Follow me,” she turned, then stopped and glared at the girls. “And another thing. I don’t like children running all over the place.”
“We’re not running,” Laura stood with hands on hips. “We’re just standing here, talking.”
“See that you stay that way. I don’t want you tripping up one of the guests.”
Laura threw her eyes to heaven and answered with the customary, “Whatever.”
Marie put her finger to her lips and Laura shrugged, resigned to having to do as she was told.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Marie said. “Stay here.”
As she followed the nurse outside and closed the door as well as the faulty catch allowed, she became aware of the buzz of conversation inside. In dawned on her, as she climbed the stairs, her feet making squelching noises on the dirty, sticky carpet, there was total silence once the nurse appeared. The old people were afraid of her. Well, she would see about that later. She had made many useful contacts in her years as a legal secretary and the health board would hear about this place.
The upstairs was colder than below, and the low lighting did nothing to dispel the gloom of the long, door lined corridor.
“In here,” the nurse threw open a door and stood aside to allow Marie to pass. “There’s a lamp beside the bed,” was her parting shot, as she slammed the door and the room was plunged into darkness.
For a moment, the only sound was the beating of her heart, then a small voice asked.
“Is someone there?”
“It’s all right, Miss. James,” she started to edge her way across the room. “I’m a friend. I’ve come to visit you.”
The outline of a bed appeared, and she felt her way along it.
“But I haven’t any friends,” the voice had an edge of fear.
“It’s all right. I promise. I have come from your old home. Can you turn on the light for me?”
“I can’t reach that far.”
Marie knew if she did not locate the lamp soon the old woman would start to cry. Her hand knocked against a glass and a couple of things fell from the overcrowded bedside cabinet. Like the rest of the lights in the Home the wattage in the bulb was extremely low, but it was enough for her to see the old woman who lay propped up on a nest of stained pillows. Tiny care worn hands clutched the faded bedclothes and her eyes, like all the other prisoners in this place, had the same hopeless look.
“It’s all right,” Marie whispered. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“I’ll help if I can, my dear.”
To her horror Marie realised the woman’s breath made small white clouds as she spoke. The adrenaline rush from the fright of being left in the darkness made her oblivious to the cold, but now she shivered in the damp air.
“It gets very cold here in the evenings,” the old woman noticed her discomfort.
“I expect it’s cold here most of the time?”
Marie looked around the room at the faded carpet, the peeling wallpaper, and the patches of damp on the ceiling.
“Of course, you’re right. This really is the most dreadful place.”
Realising she hadn’t introduced herself; Marie told the woman her name and was rewarded with an outstretched hand so small and delicate that she was afraid it would break at her touch. But the grasp as she folded her fingers over it, was surprisingly strong and the smile the old woman gave her as she insisted, she call her Emily, took the anguish from her face making her appear younger. Marie explained the reason she was there.
“Do you have any idea what’s happening? I thought you might know something of the house’s history. Can you remember anything?”
Emily’s eyes seemed to glaze over, and Marie was worried she’d upset her; so reaching out she patted the old woman’s hand.
“So, she is back, is she? Poor child.”
The fine hairs on Marie’s neck prickled.
“Who, who’s back?”
As though she had not heard, Emily asked. “Is it that cur, O Brien that’s living there?”
“Yes, the family name is O Brien. Liam was your solicitor.”
“Yes, I remember him well enough. He cheated me you know. But he will get his comeuppance now, by God he will.”
“Who is she? She asked again. “Why is she here; can you remember?”
Emily answered in a tired, sad voice.
“Many things blur over a lifetime and get forgotten. But there are some tales belong to you. They stand out in your mind and are so powerful they chill the blood and wake you screaming in the darkness.”
With this she started her story. Told Marie the history of the house. How it started out as a humble cottage and was added on to as the family fortunes improved. Marie listened enthralled as Emily told her of Annie’s fate and the curse, she had placed on the O Brien’s.
“We have all heard the legend of the Banshee. There’s not one true Irish man who hasn’t.”
Marie nodded and waited for her to continue.
“Well that’s what O Brien has, his own private Banshee who’s wandered throughout the centuries trying to find peace. The O Brien’s were rogues back then and they are still the same today. I take it he’s without heir?”
“There are two children, girls. They’re downstairs now,” she explained about Cora’s accident and how the children came to be in her care.
“That’s what’s causing her to rise. A son would’ve saved him.”
“My God,” Marie was horrified. “Then she’ll kill him?”
“It’s the only way she’ll ever rest, but in doing so she’ll destroy any hope of salvation. If she takes his life, then she loses her soul. But she’s wise, and I pray that during her long years she’s learned to forgive and will let him live out his allotted time.”
“Was she an ancestor?”
“I’m descended from Rose, her sister.”
“What am I to do?”
“There’s nothing you can do. To warn him would be a waste of time. She is not tied to the house. She can rise in the air and be carried on the breeze. So, you see it is useless, she’ll seek him out.”
A noise at the door made them turn. Laura, who had grown tired of waiting crept up in search of Marie.
“Laura, come here.”
“Were you talking about Annie,” Laura asked.
“Have you seen her, child?” Emily sat up straight in the bed.
“Yes, I’ve seen her when she’s pretty, and I’ve seen her when she’s ugly.”
“She changes? Marie asked.
“Yes, when she gets angry, she looks like a monster. She was like that when Mam fell down the stairs. I saw her and she saw me.”
“Then nothing’s changed,” Emily sighed. “The hatred she felt is still there.”
The clattering of a trolley on the corridor outside announced the arrival of Emily’s supper. A blowsy, hard-faced woman came through the door with a tray. This she dumped on Emily’s lap and without a word to her or her visitors walked away. All three of them stared in disgust at the food on the plate. A cremated sausage, two pale, fat slices of bacon and a half-buttered slice of brown bread, to be washed down with milky tea from a chipped mug.
“Are you very ill?” Laura asked.
“I’m not ill at all, just heartbroken. I took care of the big house you are living in on my own up to a few months ago. You’ve seen the others downstairs?”
“Yes, they’re a bit creepy,” Laura pretended to shiver.
“The walking dead I call them. I pretend I am ill, so I don’t have to sit there and stare into space. I’ve no time for the old.”
“But you are old. You must be a hundred.”
“Laura, please,” Marie scolded.
