The Haunting of Ripewood Manor

by Clara Cody

  Pressed against the closed door, she panted, trying to catch her breath. Despite her fear, she had to laugh. She couldn't believe she'd done it. Me, of all people!

  But she had no time to revel in her achievement. She ran to her bed and, under the lamplight, searched for a key that fit the description Teddy had given her. Long, black, and iron. She was worried there might be several that fit that description but luckily, there was just the one.

  She removed the key from the ring and pocketed it. Maggie will never know, she promised herself. Why would she notice a missing key that she never used? She won't.

  Chapter 25

  Stephanie

  STEPHANIE SAW HERSELF laying on the bed. She was looking down at herself, eyes closed but fluttering and the blanket thrown off, half on the floor. She was dreaming.

  A slow ripping sound broke the silence. She could hear the threads popping, giving way. Then, something was moving at the side of the mattress. Fine, black, filaments crept out from the mattress. Like vines, they stretched out, moving across her arms, her stomach, going up. She could feel them even as she stared down at herself. Cold and wet, they crept up her skin. She felt repulsed but she couldn't move. Her sleeping form just lay there, frozen as those black veins wrapped around her throat. They flexed, tightening.

  Stephanie.

  Her eyes opened to a dark room. Her hands went to her throat, which still ached. There was nothing, of course. Stupid girl.

  Had someone said her name? She thought she'd heard something. Stephanie pushed herself to her elbows and looked about the room. Nothing but walls and as many shadows as there were pieces of furniture. But there was something off...not quite right. Then she realized.

  The curtains were drawn.

  For a brief moment, she considered getting up and closing them but then the room would be in complete darkness and she didn't think she could bear that. Even the shadows cast against the white walls were better than the pitch black.

  She closed her eyes, praying the dream would not return.

  Then, she heard it.

  A ripping sound.

  It came from the corner of the room. It was shrouded in blackness, a shadow from the wardrobe. But something was there. Something was making that noise.

  Don't look, she commanded herself, closing her eyes tight. If she didn't look, there was nothing to see. Just don't look.

  But she couldn't help herself. She opened her eyes and peered into the dark corner. Another shadow stepped out from the corner, separating itself. Stephanie's breath caught in her throat. The shadow, black against the far wall, was the shape of a woman. But this shadow didn't fill Stephanie with the same calming feeling her mother's presence had. No, this shadow terrified her.

  "Go away," she begged. "Please."

  The shadow seemed to melt back into the dark corner, disappearing. Stephanie lunged for the matchstick box next to the table, her fingers shaking with fear. She fumbled the match twice before getting the candle lit. She held it up in the direction of the corner, but there was nothing there.

  Stephanie was alone.

  Stephanie woke up the next morning, leaning against the wall. She'd fallen asleep late in the night, sitting up in bed, watching the corner. The candle was melted into a pool of wax on the floor.

  She went to the basin to wash her face and gasped at her reflection. A choked cry escaped her lips. She stepped closer to the basin to get a better look.

  Thin, dark purple bruises crossed her neck, laying just above her collar bone, like a morbid necklace.

  Stephanie never thought she would appreciate a day of nothing but sweeping and dusting, but she did. The menial work let her mind rest while her hands worked. Although she moved and felt like a corpse, she was relieved to at least have a designated list of chores. Things she could see and understand. Things she could tick off once completed.

  She stood in the dining room, dusting the decorative plates that stood in a line on a shelf. The swish swish swish of the duster lulled her senses. Blue images on expensive china flashed back and forth from behind black feathers. A country house, a hunting party, dogs flushing out pheasants. Her heavy eyes blinked. The pictures grew unfocused and foggy.

  Her hand's grip loosened, slackened. Her eyelids drooped as the duster slipped from her fingers. From somewhere, in the deep recesses of her mind, she heard the object fall and crash against the floor. Her hand closed around the locket hanging from her neck.

