by S E England
“Up there? Oh no, that’s not for the dead. But Flora, that’s where you do not want to go.”
“Why? Tell me who resides up there. I hear the most fearful wailing.”
“It’s called the chronic block. You won’t come out again. Not ever. No one gets out of there – once there your fate is sealed. The only way people leave that room is in a wooden box.”
“And that is where all the howling noises come from?”
She shakes her head. “No, not from there.”
“Then where?”
“I don’t know. There is something none of them talk about.”
“You said you were chained up in a padded room, that the mattress was soaked in blood?” My heart begins to race sickeningly at a return to this conversation, already the images that trigger panic surging forth. But the secrets of this house hold the key to everything. “You must know you gave birth? What happened to the baby?”
Her voice comes from far away, tiny like that of a lost child. “I told you it wasn’t a baby,” she insists. “It was a snake. I asked if it was a snake and they said of course it was a snake. And now I have another one growing, see?”
She is shaking, her hand weakening in mine.
“Diane, you had a baby not a snake.”
Of course, I see now why she would say it was a snake - how very much easier to cope with the loss. I see too, that she is not fat. How could she be? She is pregnant.
Her eyes are limpid pools of sadness. Somewhere in the deeper recesses of her mind she knows she has given birth to a child and that she is heavy with another. Perhaps first time around one of the village louts raped her when she was half out of her wits with delusion, but in here…A cold shiver works its way up my spine. The girl is in care. In an asylum.
“All I can say is, I woke in the padded room on a blood-soaked mattress like I told you. And they said yes, I had swallowed a snake and they had taken it out of me.”
“They?”
“Myra and Ivy. They clean up his mess.”
“Whose mess?”
But now she has turned her face away, begun to mumble, to work her hands in that strange distracted fashion.
After a while I tell her in firmer tones to go to bed. That it is pitch dark now and cold in here. The damp gets into the fabric of these walls that never see the sun.
“Do you smell sulphur?” she asks.
“No. Diane, there is no devil. Listen to me, you must know the truth of that - deep in your heart? That there is no devil – only humans and the evil deeds they do.”
Even as the words tumble from my mouth a horrible truth lodges into my brain. What happened to the child she gave birth to? And what will happen to this one?
“But Flora, there is. I can see him. Look, he’s there now – just outside the door.”
There is certainly a light there.
The small, red flare of a lit cigarette.
***
Chapter Thirteen
Isobel
Present Day, The Gatehouse
By the time Isobel arrived back at The Gatehouse, the fog had settled once more into the valley and was closing in quickly. A fresh belt of sleet blew against the windscreen as she parked, her face ghostly white in the reflection from the headlights. And as she switched off the engine, the same mounting sense of isolation crept up on her as it had the night before. It was so quiet out there, every sound of her own seemingly amplified – from the ping-ping of the seatbelt reminder, to the dull clunk of the car door.
She hurried around to the boot for her shopping.
Then stopped and turned around. There was a light on in the hall. Did she leave it on…in broad daylight?
She frowned. Well, she must have. Besides, it may be possible to see ghosts but they sure as heck couldn’t switch lights on and off.
Could they?
Good God, what a nervous wreck and it had only been a day!
Snatching the carrier bags, keys between her teeth, she slammed the boot shut and was about to press central locking when the painting on the passenger seat caught her eye. There it was, lying face down. Oh no, it seemed mean to just leave it there when it had been given as a present. Especially from the only person who had actually been kind.
She’ll look after you. In the dark when you’re all alone out there…
Why would Branwen think she needed protecting? Did something happen in The Gatehouse, after all? It was hard to believe when it was only a lodge. She’d checked. Or maybe Branwen knew differently?
Come back and have a chat….you know where I am…
Oh, for goodness sake. Girls like Branwen flirted with the dark side and enjoyed spooking people, was all.
The woman made you ill. She meddles and you know it.
The damp was soaking into her back now and she hurried to the front door, dumped the carriers and then, against all her instincts, turned back for the painting. It was, after all, just a bloody oil on canvas, but knowing her luck if she left it in the car then Branwen would come over and see it.
The creature in the painting was creepy though, and the more she looked the more its eyes seemed to glint and darken. Something else too… that strange feeling of standing in the woods with a storm brewing and the treetops swaying, the earthy smell of moss and decay so strong it was dizzying, nauseating…The darned thing was unnerving. She put it on the floor in the front parlour, facing the wall. Then shut the door. If Branwen did come round there was time to whip it out but no way was it hanging in the bedroom.
Enough, enough for today. And this house was freezing. It really would be stupid to get ill - not out here on her own, facing whatever was coming - a psychic onslaught could be draining and she was going to need every bit of strength going.