“Out of the mouths of babes, eh,” Emily laughed.
“I’m sorry,” Laura said. “My teacher says I have the most annoying habit of saying exactly what I think. It gets me in terrible trouble.”
“I should think it does,” Emily smiled. “But I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
Laura hugged her. She liked this small, old woman with the white hair and crinkly smile.
Oh, you’re still here,” they hadn’t heard the nurse come in.
She looked down at the tray of uneaten food.
“Not hungry Miss. James?” Without waiting for an answer, she scooped up the tray and started to walk away. “Please don’t be much longer,” she said to Marie. “I don’t want you tiring Miss James.”
“What she means is she doesn’t want you poking your nose in here,” Emily whispered. “And supper will be kept for my breakfast.”
“Oh, gross,” Laura pulled a face. “I’d die if I lived here.”
“That is what will happen, I afraid. I’ll fade away and die.”
“No, I won’t allow it,” Marie walked to the wardrobe and started to rifle through it. “Can you walk?”
“Yes, dear, but…”
“Get dressed,” Marie tossed some clothes on the bed,” I’ll pack your things.”
The agility at which Emily sprang from the bed was amazing.
“You’ll come home with me,” Marie told her, as she folded and stacked the woman’s few personal belongings into a suitcase she found on top of the wardrobe. “We’ll figure something out. Come along Laura. Let us leave Miss. James to dress in peace.”
“I’ll go and get Shelly,” Laura ran ahead, and Marie followed carrying the suitcase.
“What have you got in that suitcase?” The nurse stood at the end of the stairs.
“Miss. James’s clothes. She’s coming home with me.”
“Over my dead body.”
“If need be.”
“She was placed in my care because she was unable to look after herself.”
“I’ll be looking after her from now on. Move aside,” Marie nudged her with the suitcase, but she stood firm.
“I mean it. She is not leaving here. I’ll call the police.”
“Marie, dear, “Emily was standing at the top of the stairs. “Perhaps it’s best to leave me here.”
“You’re not staying in this awful place. Do not worry. I have seen the papers that committed you. They won’t stand up in court,” turning back to the nurse she ordered. “Get out of my way.”
“You’re not taking her.”
Marie handed the suitcase to Laura. Though she had never in her life been involved in any physical confrontations, she was ready to do battle with the woman. She walked down the last two steps and stood facing her, so close their noses almost touched.
“Kick her ass,” Laura cheered.
“Not only will I do as the child asked,” Marie warned her adversary. “But when I’m finished, I’ll drag you through every court in the land.”
Shelly, who was drawn out by the argument added. “My Dad’s a solicitor. He’ll put you in jail.”
This weakened the nurse’s resolve.
“Very well,” she stepped away. “But you’ll sign for her. I’ll not be responsible once she steps foot outside.”
“Help Miss James to the car,” Marie told the girls. “I’ll be right out.”
The nurse’s office consisted of a desk and a filing cabinet in the corner of the kitchen. The stench was worse here, a dirty butcher shop smell.
“Sign this and she’s yours,” this was said as though Emily was a piece of lost luggage
Marie filled in the appropriate details and walked away. Out in the hallway an old woman leaning on a Zimmer frame came hobbling towards her.
“Are you taking her home?”
“Yes,” Marie answered. “I’m taking her home.”
“I’m glad,” the woman’s eyes filled with tears. “No one should have to die in a place like this.”
Marie leaned down, stroked her cheek, and watched her eyes light up as she said.
“I’m coming back. I promise you that much. Things are going to change.”
It was pitch black when she stepped outside. The wind whipped up and leaves whirled around her as she ran to the car. It looked as though it was going to be a bad night. She turned the key and the engine sprang to life. Switching the car heater to its highest setting, she leaned across and patted Emily’s hands. “You’ll soon be warm.”
“Thank you, my dear. I was feeling a little cold.”
“And we’re starving to death,” Laura’s voice came from behind.
“My apartment’s nearby. We’ll soon be there, and I’ll fix dinner. A proper dinner,” Marie winked at Emily.
The car headlights cut the dark as Marie guided it over the rumbling cattle grid and out through the gates of Hillcrest. The first splatters of rain hit the windscreen as she turned onto the main road and headed for home.
Marie Walters’ dropped the armful of envelopes onto her desk and shook her head at the flashing red light on the answering machine. Another Monday morning in the offices of O Brien and Costello, Solicitors, was about to begin. The light continued to blink, vying for her attention with the unopened post. She sighed and brushed a grey hair from her forehead. There were nine unanswered calls, and these were best dealt with first. She knew, even as she pressed the play button on the machine, what to expect. The weekend was a peculiarly violent one in the city, according to the news reports, and the clients of O Brien and Costello would have contributed to this in so many ways. The first caller was almost incoherent from either drink or drugs.
“I want to see. What his name?” he inquired from someone in the background, then. “Oh yeah, O Brien, that’s it. Hey, let go, I’m on the ‘fuckin’ phone.” His companion giggled. “Fuck it, I’ll ring on Monday.”
Marie heard him struggle to replace the receiver. She deleted the call and pressed for the next. One by one the scum of the city managed to leave their name and ask for an appointment or hung up in confusion. The list of calls she had to return made her stomach turn. The names were always the same and every one of them was filth, human garbage that stalked the city by night, preying on the unwary, the old and the innocent. She looked up as the door to the outer office opened and Rachael; the junior secretary came in.
“Morning, Marie,” she hung her jacket and came to peer over the older woman’s shoulder at the list of names. “Nothing new there.”
“No, dear, there never is.”
“Would you like me to ring them?”
“Would you mind? I have all this to sort,” Marie pointed to the post.
“No, of course not; I know how they bother you.”
“Thank you, dear.”
Marie turned to the pile of envelopes as Rachael began to dial the first number on the list. The envelopes were sorted by size. Legal briefs were in the large brown envelopes and the smaller assortment of multicoloured ones, most with the writing almost illegible and marked personal, would be from Mr. O Brien’s special clients. The women he had helped over the years, and who remained ever grateful.
“Well, get him for me,” Rachael rolled her eyes and pointed at the receiver in her hand.
Marie was glad she did not have that job. Most of the clients would be still drunk or badly hung over, and she hated the foul language of the wives or, as they were now known, partners, and the screaming of children in the background.
