by Cross, Amy
“Daniel!” I shout, as I head into the hallway, desperately trying to find him. “Daniel, what -”
Stopping suddenly, I see a figure moving about in the yard at the front of the house. I step toward the window and look out, and to my horror I see that Nora Copstone still has the knife in her hands. She's shuffling around the side of the ash house, scraping the metal blade against the stones, and I watch as she leans down and peers inside the small space. A moment later she heads around to the ash house's other side and stops, and I hear a frantic scratching sound.
“Daniel?” I whisper, stepping outside and then making my way down to the muddy yard.
Nora is still scratching the knife against the side of the ash house. Whatever she's up to, she seems completely oblivious to the fact that I've finally made it back. I step closer, trying not to attract her attention, and then a moment later I realize I can hear a faint sobbing sound coming from inside the ash house. I head over to the nearest entrance, still listening to the sobbing.
“Daniel?”
Suddenly I hear Nora scream, and I turn to see that she's rushing toward me. Terrified that she'll send me back out into the forest, I duck down and crawl into the ash house, and that's when I see the awful sight of my bruised and bloodied sun sitting cross-legged in the dirt with my old ouija board spread out in front of him.
Outside, Nora hisses again, but clearly she can't actually get in here. A moment later I hear the scratching sound, and I realize that she must be trying to get rid of the small letters and numbers carved into the ash house's stone exterior. Whereas once those figures kept her bones trapped inside the ash house, now apparently they're keeping her from getting inside.
“Daniel?” I say after a moment, crawling closer to him and seeing that there are tears streaming down his face as he stares down at the board. “Daniel, you have to get out of here. She'll find a way inside eventually. George Copstone must have been right all those years ago, Nora was possessed by something. You have to run.”
When he doesn't reply, I look down at the board. There's dirt and mud smeared across one edge, as if he was recently dug up from somewhere, but Daniel's fingertip is holding the planchette in the center.
“She set us all up,” I continue, as I struggle to make sense of what's happening, and as the scratching sound continues outside. “She manipulated us. She needed her bones to be moved to hallowed ground, because they were trapping her while they were here in the ash house. Now they're gone, so whatever took her soul is free to do what it wants. George Copstone was right all along. He must have been driven insane by whatever creature had taken his daughter's body.”
As if to confirm my suspicions, Nora screams outside, and I turn to see her trying to reach inside the ash house. Something's still keeping her from crossing the threshold, however, and a moment later she disappears from view and the awful scratching continues.
“She'll do it sooner or later,” I explain, turning back to Daniel and seeing that fresh tears are running down his face. “She'll scratch every last one of those symbols off the stones, and then nothing'll stop her coming inside. Daniel, you were very brave to fight her off and to get the board and to come in here, but right now you have to run. Maybe I can hold her off, maybe I can hold her back long enough for you to get away. Promise me you'll run and never look back.”
When he doesn't reply, I look down at the board.
“Daniel, why...”
My voice trails off as I remember the night I sat in the living room and used the ouija board. When I was done, I simply closed the board and put it away. I was so delirious, I didn't even read the set of instructions I'd printed from the internet.
This is my fault.
I started a session with the board, and I didn't end that session properly. Ever since that night, the spirits in the house have been getting stronger. Nora Copstone has been getting stronger.
“Is that why you dug it up?” I whisper, looking at Daniel again. “To end the session and make her go away again?”
I look down at the board and see that his finger is still resting on the planchette. It's hard to believe that all this misery could have been caused by such a simple mistake, or that it could all be ended by him moving the planchette to the word Goodbye. At the same time, as I hear the sound of Nora still furiously scratching at the carvings outside, I realize that Daniel might actually be right.
“Do it!” I tell him. “What are you waiting for?”
He mumbles something under his breath, but I can't quite make out the words.
“Daniel, end the session!” I say firmly, trying to push the planchette to the word Goodbye, only to find that Daniel is holding it in place. “You have to end the session I started!”
“There's got to be another way,” he whimpers, sniffing back more tears. “I don't...”
I wait for him to finish.
“You don't what?” I ask frantically. “Daniel, what are you waiting for? Why -”
Suddenly he looks straight at me.
Right into my eyes.
“I don't want you to go too,” he sobs. “If she goes, you'll go. There has to be another way.”
Stunned, I realize that he knows I'm here.
“I don't think there's any other way,” I stammer finally, as the scratching sound gets louder and louder outside. “The longer the session stays open, the stronger the ghosts become around this house. You can't leave it like that, Daniel. It's just not meant to be.”
“But -”
“The sessions should only ever be short. Leaving them open this long causes so much damage.”
“But it means I get to see you.”
“It means you got to see me for a short while,” I point out, as I feel tears running down my face. My finger is resting next to his on the planchette. “Daniel, there isn't another way. You have to do this right now.”
He stares at me for a moment, before slowly opening his mouth as if he's about to say something else.
And then, in that moment, the scratching sound suddenly stops.
I turn and look over at one of the entrances, then at the other, but there's no sign of Nora Copstone. After a few seconds, however, I realize I can hear a faint, gurgled hissing sound coming from somewhere outside the ash house.
She must have finished getting rid of the carvings.
She's going to come inside.
I look at one entrance, then at the other, but there's no way of telling which side she'll come from.
“Hurry!” I shout, turning back to Daniel. “She killed Nana and now she's coming for you, and then she'll be free!”
“I don't want to lose you,” he whimpers, as tears stream down his face. “If she goes, then you go too.”
“It's the only way,” I tell him. “It's my fault the session was left open, but now you have to end it!”