And so it was later, much later, after a hot bath and a rump steak washed down with the best part of a bottle of red, that she found herself sitting once more at the kitchen table in the harsh fluorescent light, listening to the silence. There wasn’t so much as an owl hoot tonight, the night muffled by darkness and fog. God, the chill of this house was like a crypt. That was the problem with a house unlived in for so long - damp had seeped into the wood and the walls, even the fresh paint oozed with beads of moisture. The front rooms were the coldest, the grates empty and black with no supply of firewood to cheer them. She wandered into the parlour, which had been furnished with a single armchair positioned by the green-tiled hearth together with a standing lamp. It looked as joyless as a hospital waiting room, and she was about to turn away when a shimmering static over the armchair arrested her attention.
Please don’t let anyone materialise. Please….Oh God…What was coming? Would it be the same woman as before…?
And yet it was impossible to look away.
Transfixed, with one hand on the door handle, she stood stone-still, her heart thumping in her ears. What appeared to be the shape of the old lady began to take form.
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t. No!
Her hair was white and scraped back severely from a masculine, angular face; and as before, the long dress was black, funereal…but this time the image didn’t fade. This time it was shockingly clear, and slowly the woman’s head creaked around on its stem to look her straight in the eye. The old woman’s features now stretched into one of incredulity and horror. She began, with difficulty, to stand…
No!
Isobel backed out of the room, frantically feeling for the door handle, then shot into the hall and clicked the door shut firmly behind her.
God, no. Just no!
That woman – she was the same one as last night. And she didn’t like her being here one bit, did she? There was a horrible feeling about her, something truly menacing.
Her hands were shaking as she walked into the kitchen for the wine intended for tomorrow night.
Fuck it…I need it!
So someone had lived here then? But there were no records of anyone being a resident here. There had been gatekeepers apparently, durin
g the time Lavinia House operated as an asylum, but only on short term work contracts. Importantly there had been no permanent residents or deaths recorded here. That’s what she’d looked for. So who was the old woman? Perhaps one of the tenant’s wives? Someone who’d been particularly partial to the place?
At the back of the house, overlooking the garden and adjoining the kitchen, a smaller, cosier room had been furnished with a cheap nylon carpet and a black faux leather sofa. It looked as though this was intended for the new lodger since an electric heater had been fitted. Old-fashioned as it was, it did the job, with two bars and a back light, of at least providing some comfort, so gratefully she opted for that, closing the curtains and regretting now the lack of a television.
The evening stretched out. As did the night ahead.
She took a sip of wine and flicked on her laptop. There had to be more information on this place, but first it would be interesting to google the Fox-Whatelys. It hadn’t occurred to her to do so before, no doubt because he was the local doctor and nothing had seemed remotely odd. But following such hostility from Lorna this morning, a person had to wonder why. Maybe she had something to hide?
Her interest piqued, the first Fox-Whately to pop up was a famous one. Could she be related? The newspaper photograph was of a young woman snapped leaving a West end theatre with a rather serious looking older man. While he wore a business suit, the woman presented a far more outrageous spectacle. Her hair was extremely short, cut sharply around the ears like a fairy-tale pixie, and she was wearing an over-sized embroidered coat in shades of red, mustard and turquoise - the kind not found on the high street but in exclusive boutiques with no price labels. Her shoes too, were quirky - purple with pointed toes and a Peter Pan buckle. Awful taste, she decided. Probably the whole ensemble was top-end designer. In fact it definitely was. She read his name and raised an eyebrow. Ah, so it was the woman who was the Fox-Whately. An actress.
But was she Lorna’s daughter or not, that was the question?
The face shape did bear a passing resemblance, but caught in the flashlight smiling broadly with fridge white teeth it was difficult to tell. Worth digging around a bit more, anyway. And as it transpired there was plenty more about the publicity hungry actress who seemed to delight in shock tactics and nude stage performances. In fact, it seemed Ophelia was quite the celebrity while her husband was rising through the ranks of the parliamentary opposition. So then, there must be some wedding photos?
Yes, great – here - featured in one of the top glossy magazines. God, there were loads.
And there, standing proudly either side of their daughter on her wedding day, were Mervyn and Lorna Fox-Whately - she in a flowery frock with feathers speared onto her head, and he by comparison, considerably smaller - wiry and somewhat ferrety in looks, wearing top hat and tails. Hmmm…little doubt who wore the trousers in that relationship!
Isobel scanned the catalogue of glossy photos. Clearly the wedding had not been hosted at the family home. The shots were taken at a hotel in Surrey. It was definitely them, though. Ophelia and her parents – just the three of them representing her side of the family. No more relatives? So was Ophelia an only child? For another hour she scrolled through google, gleaning information.
Hang on a minute! Now that was interesting. There was nothing up to date…All of these articles and photographs were before 2016. After that Ophelia vanished. Was it one of those celebrity cases of going off the rails, or into rehab? Something to keep quiet? All social media trails ended just as abruptly. There were a few articles on her husband and one or two interviews, where he was asked about his wife and he politely declined to comment.
Was it true, one journalist asked, that his wife had post-natal depression following the birth of their first child?
Again he declined to answer.
Was his wife planning to work again as an actress? the reporter probed. Was the child being cared for at home?