Her heart jumped as she picked up the next envelope. It was addressed to Gerald Costello. Although the nameplate on the door proclaimed this indeed was the office of O Brien and Costello, Gerald Costello had long ceased to be. Poor Gerald, she thought, as she put the envelope aside.
“Pack of bastards,” at the opposite desk Rachael slammed the phone down. “You know,” she turned to Marie. “I’m sick of this job. I have applied for others, but so far, no luck. You should leave too. No one has to put up with this.”
“Yes, dear,” Marie went back to reading the letter in her hand.
She knew Rachael was right, but she was too old to change. Turning sixty next birthday, hardly made her a good, long term prospect as secretary. Her boss, Liam O Brien, reminded her of this on many occasions. And as far as Rachael was concerned, well, the poor girl was unlikely to be head hunted. She was employed to boost the boss’s ego, and while the never-ending, mini-skirted legs and large breasts made her a showpiece; she was not office material. Oh, she could make coffee and answer phones, but when it came to the legal work, she was lost. Still, she was not a bad girl, Marie thought, and her heart is in the right place.
Morning, ladies,” Liam O Brien swept through the door and snatched the bundle of post Marie held out to him.
“Morning,” Rachael sang, as she rose to plug in the kettle for his coffee.
Marie took the appointment book from the desk and followed him into his office. She read aloud the list of names and times, as he scanned the post. He deposited a handful of the more colourful envelopes into his briefcase before turning to her.
What time is my first appointment?”
“Ten-o-clock.”
“O.k. leave me alone until then,” he waved her away. “And see that I’m not disturbed.”
“Fine.”
“Oh, Marie.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You’re looking the worse for wear, heavy weekend?”
“No, not really.”
“Just old age, eh?” He winked
She managed a tight smile.
“Yes, that’s probably it.”
Her hand shook as she turned the doorknob.
“You know something, Marie?”
She turned back.
“When you finally leave here, I’ll really miss the long, intimate conversations we have.”
“Yes, I imagine you will,” she slipped through the door and pulled it closed behind her.
“You, o.k.?” Rachael asked.
“Fine,” Marie tried to control the trembling in her hands.
“Did he have a go at you again?”
“No, really, I’m fine.”
“I’ll make you some tea.”
Soon a steaming mug was placed in front her. She sipped and grimaced. It was much too sweet, and she was about to remark to this, when she noticed the concern in the girl’s eyes. Ah, yes, sweet tea was good for shock, and she was shocked. She sipped again and wrapped her hands around the cup. The warmth renewed her, and she blotted out the sound of the ringing phone and the voice from the other desk. It was wonderful when Gerald was alive. Her old boss knew how to treat his staff and she had worked for him for over ten years, almost from the start of his career. A lovely man, she was guest of honour at his wedding and been there through the celebrations at the birth of his two sons. Having never married, she regarded him as a son of sorts. Where had it all gone wrong? She looked towards the door to the other office. When Liam O Brien came on the scene, that is when. He was at law school with Gerald and managed to worm his way into a partnership. A rude, inept man, who she had heard, managed to blunder his way through school by a series of staged mishaps and blackmail. Well, what he lacked in brains, he made up for in cunning. He amassed his list of clients through the legal aid system. People, some real, some fabricated and not only the human vermin, but also those who were unable to pay, passed through his hands every day. The good, the innocent, fared far worse than the bad, as he feared those who could hurt him. So the man, who for the first time committed an offence or was entirely without blame, was likely to receive six months in prison, while one of the regulars, who beat and robbed an elderly person, walked from the courtroom with six months probation.
She should leave. She knew she should, but then what; endless days of nothing, but waiting for death? There were no relatives to speak of, just a distant cousin who knew nothing of her existence and no friends. She knew having devoted most of her life to her work and possessing no outside interests, other than her small garden flat, made her appear standoffish. Her thoughts were interrupted by a thud on her desk. She looked up into the wicked eyes she had ever seen.
“He in?” the man rested his tattooed knuckles on her desk and gestured with his head towards O Brien’s door.
Marie’s stomach lurched at the smell of stale beer from his breath.
“I don’t believe you have an appointment, Mr. O Reilly.”
She knew all the clients by sight, but O Reilly was the worst of all. The terror of everyone in the housing estate where he lived, he was known for picking fights. Every woman with a husband or son dreaded him.
“I don’t need a ‘fuckin’ appointment. He told me to call in when I was ‘passin’.”
He is busy at the moment. Would you like to wait?” She could see where a fresh cut had opened on the man’s forehead and the dried blood caked on his eyebrow.
“Fuck that,” he stormed towards the office door and threw it open.
“What the hell is going on?” Liam O Brien replaced the phone and spun in his chair to face the intruder.
“I’m sorry,” Marie gasped. “I tried to stop him.”
“Never mind,” Liam waved the man to a chair and to Marie. “Get out.”
She heard the brute snigger as she closed the door. “‘Fuckin’ stuck-up bitch.”
The rest of the day passed by as normal, with the usual batch of flotsam and jetsam gliding by her desk and she tried to block out their insults and form of greeting. By lunchtime, the office closed from one to two fifteen, both Rachael and Marie needed a break.
“I suppose it’s useless asking you to come to the pub?”
Marie always brought sandwiches and ate them in the small park across the street. Now, looking at her young colleague, she decided it was time for a change.
“Actually, my dear, I’d like a large, sweet sherry.”
“Whoa,” Rachael laughed, linking her arm through Marie’s. “You’re really letting your hair down.”
“You know, I think I am,” Marie thought of the grey tresses she wore in a tight bun. “I may even have it cut.”
She joined in Rachael’s laughter, as they strolled along the street.
Liam O Brien tapped his pen on the desk and stared into space. O Reilly just left with a handful of money he could ill afford, but the man was useful and expected payment for his services. That bloody house was proving to be expensive. If he had known how costly the repairs were going to be, he would not have wasted so much time in conning the old woman out of it. The idea of living in a mansion seemed a dream, but it was bleeding him dry over the past month. Everything from the electrics to the plumbing needed to be replaced. Many of the windows were beyond repair and it had taken a specialised order to replace them. Still, he thought of the fine Italian marble floor he had put in the hall; it was coming along nicely. If only he could complete it without bankrupting himself.
