13 Hauntings

by Clarice Black

  Daphne rolled her eyes.

  It was true that Poppy was the most informed of the four sisters. She went out of her way to read boring tomes of books that she thought Andrew would like, and watch documentaries and the news. So it was unfortunate that most of her conversation came across as memorized lines from passages, and a list of dates and facts, and not well thought out arguments. If you were to ask Poppy about the contribution of the motor industry to air pollution in the UK, she’d give you stats on motor production in the country, the number of imports and traffic accidents, but not what these numbers meant for the future of the environment.

  The phone rang. Daphne told the younger girls to shush and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Daphne.” It was Sarah. “I just need to confirm the total tuition fee for your first year at Uni. I know it’s stated in your prospectus somewhere. Could you take a look and let me know?”

  “I hope I’m not putting you out.” Daphne murmured.

  “Nonsense!” Sarah laughed. “We saved a large amount on the house, actually. I just need to make a projected expense list for the next year, that’s all. It’s not terribly important so if you can’t get it right now I’ll take a look once I come home. I just had some free time so I thought I’d take down initial expense figures.”

  “How about I call you back in a bit?”

  “Sounds good. The girls behaving?”

  “All but one.” Daphne glanced at the room. Katie and Amber had brought out their dolls and were playing with them. Poppy had her eyes on the screen, but Daphne had the impression that she was actually listening to Daphne’s conversation closely.

  “Poppy? I’m sorry Daphne. She can be difficult, but she means well.”

  “I’ll ring you back, Mum.”

  Daphne set the receiver down.

  “I’ll be back in a minute. I just need to get something for Mum.”

  Poppy grimaced. Daphne ignored her.

  They were two years apart but they still hadn’t managed to build as close a relationship as Amber and Katie. Daphne knew she wasn’t responsible for how Poppy felt, and she had tried to mend fences, but the incident in Germany had changed their relationship forever.

  Poppy had been in the same bed, she had slept beside Daphne and not heard a thing. It was Poppy’s insistence that no one had been in the room that had cast suspicion on Daphne’s statement. Several years later, Daphne had understood Poppy’s statement as being her version of the truth, and had forgiven her sister; but Poppy hadn’t forgiven what she still saw as Daphne’s ploy to get all their parents attention by insisting there had been a ghost that had dragged her out of bed.

  Daphne found the prospectus on her writing desk under a pile of magazines. She sifted through it till she found the required information. She dog-eared the page, and was about to leave when something out the window caught her eye.

  Her bedroom window looked down on the back garden. She had a perfect view of the tool shed at one end, the drift rose bushes, and the glorious cherry tree. Daphne blinked, then rubbed her eyes, but she wasn’t mistaken.

  There was a man standing a little behind the cherry tree, his face obscured by the branches from where Daphne stood. He was facing the house. He was wearing a soldier’s uniform and heavy army boots covered in mud. A small red bike was at his feet. Daphne lifted up the window sash to call down to the stranger. As if he had waited for a source of entry he stepped forward, out of the shadows.

  Daphne jumped back, stifling a scream.

  The man’s head was at an impossible angle, flopped on one shoulder as if his neck was broken. His eyes were wide and staring, his mouth slack.

  Daphne couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  His feet weren’t touching the ground.

  Hackles rose on the back of her neck. Her knees had turned into jelly, and her body had plunged into a seething cold.

  “No!”

  The sound of Amber’s scream from down the stairs snapped Daphne out of her trance, snapping her head to look back at the bedroom door. Had the girls seen the man too?

  “That was my dolly, Katie! What did you do?”

  They were just fighting over their dolls as usual. Daphne was grateful for the fact that her sisters would never experience what she did. She turned back to the window but the man had gone. Wind rushed through the cherry tree, swirling burnt leaves along with it. The screaming from downstairs became hysterical so Daphne had to tear herself away from the window, and the apparition she had seen to see what the matter was.

  “You ruined her! I hate you!”