Slightly less politely now, he told the journalist his private life was just that, private, and asked him to respect that.
Isobel frowned. Hmmm…why were there no photos of this baby? Ophelia was famous for her celebrity magazine shoots…
Call it intuition but she’d lay money down this family had something to hide. There were so many questions, though. Like, why did the doctor and his wife live in pretty shabby quarters here in the middle of nowhere? Why, if they hailed from such a grand family, did he need to go on working as a backwater GP, when surely he would be well connected enough to own a private practice on Harley Street. And why was this house, The Gatehouse, being rented out at all? Were they hard up? Surely not!
It was odd, all very odd…Her imagination careered in all directions. Perhaps they had to stay here to keep guard of something, which was why he couldn’t leave to work in London? But the house cost a fortune to upkeep, hence the need for the rent? Oh, it was far-fetched. Intriguing, though. And not impossible. Did Ophelia live here too? Is that why Lorna hadn’t wanted her around?
Ah, no. It was none of her business and quite frankly she had problems of her own.
Even so…
Her thoughts constantly flitted back to Lorna’s determination to march her off the premises that morning. Could it be to do with the tiny church, then? Was there something about that? Or perhaps the graffiti in the house itself? No, that could easily be painted over. Unless it was under constant attack…Certainly there had been something Lorna was protective of. And then there was that bizarre road rage incident this afternoon and …
Holy crap, what was that?
While her mind had been otherwise occupied, a frantic unintelligible whispering that had been present for some time, was escalating, and now came to her full attention. Coming from the hallway, it ceased the second she tuned in.
Silence hissed over the cranking electric fire.
Swallowing the last dregs of the wine and refusing point blank to be annoyed with herself for drinking – anyone in these circumstances after a day like that would down a bottle, probably more than one – she took a deep breath and turned to face the closed door leading to the hall.
Her voice came out in a warble, weak and trembling even to her own ears. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
***
Chapter Fourteen
Perhaps there was a draft in the hall, but the door seemed to waver in response.
Her heart crashed in her chest. The room all at once suffocating.
She had forgotten to protect herself. Forgotten everything. It did exist, the other side…it did…that had to be accepted…had to be…
“Who’s there? Sh…show yourself…”
Again the door seemed to wobble on its hinges.
Fuck - what if someone answered? Oh, God…
She pictured running outside into the fog. But to where? Down the long, dark drive to a half-derelict house with hostile owners? Or the unlit lanes towards Blackmarsh, which would be battened down for the night…? She could call someone? Who? Nina? Yes, Nina.
Or better still, take a few deep breaths and handle this – have the confrontation she’d been trying to avoid since her teens.
Okay then, here goes. As an adult armed with more insight and knowledge…here goes…let’s believe in this, that I am a medium, that spirits exist but cannot hurt me. Others cope with it and so can I. Come on, Isobel – bloody well face up to it!
She closed her eyes and offered a prayer, asking for God’s protection with what she was about to do. As a Christian she knew of no other way.
Then opened her eyes.
Standing right in front of her was a corpse-pale young woman in a blood-soaked nightdress.
Her heart jumped so violently she nearly passed out.
Then she blinked and the image faded.
Christ!
All courage deserted her. With wildly shaking fingers she picked up her glass and shut the computer down. All the lights in the house were now on and staying on, even if from the outside it did look like a
galleon on the high seas. This was no good. She must get busy. How to get through the night here on her own? Bloody hell…
She did the washing up, then dragged her suitcase out of the cupboard under the stairs and took it up to the bedroom to unpack, making sure to note every drawer was fully closed and the wardrobe door clicked shut. The upstairs seemed even chillier, her breath steamed on the air, and the image of the blood-soaked girl would not disappear; nor the ghost of the old woman - both in a house that had no record of official dwellers.
Frowning, she was closing the now empty suitcase ready to take it back down, when the frantic gibberish of a whispered conversation struck her once more. She stopped to listen. What were the secrets of this house?
And again it ceased, just as she tuned in.
She hurried downstairs with the case, just reaching the bottom step when what sounded like an impish giggle floated down the stairs from behind.
Fuck! No doubt about it this house was bloody haunted. Oh great, just bloody fantastic – these weren’t nice ghosts either, these ghosts had malice, an agenda.
Screwing up her eyes she forced back the tears. Tears mixed with disbelief and rage. This was supposed to be a respite, a place of peace to come to terms with the massive cock-up that was her life. She was supposed to be learning to meditate and take steps towards being a spiritual being, go to church, discuss it with the local vicar, take long country walks and finally decide what to do next. Not this…more hauntings and angry dead people waking her up in the night, distorting her face in the mirror to get attention, flashing images into her head or inflicting pain …
“No!” she shouted into the empty house. “No! I will not have this. Do you hear? I will not have this.”
Her words echoed into the stillness.
Overhead the lightbulb flickered in its paper lantern.
“No, I will not be frightened. I will not. I will sleep. I will get well. I will–”
The door to the lounge wafted back and forth.