Marie was relishing her first pub lunch. She watched the assortment of people before her as she ate. She often wondered; when she passed by these places, what the cliental was like. Who were these people who delved daily into the dark recesses of the foul-smelling pubs? She found to her delight; they were not so alien, just ordinary workers. From the men in their business suits to the multicoloured women who ate soup and crunched on toasted sandwiches, and the rather dapper gent who’d raised his hat to her as she entered, they were all, well…rather normal. She felt quite the voyeur, as she sipped her second sherry.
“There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you.” Rachael said.
“Yes?”
“It’s about the name of the company. Who is, or was, Mr. Costello?”
“Ah, yes, dear Gerald. He was such a nice man.”
“What happened to him?”
Marie studied her for a moment torn by indecision then, brushing an invisible crumb from her jacket, murmured. “It was a long time ago.”
“Tell me,” Rachael pleaded.
“Very well, but I expect you to keep it to yourself.”
“Cross my heart,” she made a sign across her breast.
“Gerald started the company. O Brien did not come on the scene until ten years later, but when he did things started to go downhill. He was not happy with land deals and the like. He wanted money and he wanted it quickly. It was he who started the criminal cases. Gerald disagreed and there were a couple of shouting matches in the office. Well, one-night O Brien asked him to his house for dinner. I heard all this through the intercom. It seemed from the way O Brien spoke, an attempt at compromise.”
Rachael nodded.
“So, to make a long story short, Gerald’s car was found the next morning. It crashed into a tree. Gerald was found unconscious at the wheel and stinking, so I am told, of alcohol. There was worse to come. He was taken to hospital and treated for minor wounds, but when the men arrived from the garage to tow away the car, they found the body of a young boy pinned beneath it.”
“Oh, my God,” Rachael gasped.
“Yes, and of course the newspapers had a field day. Prominent local solicitor put on trial for murder. You can imagine. In the end he was found guilty of manslaughter. Though he professed his innocence, he was sentenced to seven years in prison. I used to visit him, but he was no longer the Gerald I had known. He was broken in body and mind. His face etched with scars from the beating he received from fellow inmates, who despised the law. It was at this time he learned of his wife’s affair. That was the final straw; they found him hanging in his cell.”
“How awful, who was she having the affair with? Was it someone he knew?”
Marie looked at her, not bothering to answer.
“You don’t mean…?” Rachael looked at her wide-eyed. “Not…”
“Yes, me dear, I’m afraid so.”
“The rotten bastard.”
That is the title I have so often given him and it is one I use to excuse his numerous character flaws. Liam O Brien is probably descended from a long line of bastards.”
“It’s so sad,” Rachael’s eyes misted over.
“The saddest part of all was that no one would listen to me when I tried to tell them,” Marie adjusted her neck scarf and fiddled with the contents of her handbag.
“Tell them what?”
“About Gerald, of course, he never touched alcohol.”
Her body continued to burn throughout the day. The sight of her smouldering corpse met Meg and Pat when they rode into the village that evening, and it was one, they would never forget. Annie’s blackened figure hung amid the embers of the fire. The spear held it in place.
The children were asleep in the back of the cart and spared the terrible sight, but Meg and Pat were inconsolable. A shadowy figure moved from the shelter of the mill and stumbled towards them.
“I threw the spear,” the young guard sobbed.
“You…” Pat cried, catching him by the throat.
“I had to; she was cursed to feel each flame.”
Pat looked at him uncomprehending, and it was only when Meg pulled at his arm, he released the boy.
“Let him be, Pat. He put her out of her agony.”
The boy coughed, rubbing at his bruised throat.
“I worked all day putting the fire out.”
“Where is he,” Pat asked. “This man, Tanas?”
“He disappeared before she died.”
“And the O Brien’s and the rest of the village?”
“They fled in terror.”
“They will have more to fear than the Devil when I find them.”
The sound of Meg retching made them run to her aid. She could no longer bear the sight of the burnt corpse, or the smell of cooked meat pervading the air.
“Take us home,” she beseeched Pat. “Take us to Annie’s cottage.”
“She will need a Christian burial.”
“You can come back when the cart’s unloaded and bring her home. The embers are still too hot and there is no hurry now. Just take us away.”
She had to be lifted onto the cart. The very life seemed to have drained from her, and she sat in a stupor for the rest of their journey.
The cottage looked dark and deserted. A melancholic breeze sighed among the trees. Even the little pool beside the cottage was covered with green slime. Nature itself mourned the passing of one so good.
The sleeping children were carried inside and put to bed. Meg took some wood from the stack beside the hearth and lit a fire. Even its comforting light did nothing to dispel the gloom. Pat brought water from the well, filled the kettle and swung the arm over the fire.
“I will make you some tea.”
Meg slumped into a chair and watched the leaping flames. Pat realised, for the first time, how old and frail she really was. They sat in silence until steam hissed from the spout, and the water threatened to boil over.
“My God, my God, why hath thou forsaken me?”
The hair on Pat’s neck rose at her whispered question, and he gulped back the tears. This was his fault; he knew something was brewing.
“You are not to blame.”
Her words startled him.
“Sit down,” she pointed to the chair opposite hers.
Pat handed her the tea and sat down. He was glad of the solidness of the wood beneath him. It was the only thing that seemed real. He held the cup with both hands to bring it to his lips, and he noticed how Meg’s hand trembled also.
“This is not a time for blame,” her eyes seemed to bore into him. “Nor a time for revenge.”
“I do not understand. What happened?”
“Annie, Lord rest her soul,” Meg continued, then stopped suddenly as the sound of the familiar name pierced her heart. She allowed the cup to slide from her grasp and it shattered on the stone floor.
Pat could do nothing to help. The tears that were threatening spilled over, and he was forced to hold a hand over his mouth, least the sound of his anguish wake the children.
“Come now,” Meg managed to rouse herself. “There is much to be done and plenty of time for grieving in the months ahead.”
Pat wiped the tears from his face.
“Take your cart to the store and unload it, then bring Annie and Dora home.”
“Dora?”
“Dora is dead. I felt her spark die before Annie’s.”
She rose and motioned him to do the same. He was afraid to leave her alone and told her so, but she knew the danger was past. The Dark One was vanquished. There was nothing left for him there.