  She was walking down a hallway. It was dark and the walls were close enough to touch on either side as she walked along. She was in the East Wing of the manor.

  She walked past the chair outside Victor's room. She pulled on the string that hung down from the ceiling, from a small trap door.

  The foot of a ladder rushed towards her face.

  Everything went black.

  Eloise

  A DEEP RUMBLE STARTED in the pit of Eloise's stomach and gurgled upwards. The clock on the mantel said it was almost noon. She sighed, resenting being pulled from her books for something as trivial as lunch. Then again, she'd skipped breakfast and also dinner the night before, so she would need sustenance. She closed the book and tucked it under her arm as she crossed the room.

  The light in the hallway was irritatingly bright. She looked down, shielding her eyes as she walked along the hall, reminding herself to start opening some windows during the day. The problem was at night. She couldn't stand to see a darkened window. For as long as she could remember, she'd pull the curtains closed as soon as the sun started going down. Eloise shivered. Especially now.

  So at night, she kept the windows closed and never thought to open them in the morning. The study was becoming her own little cave, every day she burrowed deeper and deeper inside.

  The hall fell behind her as she crossed the foyer to the dining room. The heavy doors were closed. And locked. She pulled on the handle again, thinking she must have been mistaken. But no, the door was certainly locked.

  She sniffed at having to unlock her own doors. Her brow was deeply furrowed as her fingers flicked through keys. She found the correct one, which hadn't been used for ages, and the lock clicked free. She slid the door open and stopped, mid-step in the doorway.

  "Stephanie?"

  The girl stood in front of the china cabinet, her back to Eloise. Her arms hung at her side like a rag doll.

  Eloise stepped into the room. The air was heavy and pulsed with unseen tension. She cleared her throat and called Stephanie's name again. There was no response. She walked towards her, reaching out a hand. Ten paces away, her foot collided with something. The feather duster lay discarded on the floor, now kicked to the side. Eloise bent over and picked it up.

  "Stephanie?" Eloise said, laying a hand on her shoulder. She leaned over, pulling Stephanie's shoulder to the side, exposing the girl's face. Eloise's breath caught in her throat.

  Stephanie's face was blank, completely unremarkable, except for her eyes. They'd rolled into the back of her head, exposing the white of her eyes and the fine red veins that crawled up them like growing vines. Her eyelids flickered gently.

  "Stephanie," Eloise shouted, spinning the girl around and shaking her. Her body went lax and she crumpled to the ground.

  "Stephanie!"

  Chapter 26

  Stephanie

  STEPHANIE WOKE TO FIND Mrs. Callowell hovering over her. "Wha—?"

  God, she felt so disoriented. Like a thick fog hung around her brain. Mrs. Callowell gave her a gentle slap on her cheek, making Stephanie's head roll to the side, before snapping it back again.

  "Are you all right?" Mrs. Callowell asked, helping Stephanie to sit up.

  Stephanie nodded as flaring pain shot through her head. She winced, falling back onto her palms. Images swam through her mind; the attic door, an old, cobweb laced window, the dark shape of a woman in the corner. She pressed her hand against her forehead, willing the thoughts out.

  "What happened?"

  Stephanie looked at her. A com
bination of fear and curiosity played on her face. "I..." she started but had no idea where to go with it. "I'm sorry." She cradled her head in her hand. "I don't know what came over me."

  "You look terrible," Mrs. Callowell said earnestly.

  "Yes. I suppose I'm just tired. Exhausted, actually."

  "Very well." Mrs. Callowell helped Stephanie to her feet. "You'll go and rest for the rest of the afternoon."

  Guilt bubbled up in her stomach. "Oh, no ma'am. That isn't necessary."

  Mrs. Callowell shook her head. "It's just an afternoon, not a holiday. Get rest and get back to work."

  Stephanie wrung her hands. "I'm quite all right now, ma'am." She was terrified that Mrs. Callowell would think she was too simple and delicate to handle the job. She cursed herself for admitting she was tired.