  “What’s the matter?” Daphne asked. They were all congregated in the kitchen. The stove was lit, blue flames steadily licked the air. Amber was in tears, Katie had her stubborn face on, her brow furrowed so decisively that it looked like a boulder had been put there which made her lower lip jut out too. Poppy was leaning against the refrigerator, her smile smug and self-satisfied.

  “She burnt my Rainbow Brite doll! Daddy gave it to me for Christmas!” Amber wailed. Daphne switched off the stove, and took the redheaded doll from Amber’s hands. One side of its plastic face was black and twisted with welts and runnels of burnt plastic running from temple to jaw. Some of the hair had singed to the roots as well.

  “Is this true, Katie?” Daphne asked Katie.

  Katie had her hands folded in front of her. She was scowling worse than ever.

  “It was for the kids,” she said resolutely.

  “Kids? What kids?”

  “It’s so stupid,” Amber spat. “You’re stupid Katie!”

  “I’m not stupid!” Katie shouted. “You said you believed me! You lied to me!”

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Amber chanted, making a face at Katie who was becoming red in the face.

  Things had gone far enough, Daphne decided.

  “Enough!”

  Both girls stopped talking, but stared at each other hotly.

  “Now Katie, explain yourself.”

  Katie blinked up at Daphne, assessing how much to say and whether she would be believed. Daphne had a strong sense of déjà vu, as if she had lived this reality before.

  “I did it because the children have no toys to play with.”

  Katie glanced at Amber. That glance spoke more than words. Katie felt betrayed by her best friend. She had been torn to shreds for sharing a secret, and publicly so. Katie was no longer sure who to trust, she was hurt and bewildered, which no ten year-old was equipped to cope with.

  “What children, Katie?” Daphne’s voice was lower, hoping to be intimate and confidential, to gain Katie’s trust.

  “The ones who live in my room.”

  Daphne felt her bowels turn to water. Katie must have seen the shock in her eyes because she began to speak very fast.

  “They’re really nice and play with me at night. But they have no toys or clothes, so I said they could play with my toys, and Amber said they could play with her toys as well. But the girl didn’t want to play with Rainbow Brite because she wanted a dolly that looked like her. I was just trying to make it nice for the girl.”

  The doll suddenly felt heavy in Daphne’s hand. She looked down at the burnt face, the one good eye staring back at her; one side of the mouth frozen in a manic smile while the other was a gaping hole.

  “Wow.” Poppy whistled. “Katie’s done a Daft Daph.” She began to laugh.

  “Shut it, Spotty Potty Poppy.” Daphne said.

  “Daddy said you were never to call me that!” Poppy raged.

  “Well tough!” Daphne shot back. “Why don’t you run and complain to Daddy, and while you’re at it you can tell him what provoked it.”

  Poppy flushed.

  “Come on Amber.” Poppy stalked out of the room. “You don’t want to hang out with mental people.”

  Amber stood staring between Poppy and Daphne. All anger at the ruin of her doll was forgotten. Katie had big tears in her eyes. Amber made to comfort her, but Poppy stamped h
er foot impatiently.

  “They’re just doing it to get attention!” Poppy could be very bossy when she wanted to be. Amber threw an apologetic look at Katie, but Katie was too busy rubbing her tear-filled eyes with her tiny fists. Poppy dragged Amber out of the kitchen.

  “I’m not mental,” Katie whimpered.

  “Of course you’re not.” Daphne hugged her littlest sister. Daphne helped Katie in a chair and then poured her a cold glass of juice. “Tell me about these children you saw.”

  “They only come at night, and only some times.” Katie took a sip of juice. “And not the same kids come every time. Sometimes it’s the girl with the scabby knees who likes to jump on the bed; sometimes it’s a boy with a large tear in his chest who likes to read books. Then there’s the children with the crusty black faces…”

  Katie shuddered.

  “I know it’s not nice,” Katie said in a small voice, “but they look yucky and I don’t like them touching me. But I’m always polite and say they can play with my things.”

  “Do they ever touch you?” Daphne felt like she was made out of cold marble.