The young guard was keeping watch over Annie’s body, and it was with his help, Pat managed to take her down. She felt warm to touch, and he moaned when he realised the pieces of ash falling from her was skin. They placed her in a blanket and loaded her onto the cart. Still the village lay in silence. No dogs barked; no lights showed in any of the windows.
“There was a child, a little girl…”
“They buried her outside the chapel wall,” the guard told him. “I can show you where.”
Pat led the horse along the village street. The sound of its hoofs shattered the quiet. Clip—clop, they rang through the silent night.
It was easy to find the small, unmarked grave. Burial outside the chapel walls was a fate reserved only for suicides, witches, and stillborn babies. The guard went inside and returned with two spades, the property of the gravediggers. Dora was not buried very deep, and the earth was dry and easy to dig. She was wrapped only in a blanket. Pat threw this aside and cried out when he saw the condition of her body. The stench made him draw back and he gagged at the raw, rotten smell of her decay. When he lifted her from the dank earth, her hair that was hiding her face, fell back, the moon lighted upon her, and he gasped at the beauty and serenity of her features. Despite the marks on her body, death left no sign of suffering.
The young guard, who introduced himself as Tom O Shea, offered to make the coffins and help with the grave digging. Pat accepted with a nod, and Tom climbed up onto the seat beside him. Meg came out to meet the cart. Pat stopped her from pulling back the blankets shrouding Annie and Dora.
“It is best to remember them as they were.”
They spent the rest of the night in the woodshed fashioning makeshift coffins from pieces of timber.
At dawn they buried Annie and Dora side by side, in the farthest corner of the property. A light rain fell as Pat and Tom filled the hole. A wind blew up, and it seemed as though the trees were bowing over the grave; paying homage to one who was a part of the forest.
“Should they be in consecrated ground?” Pat looked at the mound.
“Anywhere she lies is blessed,” Meg wiped her tears and turned to go. “The children will be awake soon and there is a lot of explaining to do.”
It was a solemn procession that walked back to the cottage that morning.
Meg, Pat, and the children stayed on at Annie’s cottage. More rooms were added to make way for the growing children. Pat’s business prospered, though it was whispered he was never the same after Annie died. Meg did her best at being mother to Rose, Paul, and Lily, but the loss of her loved ones took their toll. She spent hours beside the grave each day talking and whispering about old times. Flowers grew in abundance and covered the mound watered by Meg and Pat’s tears.
Slowly the seasons passed, and it was soon winter again. The sky was dark with the promise of snow when Meg set off to collect kindling from within the forest. There was no need for her to do this, as Pat had a woman come in and help with the housework, but it kept her busy and her mind from tormented thoughts. It was reported Mary O Brien was dying. Some said it was from a broken heart, but Meg knew it was from vexation.
The holly bushes were heavy with berries, a sure sign of a hard winter. Lord, I am tired Meg thought, as she stooped to pick up a stick. A cold wind stirred the trees above her, and she gathered her shawl tighter and was about to turn for home, when she heard it, a long, mournful cry that froze her blood. Meg listened as its volume increases and tore at her heart.
She allowed the sticks to fall, as she followed the sound. It took her way beyond the forest and into the village. Every window and door were locked, as the villagers tried to escape the cry. Her search took her to the O Brien’s house, where Hugh’s ashen face appeared at the window. Annie stood in the garden; Annie as beautiful as she had once been. The wind whipped her hair around her and carried her cries with it. Those who heard it would describe it as a keening, a ghostly lament for the dead.
Annie, Annie child,” Meg leant on the gatepost, her eyes blinded by tears.
“Do not come near me, Meg,” Annie sobbed, her cries rising and falling. “I am cursed to walk the earth until the end of his line.”
“I will find a way to help you, child,” Meg walked towards her. “Let me take you in my arms.”
“You cannot, Meg. You will die. I am death to all who touch me.” Annie floated towards the house and sat upon the windowsill.
Her crying continued unabated until dawn. Meg sat on the steps to the house praying and never taking her eyes from Annie’s face. The sounds she made were frightening, and Meg prayed, asking God for some relief for the child. Snow began to fall at first light. Soft flakes at first, but it soon came faster swirling about the village, covering everything.
“I have to go,” Annie called to Meg. “She is dead.”
“Where will you go?”
Annie’s eyes opened wide in terror. “I belong to the night. I lie shrouded in darkness. Help me, Meg.”
Sheets of snow blinded Meg, as she fought her way towards where Annie sat. But she was gone, fading into the air. The last thing Meg heard was her crying. “It is not fair; I am so frightened. Help me, Meg.”
“Toby,” Jill’s scream caused her mother to drop the cup she was holding, and the crash mingled with the dying cry. Overcome with exhaustion, Jill had fallen asleep in the chair by the fire, and it was the sound of Toby’s voice that woke her.
“My God,” her mother, always the drama queen, brought a hand to her heart and feigned severe shock.
They were alone in the kitchen. Her father, Joe and the others had gone to join in the search.
“What time is it?” She chose to ignore her mother’s theatrics.
“A little after nine,” she bent to scoop the fallen china into a dustpan. “I thought it wiser to let you sleep. There’s no news yet. I was talking to your father a few minutes ago.”
“I heard, Toby,” she looked up at her mother in dismay. “He called me, said he was in a cold, dark room.”
“Really,” her mother sniffed and walked to the bin.
“Yes, mother, really.” She didn’t mean to sound so cross, but her mother had a way of winding her up. “Why is it so hard for you to believe I might have heard him?”
“I had to put up with that sort of thing all my life,” her mother sat at the table. “Your grandmother was always predicting things. I had nightmares imagining the sort of oddities she had stored in the attic.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh, God knows,” she sighed. “All manner of stuff; from bits of bog oak to books and herbs. It still has that strange, musky smell, don’t you think? The attic, I mean. I never liked the place, and we avoided it as children. That’s why I never understood your fascination with it.”
“It was just a place to play at dress up and explore,” Jill said.
“A place to fill your head with her nonsense more like,” her mother replied. “I don’t know how many times I caught her reading to you from those awful books. Do you remember the summer I refused to let you come here?”
Jill shook her head.
“Well, you were very young, and I warned her what would happen if she continued with her nonsense. It really was the last straw, taking you in to the woods at night! The shock of not having you visit that summer taught her a lesson.”