  "I'll hear none of that. If you can't work, you're no good to me. I'll send Maggie to fetch you before dinner."

  Mrs. Callowell looked at Stephanie so sternly that she didn't dare argue further. She nodded, dejected, and shoulders hanging low, she walked to the door.

  Night had fallen by the time Stephanie woke, and she'd realized that Maggie hadn't come to wake her. Everyone would be asleep by now, the time for cleaning long since past. She comforted herself with the knowledge that Mrs. Callowell was a no-nonsense type of person. She wouldn't have told Stephanie to rest if she didn't want her to do exactly that.

  She briefly considered going back to sleep for the night and starting fresh early tomorrow, but when she closed her eyes, an image flashed by. The same attic door, the cobwebs in the window, a dark shadow.

  The East Wing.

  A single thought went through Stephanie's mind, Go back.

  Go back to your bedroom.

  Go back to sleep.

  It repeated itself over and over, but it failed to take root in her brain. It had nothing to grab a hold of because every muscle in her body just pushed her forwards down the hall of the East Wing.

  "Stop this," she whispered to herself, "before you get yourself properly fired."

  She believed the words, but something pushed her forwards. Something she couldn't resist. No matter how her heart thumped and her shaking hands protested, she continued down the hall

  Stephanie crept along the wall, watching Victor's door as she approached. Yellow light framed the heavy door, giving it an ethereal glow. She maneuvered silently around the chair outside the door, praying that Charles wouldn't come out.

  A heavy pit formed in her stomach as she thought of him. Was it guilt? She looked hard at the door in front of her, wondering if he was waiting behind it. Did he feel her presence somehow? She outstretched her hand. A strange energy permeated from the door, connecting to her fingertips.

  A shadow passed over the bottom of the door. Her heart leaped into her throat. Biting her bottom lip, she didn't know whether she wanted it to be Charles or not. She pulled her hand back to her chest, gripping the locket.

  A heavy thud sounded from behind the door as the person fell to the floor. She moved for the door but stopped as a gravelly, tense voice carried through the door.

  "A little farther," it sang.

  Stephanie backed away, falling into the chair.

  "Goddamn it, Victor!" she heard Charles yelled, throwing something.

  Victor giggled as heavy footsteps approached the door. His giggles turned into a sick, maniacal laughter as the shadow disappeared from beneath the door.

  Stephanie leaped from the chair and moved down the hallway, throwing looks over her shoulder. The sounds of fighting and insane laughter followed her down the hall. Was the lunatic distracting Charles for her?

  She found the trapdoor that, presumably, led to the attic. The cord that had hung down in her dream was gone, leaving only a small, wooden knob in its stead. Stephanie reached on her toes but stopped a half of a meter short. She gave a slight jump, landing softly, but again didn't make it. Starting at a crouch, she leaped upwards, reaching as far as she could. Her fingers grazed the small knob but ultimately, missed. She landed with a thud and threw a look over her shoulder.

  Charles and Victor were still fighting, thankfully. By the sounds of it, Charles was trying to pin him to the bed. The madman's laughter had turned to shouts and pitiful whimpers.

  She tip-toed back to Victor's door and took the chair that sat outside and carried it over. But when she arrived, a crack had already appeared between the ceiling and the trapdoor.

  She barely had time to register the anomaly when it fell open, swinging back and forth. A staircase loosened and rushed from the hole, towards her, just like in her dream. She threw her hands up just in time to stop the ladder from crashing into her face. She gasped, catching the ladder in the nick of time.

  Dust and a deep earthy smell poured out from the black hole in the ceiling. It filled her lungs and throat. She covered her mouth, muffling a cough.

  Listening carefully, she noticed that Charles had stopped wrestling with Victor. Charles must have won over. He hadn't come outside though, so he mustn't have heard anything. Gently and slowly, she lowered the ladder down to the floor. The thick, light-colored wooden rungs of the ladder flexed and groaned under her weight.