  “No.” Katie shook her head emphatically. “They like to play and talk. Sometimes they sing as well. But they don’t ever bother me if I tell them I’m tired and sleepy. They’re very nice. That’s why I wanted to do something nice for the girl. She looks horrible but she’s the nicest of them all.”

  None of this made Daphne feel any sense of ease. She made a mental note of keeping a wary eye on Katie during the night.

  “Katie?”

  Amber’s head peeked into the kitchen. Her hair was tussled, and her dress was rumpled as if she had just been in a physical fight with someone. Daphne was sure that’s what it took to escape the clutches of Poppy. “I’m sorry about the dolly. I really don’t mind.”

  “I’m sorry too.” Katie burst into fresh tears. Amber came and hugged her.

  Daphne sighed. At least this relationship had mended easily. She set out some crisps and biscuits for the sisters to share while they chatted happily at the kitchen table. She had no such hopes for her own relationship with Poppy.

  With the girls sufficiently busy, Daphne went outside to the cherry tree. There was nothing there, no traces of a soldier or a red bike. Daphne placed her hand on the thick trunk, closing her eyes to better feel what the tree had to share.

  A deep grief coursed through her, breaking her heart, convincing her that nothing will ever be right again. A sob escaped her lips and she tore her hand away.

  Whatever had happened here was tragic, but it wasn’t the same feeling she got in the house. No, the spirits in the house were evil. Daphne resolved to get to the bottom of this, because she was no longer the target of the spirits, her little sister was.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Fingers and Flesh

  29th July 1983

  11:00 AM

  The house was full of enticing smells. Sarah had been working since Friday evening preparing a scrumptious spread for the many friends and relatives who had been invited to the house warming party. The girls were busy decorating the back garden, where the party would be held to accommodate all their guests.

  Andrew had been relegated to the study to stay out of the way, something Andrew resented as much as it amused him. He had sneaked out once or twice and snagged a deviled egg or two from the kitchen, but Sarah’s flinty glare had been enough to wither his courage so he had slinked back to the study, his tail between his legs.

  Adding a generous shot of whiskey to his tea, Andrew took a fortifying sip and settled into his leather chair with a book one of his students had handed him, a detailed look at all the reported hauntings that plagued England. Andrew had scoffed that this wasn’t history but had accepted graciously. It made for light reading.

  Half way through the grisly account of a passionate murder-suicide Andrew stopped suddenly and sniffed at the air. Something was burning; it smelled like meat. Hoping Sarah hadn’t burnt the roast, Andrew got up from his chair. Feeling slightly merry he opened the door to his study.

  Situated opposite the living room, the entrance to the study was below the stairs. The small area underneath the stairs, directly outside the study door had been transformed in to a reading nook for the girls, with a shag pile rug in the middle, books piled on the back of the stairs, large floor cushions propped up against the wall, and hanging lights to provide illumination.

  A relatively cozy spot, it was hardly ever used due to the gloom and lack of natural sunlight. It was especially dark at that moment. Andrew’s study looked out on the sunny back garden, so his eyes needed time to adjust to the dark. He stepped out, but stopped immediately as the smell intensified.

  “Are you going to burn the house down, love?” Andrew couldn’t keep the mirth out of his voice.

  A low moan rose in the gloom and Andrew stopped mid-step.

  “Sarah? Are you okay?”

  “Help me…”

  The moan was pitiful, and full of pain.

  “Sarah!”

  Andrew rushed to the kitchen. Pots were bubbling on the stove, knives glistened on the counter next to chopped vegetables and a pile of dirty dishes grew in the sink. There was no sign of Sarah.

  Andrew rushed back towards his study where he had heard the cry for help. He stopped just before the murky shadows under the stairs. A hand groped out from under the polished wood, the skin blackened and charred to the very bone beneath. Andrew watched in horror as the bleeding fingernails clutched at the floorboards and dragged the rest of the body forward. A face came into view, the hair had been burnt to the scalp, boils erupted on the face, blood gushed down cracked melting skin. But it was the eyes that transfixed Andrew; opaque white like hardboiled eggs, they burst like puss-filled snails before his very eyes, blood running down in runnels and pooling on the floor.