Jill got up and joined her at the table.
“What happened?” She asked.
“Oh, she promised that there would be no more of her so-called “teachings”, and I allowed you to resume your visits.”
Jill looked at her mother in wonder. How could she have been so cruel as to deprive them both the highlight of their year?
“I know what you’re thinking.” Her mother made a great show of brushing some crumbs into the palm of her hand. “But your grandmother was starting to get a bit peculiar at that stage, and I only wanted what was best for both of you.”
“Is it not possible she was right, that she had second sight or whatever you want to call it?”
“Oh, her predictions came true, no doubt of that, but it was mostly guess work. Anyway, she never shared any of her secrets with us. We didn’t have the power or the mark,” she reached across and pulled back the collar of Jill’s blouse, exposing the crescent shape. “So, there you have it.”
Was that it, Jill wondered? Was it jealousy that made her mother and aunts treat her with such disdain? Managing to keep her tone low and even, she asked.
“Why did Nana think she had powers?”
“I see you avoided the history lesson,” her mother sneered. “It seems one of our ancestors was burned as a witch.”
“What,” Jill gasped. “You can’t be serious?”
“It’s true; I checked it out for myself when I was older. I suppose I wanted to rub it in her face, show that her stories were fairy tales made up to make her life seem more thrilling than it was, but she was right. It happened in the sixteenth century, and it was the only thing of note that ever happened to this family.”
“A witch,” Jill shook her head in wonder.
“Yes, a witch,” her mother sighed. “That’s why she never had electricity installed in the attic. She said there were books up there that were hundreds of years old and best kept in the dark. Honestly, can you believe it?”
“I don’t know,” Jill said. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“Don’t go getting ideas in your head,” her mother warned. “Your grandmother was a dreamer like you, and no doubt, she managed to fill your head with her nonsense, but that’s all it is, nonsense.”
“The woman they burned, she was just a healer, right?”
“Probably just some misguided soul, who imagined she had power.”
The ringing of the telephone roused them, and Jill waited as her mother went to answer it.
“Just some reporter,” she shrugged, when she came back. “I told him you were too upset to speak to anyone.”
“Thank you.”
“Why don’t you have a wash,” her mother suggested. “The kettle is boiled.”
Wrapping a cloth around the handle, she carried the black pot over to the table and set it down beside her daughter.
“Thanks, I’ll do that.” The old kettle weighed a ton, and her arm ached as she carried it up the stairs.
In a house with no heating system, taking a bath was a major event, so she had come to rely on washing in the sink. Pushing the stopper in place, she turned on the cold tap and poured the hot water. Using her finger as a gauge, she got it to the right temperature and was glad to put the kettle down on the wood floor beside her. Stripping off her sweat-soaked clothes, she stopped for a moment to stare at her face in the hazy mirror above the sink. Dark circles were beginning to form beneath her eyes and added to the pallor of her skin. They made her look ghostly. Sighing, she picked up the washcloth and soap that lay waiting and plunged them into the water. She shivered, despite the warmth, as she washed her upper body, then balancing on the edge of the old bath managed to wash her feet.
Peeping through the door, she made sure her mother was not about, before running across the hall to her room. With only the bunched-up clothes she discarded to hide her shame, she didn’t want to run into her mother and listen to her sighs of disapproval. For the first time, she turned the key in the lock. Throwing the sweaty clothes into the wash basket, she went in search of clean ones. Her wardrobe now consisted mainly of jeans and jumpers. There was very little reason to dress up, and the sturdiness of the clothes she chose was more suitable for farm work. The only concession was the business suit and an assortment of blouses she had not stored away in the attic.
Looking up at the ceiling, she thought of her mother’s words, and wondered what secrets the room held. Weary from lack of sleep and worry about her son, she sank down on the bed and pulled on her jeans.
“I’m tired, Nana,” she whispered, and put her head in her hands. “And I’m so frightened.”
It was either lack of food or sleep that caused the dizziness in her head and she moaned and curled into a ball in the centre of the bed. Without realising it, she was crying again, and she clutched at the quilt as her body shook from sheer terror. A soft breeze ruffled her hair, its touch like the hand of a loved one and she heard for the first time the voice that was lost to her.
“You will find your greatest ally among the dead.”
“Nana,” she shot up in the bed and looked around the room.
No one there; the only sound was the shrill, constant ringing of the telephone in the hall below. But she had heard it, her grandmother’s voice telling her what to do. She was too caught up in her own nightmare to even think about being afraid, and then why should she be? Her grandmother loved her, and she knew in that moment love could survive the grave. Still, the words made little sense and she moved to the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. The pattern of flowers on the old wallpaper blended and merged before her tired eyes and she shook her head to clear it.
“Shit,” she blinked, but the movement continued, stems knotting together to form words.
Easing her way up, she walked tentatively across the room and placed her hand against the wall. The pattern was the same as it had always been, but between the buds and stems a single word had formed. “Sentinel,” she whispered the name, and strained her eyes further searching for a clue, but even that had vanished, and she was left to wonder if it was all her imagination. Of course, it had to be, as there was nothing left on the wall, no matter how she squinted or approached it from a different angle. I’m going mad, she thought. That’s it; the horror is causing me to lose my mind.
“Jill,” her mother called from the hall below.
Walking to the top of the stairs, she looked down. Her mother waved the telephone receiver at her.
“It’s Paul O’Farrell, that detective,” she whispered. “Do you want me to say you’re busy?”
“No, I’ll take it,” she ran down the stairs and took the phone from her mother. “Paul,” she said, and waited for his reply.
“There’s no news yet, I’m afraid,” his voice was heavy with defeat. “I just wanted to see how you were.”
“Is there nothing?” She started to cry; all her self-control worn away.
“No, we questioned his classmates this morning and one or two remembers him walking along the village towards home. That’s about right, as we found his satchel at the side of the road. It looks like he got into a car.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she sank down on to the stairs. “What are we going to do?”
She knew he was still speaking, but she heard nothing of what he said. Instead her grandmother’s words returned and the outline of the message on the wall swam before her eyes. Of course, Sentinel. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Dropping the phone, she ran into the kitchen.
“There was a bundle of old newspapers here,” she pointed at the table. “What have you done with them?”
“I thought they were rubbish,” her mother said. “I put them outside in the bin.”