  She held the candle she carried above her head as she ascended into the blackness that filled the hole in the ceiling. Her head passed the threshold between the hall and the attic. Thick, musty air filled her nostrils and mouth. Cringing from the mildewy taste left in her mouth, she scanned the darkness but couldn't make out anything beyond the light from the candle. The darkness swallowed the light before it could reach very far.

  Stephanie set the candle on the floor of the attic and climbed the rest of the way up. Kneeling down on the dust-coated floor, she pulled the ladder and door back up so that it wouldn't be noticed if Charles came out of the room. The little light provided by the hallway drained away as the trapdoor closed, clicking in place.

  Crouching on the attic floor, she grasped the candle and brought it in front of her as she rose. The candle floated in the air, casting a soft light over sundry things like an empty birdcage, coat racks, and abandoned wardrobes. Her breaths and footsteps were the only sounds in the entire attic. The sounds set her teeth on edge. As she stepped lighter, attempting to control the creaking floorboards, her breathing grew heavier.

  She sensed something in the air, a presence in the space around her. She spun around, peering into the darkness, but saw nothing. Only clothes chests and old furniture. Again, she spun around. Each time she turned to chase away the darkness, she felt it encroaching behind her. It was a darkness she couldn't escape.

  She turned again, holding the candle out from her body. Across the attic, she saw something. Another candle glowing. Her heart thumped in her ears as she stepped forwards. Slowly, the form and image of a girl materialized in the blackness of the attic.

  Stephanie gasped and drew back. When the mirage did the same, Stephanie realized that it'd merely been her reflection. Chiding herself for being so afraid of her own reflection, she stepped towards the mirror. It was old and made of dark wood. The sweet, angelic face of a cherub was carved into the dark wood encasing the standing mirror. Unlike everything else in the attic, it was remarkably dust-free. Stephanie glanced away from her reflection, not needing the reminder.

  Hovering above her shoulder in the mirror was the gaunt, hollow face of her mother. Stephanie's breath caught in her throat as she spun around. But, once again, there was nothing there. It seemed she was alone. But Stephanie knew better.

  "Mother?" she whispered.

  A dragging sound echoed through the air. Stephanie turned to see a sheet fall to the floor in a pool of white fabric. It had slipped off a portrait which leaned against the far wall. She crept close, holding her candle out before her. It was a family portrait; Mrs. Callowell's family. She recognized the strong features of the girl, her eyes and her square jaw. The woman, Mrs. Callowell's mother looked much like her with her proud, serious, but kind eyes.

  The man,
though...Stephanie shuddered. His eyes were stern and cruel, his mouth set in a sneer. One hand was on his daughter's neck, who sat in front of him, and the other cupping the back of his wife's neck. No, not cupping. Gripping. The background was a sickening red, reminiscent of blood or fire.

  A deep chill came over her, seeping into her bones. She shivered again, stepping back from the portrait. No wonder Mrs. Callowell had removed the thing as soon as her father died. Who would want to look at this? An incredible weight pressed down on her chest, the room closing in on her. She could almost smell the hedges in the maze, feel the stiff branched between her fingers as she clawed to get out.

  "I'm sorry, Mother," she said, gathering the sheet off the floor. She covered the portrait again. "I—I can't!" She ran back across the attic to the doorway. The locket felt so heavy and cold around her throat.

  She knelt down by the hatch just as something fell to the ground. The crash made her heart jump. Reluctantly, she turned to see what had crashed to the floor.

  It was a small box. Papers and photos were scattered about the floor. Stephanie looked between the hatch and the box, chewing her lip anxiously though she'd already made her decision. She rose to her feet and made her way over to the box, lying face down on the floor a few meters away. Kneeling beside it, she scooped the papers up and into the box as she turned it over. The box was covered in thick, pink paper that was soft to the touch.