  “Help us…” the thing moaned.

  Andrew recoiled, his heart thrumming in his chest. A heavy hand grabbed him by the shoulder, fingers sinking into his flesh. Andrew screamed.

  “Andrew!”

  It was Sarah. She had her hair up in a scarf to maintain her hairdo. She had put on makeup and looked very pretty in a pale blue summer dress. She looked worried.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Andrew looked back under the stairs but there was nothing there. No burned body, or smell of smoke and burnt flesh. Andrew raked his hands through his thinning hair, breathing rapidly.

  “I thought I… it must have been that fucking book.”

  “Have you been bloody drinking again?” Sarah was frowning. “I’m warning you, Andrew, I’ll take the drink out of that study of yours if you won’t show moderation.”

  “I… you’re right,” Andrew swallowed, his heart still hammering from the fright he had got. “I’m sorry Sarah. Can I help you with anything? I feel useless locked up in my study.”

  Sarah softened.

  “You can help the girls set up tables outside.”

  Andrew rolled up his sleeve. He glanced back at the gloom under the stairs one last time, shaking his head as he put distance between himself and the darkness.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Paignton History

  29th July 1983

  5:00 PM

  The sun was at a merciful level in the sky, and a steady cool breeze had started up. The guests milled around the garden and inside the house, nodding their heads in approval. Daphne settled her friends on chairs near the drift rose bushes, plied them with drinks and sandwiches, then mingled with the crowd, making sure everyone felt welcome.

  Poppy was in a corner by the tool shed with her friends, telling them about the house’s history, and the history of Clapham in general. Daphne noticed that the girls looked bored. Amber and Katie were busy running around with a group of children made up of their friends and the neighbour’s children. Daphne picked up an empty tray from a table and went inside the kitchen.

  “Are they enjoying it?” Sarah had put the scarf aside, her short hair d
one in springy curls. She was flushed and sweating in the heat of the kitchen. “Is your gran happy?”

  “Everything’s great, Mum. Why don’t you go join your friends?”

  “I’m just finishing the salad.”

  “I’ll do the salad.” Daphne pried the knife from her mother’s hand. “Go!”

  Sarah looked reluctant but finally left the kitchen. Daphne saw her father bring a glass of punch for her mother, and smiled at the simple picture. She was happiest when she saw small gestures of love between people she loved.

  “You’ve done wonders with the house!”

  A large woman in a shapeless burgundy dress came into the kitchen from the living room; she had a mole under her chin, short snow white hair, and a large frog-shaped brooch on her ample chest. She wore large glasses that amplified her ice blue eyes, her stubby fingers were hidden beneath chunky rings.

  Daphne recognized her as nosy Mrs. Fitts, their neighbour from across the street.

  “Thank you.”

  “I love that little nook under the stairs,” Mrs. Fitts gushed, “and I must say the linen cupboard is so well organized. Not like Number 24, yeesh.” Mrs. Fitts rolled her eyes meaningfully, thoroughly enjoying an audience. “Her linen is always yellow, no matter how many times she puts it in the wash.”

  “I’ll remember to tell my mum.” Daphne laughed. “She’ll be pleased.”

  “I tell you it’s nice to finally have a family in here.” Mrs. Fitts pulled up a chair next to the kitchen side where Daphne was cutting vegetables, and helped herself to a handful of cucumbers. “The last time we had anyone in here was five years ago and they didn’t last a week. Sold the place to the first offer and vamoosed.”

  Daphne’s interest piqued.

  “Did they give a reason why?”

  “Oh, they didn’t have to,” Mrs. Fitts looked at her over her glasses, meaningfully. “This place doesn’t have the most savory reputation. The family that built the house all died within a year.” Mrs. Fitts shrugged. “Granted, the man committed suicide, but the rest of his family died from some mysterious illness.”