Jill ran out the front door and around the side of the house to where she kept the bins. The lid of the green recycling one was pushed down hard, and she pulled, praying that the papers were not torn or wet. To her relief they lay much the same as when she had first found them.
As she walked back to the house, she heard her mother apologising to Paul for her rude behaviour. He was still holding, afraid something happened to Jill, and she took the receiver.
“Paul, I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I just remembered something. I’ll tell you later.”
“Fine.” He didn’t sound at all sure, but happy enough to go along if it helped ease her suffering. “I’ll ring you in an hour or so. We’ll talk then.”
“Great, thanks,” she said, anxious to get off the phone and hung up.
Unrolling the bundle on the kitchen table, the newspaper name leapt out at her, Sentinel. Her mother decided she was best left alone and wandered off to watch television in the other room. Jill scanned the familiar pages, using her finger as a guide. She didn’t want to chance missing out on one word and perhaps overlook a clue. There was nothing new in what she read, and her thoughts kept coming back to the photograph of Rachel’s father, as he crouched beside the grave of his wife. There was something in his face, a look she remembered from the mirror upstairs. Like hers, his face was devoid of hope.
Her car keys lay on the worktop beside the sink and she snatched them up and went into the hall. Taking the notepad beside the phone, she scribbled down Paul’s number and the address where she was headed.
“Will you ring this number for me?” She asked her mother. “Tell him I’m going there, and ask him to meet me, if he can,”
Before her mother could protest, Jill was out the door and in her car. As she passed the outhouses, she heard Bess’s barked protest at being locked in, but she had no time to stop. Not even certain she was on the right track she prayed Rachael’s father would know something, anything that might lead her to her son.
Despite the danger, I felt it too obvious, if I didn’t appear at the school last night. Now the end is at hand, I seem to get greater satisfaction from the most mundane things. Walking along the deserted avenue muffled up against the biting wind filled me with a new-found awareness of the world. I wonder what my life would’ve been like if fate hadn’t dealt me such a hand. I tried to imagine I was normal, just an ordinary man on his way to take part in the search for a missing child. No secrets, no lies, nothing to distinguish me from the other men who waited, but I’m not a man. I’m a monster.
It thrills me I’m the phantom boogie man they whisper about. I wonder at their reaction when the truth is revealed. I’m not particularly handsome. There’s nothing about my features to draw the eye, no one would say I’m ugly. I blend into the crowd, which is just as well given my leanings.
The tension was at fever pitch when I reached the school. The energy acted like a dynamo sending waves coursing through my body. I joined with the others trying to second guess what happened to the boy and how the act was carried out. None of the ideas put forward came close to what really happened. I stayed well back hidden by the shadows, when the woman appeared with the dog. I told you before she bothers me. I’ve come to think of her as my nemesis; the one that could bring about my downfall. I didn’t follow her when she disappeared around the side of the school and waited for news to filter back. Rumours flew and the school yard buzzed with anxious whispers about what was happening. These were stunned into silence when word reached us blood was found.
I couldn’t suppress a shiver of ecstasy as the word dripped from mouth to mouth and my reaction was mistaken for one of revulsion.
“It’s a terrible thing,” the woman nearest me patted my shoulder.
Paul O’Farrell appeared carrying the woman and I almost wet myself in anticipation. Was she dead? She certainly looked it. Her face appeared ghostly in the light of the full moon, but she’d only fainted. Still I had the pleasure of watching the needle driven into her arm, and I bit down on my lip as the tip pierced the skin. It hurt her; I could see she felt its sting. She opened her eyes in alarm. I voiced my concerns about her health to both Paul and the doctor and was reassured she was strong and would recover. Such a pity, but you can’t have everything. I take pleasure from the suffering of others. I suppose that’s why I stay in our little club. My appetite for such things was piqued at Erebus, where I took delight in bullying and hurting those weaker than I, but then I had the backing of Christy and Freddy.
The barking of the dog is ringing in my ears and I swear I’ll hear it until the day I die. The horror of its pointed teeth, lips drawn back in a snarl and eyes blazing with anger was something to behold. I managed to move back into the crowd, and I hope I was out of range of the accusing gaze of the detective. The dog knew me, knew I was a carrion and lower than its kind. Had the door of the car been open, I’ve no doubt it would’ve torn into me. Such a messy end to an orderly life and not one I’d have chosen.
I doubt I’ll come across the animal again. I excused myself from the search with the rather weak explanation of having a cold. No one expected very much from me, as my health is not good. I was sent away with advice on combating my fake illness. Let the others spend their nights out on the hills in the bitter cold chasing shadows. The boy is hundreds of miles away and not even God could save him.
I spoke to Christy on the land line before leaving the house. He assured me all is well. The boy is stowed away in the cellar and will remain there until we’re ready.
The walk home was lonesome. The traffic was sent away from the village to search the byroads, and the only sound to break the quiet came from my own breathing. The chill wind did little to spoil the pleasure I felt at being part of the secret. The lights were on in the houses I passed, and I smiled aware all the doors would be locked and bolted against the terror stalking the night. Little old me. I can imagine the shudders of revulsion of my dear neighbours and work colleagues when they learn of my deception. I could go up to any of the houses I pass, and I’d be admitted. I’m trusted you see, that’s what makes what I do easier. I’m not the recluse, the unwashed beggar who makes others suspicious. You know me. I pass you daily and there’s nothing about me would make you pull your child closer. That’s the scary bit, isn’t it? I look like you.
If I imagined the night couldn’t get any better, I was wrong and unprepared for the sight I met when I rounded the corner into the avenue where I live. Paul O’Farrell’s car was parked two doors away from my house. We’re neighbours, isn’t that maddening? He’ll kick himself when he realises the man with whom he shared some of his deepest thoughts and worries, was the person he was hunting all along. He may recall the times I managed to steer him off the scent. Do you suppose there is humour in Hell, because if there is, I’ll be laughing?
He parked the car quite a bit away from his house and I wondered at this, until I saw the shadows moving around inside. He’d abandoned his precious cargo, but I never found him to be particularly bright. She lay alone and easy pickings for the predator. The dog wore itself out and was curled up on the back seat. I could creep close enough to watch the easy rise and fall of the woman’s breathing. There is a hedge running along the wall beside the streetlamp. By keeping into the shadow, I could stand unnoticed. There was no one about last night, I remained in this position for a few minutes studying the outline of her face. The blouse she wore was open down to the deep valley between her breasts, and the black lace of her bra showed against the whiteness of her skin. The doctor exposed the flesh in his anxious search for a heartbeat. To my delight he’d forgotten to close the buttons. She turned her head as though sensing my presence and I drew back closer to the hedge. I felt its bare branches piercing my skin, but I didn’t dare move in case she opened her eyes. I held my breath until she turned away and I realised she was tossing in her sleep, trying to break free of the drug’s hold. Mothers are wonderful, or so I am told. It’s hard to imagine someone who seems frail and weak could have the fortitude to fight to regain consciousness. I wonder if my mother would’ve done the same had she known. Would she have come and rescued me from the nightmare of Erebus?
Upstairs in the window of Paul O’Farrell’s house, I saw his shadow moving against the bright backdrop of the bedroom curtains. He was dressing, and I knew I didn’t have much time. Easing myself away from the wall and the treacherous points of the twigs and bare thorns, I stepped towards the car door. The light from the streetlamp made her skin glow and I imagined the way it would feel beneath my fingers. She has such a little throat and despite my frail appearance, my grip can be strong. In the throes of the compulsion, I felt the bones snapping and envisioned the small struggle, as she remained within the grip of the tranquilizer. Slipping my hand under the handle, I eased it up as quietly as I could and found it was locked. Cursing the man who’d done it, I allowed the handle to slip back into place and was about to walk away when a movement in the back of the car caught my eye. I was face to face with the dog, with only the thickness of the glass separating us. In my determination to reach the woman, I’d forgotten about the dog. It happens to me sometimes during the kill, all sound ceases and I’m aware of nothing other than the need and the promise of release.
I stood frozen, hypnotised by the dog’s eyes. I saw, though the interior of the car was half in shadow, the hair on its back standing upright. Once again, its mouth was drawn back exposing sharp, pointed teeth and the throaty growl seemed to rise from the depths of its soul. I felt its voice reverberating on my face. I averted my gaze and moved back from the car. The dog went into a spasm of barking, clawing at the window then howling like some werewolf. The sound caused some nearby houses to turn on their hall lights, and I knew front doors would soon be opening. I reached the shadows of my own front porch before Paul came running along the pavement. I saw from his dishevelled condition he hadn’t finished dressing and his face was flushed with anger. Waving away the concerns of the handful of neighbours who watched his every move, with the assurance there was nothing to worry about; he climbed into the car.
“Will you shut the fuck up?”
I laughed, when he said this to the dog, and heard its low growl of resignation. Though I have never liked animals, I assume from its reaction the dog is clever. I must check out poisons on the web and see how much it’d take to kill an animal that size. Of course, if I don’t find what I am looking for there, Freddy has a supply on hand, and I wouldn’t want anyone, especially not a dog to interfere with our plans. I don’t feel quite as depressed today as I have in the past weeks. Maybe it’s the thrill of the secret. The standing around last night, being part of the drama. It’s not the missed opportunity of killing the woman. But in the cold light of day, I realise what a mistake it would’ve been. It would’ve destroyed everything we have worked for, and through Paul O’Farrell is no Sherlock Holmes; even he couldn’t miss putting two and two together. No, I lost control; this is intolerable and can’t be allowed to happen again. I daren’t mention my little lapse to the others, because I know they’d be annoyed. They question my loyalty to our group, and I don’t want to endure any more of Christy’s smart comments about putting me out of my misery.
The answering machine light was blinking red when I opened the front door. I waited for the car to drive away before stepping out of the shadows. The cold drove the nosiest neighbours back indoors and I slipped inside unnoticed. There was as expected no message to any of the calls and I erased them before dialling. We never let our voices be recorded, and the silent buzz of the dial tone spoke volumes. I rang each of them in turn and became the schoolboy of yesteryear, as I giggled and planned what we’d do over the coming days. I don’t think there was anything in my tone betrayed my intention and I’m sure I appeared normal. If either of them noticed anything, they never said, but then I can’t be sure what they say behind my back. I double checked the window locks and turned on the alarm before going to bed. My sleep was troubled.
Christy is the one I fear most. The life he’s chosen is a constant delight to him and he’d do anything to stop it coming to an end. Freddy is harder to read and though we each know one another weakness, he’s sardonically arrogant. Everything and everyone bores him and he’s the most secretive. He can appear emotionless, but he shares in our perversion and the fact we know his weakness is painful to him. Only in our presence does he lose control, and this is terrifying to witness, as he becomes more animal than man. I take comfort in the fact while all three of us are staring into the abyss, only I have my finger on the trigger.
Time to face another day of drudgery, as outside my window the avenue comes to life and the world continues as normal. Today is the day for rubbish collection and mothers vie with trash cans and flocks of multicoloured children. Each child is guarded by an adult as they pass my window in a wave of sound. Today there will be no scolding and tonight they’ll hold their children a bit closer when they think about the boy. The countdown continues, 127…
This is my latest profile photo for Locating the Gothic. I’ve told you about the wonderful events we have planned for the autumn and while I know it’s hard to think about this when the sun is shining, the winter is inevitable. So don’t leave it until the wind is howling in the chimney and ghostly fingers tap at your window panes to have a look at the site.
This is a modern ghost story that happened a week ago to a friend of mine who works in a nursing home. There was one patient, an old lady in her eighties who she was particularly fond of and would spend hours chatting with her during the night shift. This went on for many years. Each night the old lady would come in to the common room and sit in her favourite chair. Anne, my friend, knew she was on her way, as her arrival was preceded by a racking cough. The old lady suffered from her chest and the cough was a distressing and painful one. One night, last week, the old lady failed to turn up, so Anne went to check on her. Sadly, she had passed away. The following night, Anne sat reading in the common room. Every now and then she glanced over at the old lady’s empty chair and felt her heart ache with sadness. Around 4 a.m., when the wards were all silent, Anne was roused from her reading by a racking cough coming from the empty chair. In that instant her nose started to bleed for no reason. You can imagine her fright, as she rushed from the room. She has never suffered from nose bleeds, her blood pressure is normal and there was no one else around with a cough. Strange, of course, and something that makes one stop and think.