I try again to push the planchette, but Daniel is still resisting.
“You have to do it!” I shout. “Daniel, it can't be left like this! Other things are using it! Other things are getting stronger!”
Tears are streaming down his face now.
“If I can still see you,” I continue, “after the session closes, then I'll try to give you a sign. I swear, Daniel, I'll do what I can, but you have to end this session! It can't be left like this!”
He has a finger on one side, and I have a finger on the other. And then finally, as I hear the hissing sound getting louder outside, I feel the pressure on the planchette changing.
“I'm sorry,” Daniel whispers, still staring at me. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Suddenly Nora lunges through one of the entrances, screaming with her shattered mouth and flashing the knife straight toward my son's face.
At the same time Daniel and I slide the planchette across the board together, until it reaches the word at the bottom.
Goodbye.
Epilogue
Daniel
25 years later
By the time
I swing the car door shut, Sasha is already racing across the yard toward the ash house.
“So this place has been empty all these years, huh?” Connie asks as she steps around the other side of the car and looks toward the main house. “That's such a shame. It's beautiful.”
“It is,” I whisper, as I spot the newly-erected For Sale sign on the porch. “I'm sure the new owners will love it. Whoever they turn out to be.”
“Are you okay?” she continues, coming over and putting a hand on my arm. “Honey, if this is too much for you, or too weird, or -”
“I'm fine,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I've avoided the place for more than two decades. Now I've finally decided to sell it, I need to at least come one more time. I owe that to the people who died here. I owe it to myself.”
“Maybe you should go inside alone,” she points out, handing me the key that I earlier placed on the dashboard. “We'll be right out here.”
As I make my way up the steps toward the front door, I find myself remembering more and more of my time at this house. I've met with a long line of therapists over the years, and although I've had to talk over and over again about what happened, somehow a lot of the detail has faded from my mind. At the same time, I've also found myself doubting crucial elements of the story. After all, I was just a kid back then, and kids' minds can sometimes be a little unreliable. Sometimes I wonder whether I invented the part with the ghosts as a way of protecting myself and avoiding the truth. Deep down, however, I think I know it really happened. And the therapists have all given up trying to persuade me otherwise.
They just roll their eyes.
Once I've unlocked the front door, I step into the hallway. I immediately look through to the kitchen, to the spot where my grandmother's body was found, and then I head to one of the other doors and look into the dining room.
The big oak table is still there, and I stare at the spot where I sat with the ouija board. After everything ended twenty-five years ago, I brought the board inside and I so nearly dared use it again. Instead, after sitting for hours, I destroyed the damn thing.
I hesitate for a moment, listening to the silence of the house, waiting for a telltale creak.
All I hear, however, is my wife's voice as she talks to our daughter outside.
“Are you here?” I ask finally.
Again, I wait.
Silence.
I turn and head over to the foot of the stairs, and then I stop and look up at the landing.
“Are you?” I continue. “Mum?”
Silence.
Not a creak.
Not a bump.
Not a sound.
Then again, what did I expect?
“The house is being sold,” I explain, keeping my voice low so that my wife won't overhear and think I'm crazy for talking to myself. “I hung onto it for the longest time, but I think I need a clean break. A new family will move in, and I think they'll be just fine. After all, there's no reason for the ghosts to be strong, not anymore.”
I wait.
No reply.
“So if you're here,” I continue, feeling a faint welling of tears behind my eyes, “I just wanted to come back one last time and say goodbye again. And if you can hear me and see me, I wanted you to know that I'm okay now. I have a wonderful wife and a great kid, and we've got another on the way later this year. They know what happened to me, but they're helping me move on. Sometimes I have to pretend I'm more over it than I really am, but that's okay.”
I hesitate, telling myself that I'm just listening to the silence of the house. After a moment, however, I realize that I'm actually giving her one more chance to make her presence felt. One more chance to give me a clear, undeniable sign.
Then again, maybe we don't get signs.
Maybe that'd defeat the point of being alive in the first place.
“And if you talk to Nana,” I add, with a faint smile, “tell her I'm really strict with Sasha. Tell her I make my daughter set the table for dinner every night. And tell her she hates it.”
With that, I turn and head back out of the house, and then I take a moment to lock the door.
Deep down, I know I didn't sense anything when I was inside. I wish there'd been something, just the faintest hint of a presence, but then again I guess any link with the dead was broken long ago when the ouija board's session was finally, belatedly closed. Hopefully that means that Mum and Nana are long gone, that they've moved off to whatever place comes next. And that whatever evil possessed Nora Copstone is gone too.
But if they are here, I hope at least they saw me today, and that they realized I eventually came back. And maybe they just didn't let me know they're here, because they wanted to make it easier for me to leave again.
“Done already?” Connie asks as I head back over to the car.
“There wasn't much to see.” I look around the yard for a moment. “Where's Sasha?”
“Hiding in that thing,” she replies, glancing toward the ash house. “Isn't that where the bones were?”
“It is.”
I head over and tap on the ash house's roof.
“Come on, Sasha. Time to go.”
I hear her bumping about in there, and a moment later she comes scurrying out on all fours.
“Why is there a house for little people in the garden?” she asks as she gets to her feet and dusts dirt from the front of her dress. “Do pixies live in there?”
“No, pixies do not live in there,” I reply, leading her toward the car. “It's a long story. I'll tell you some other day.”
And I will tell her, when she's old enough to understand. When she's old enough to decide for herself whether or not she believes me. For now, it's enough for me to leave today, and for me to know that this whole place is at rest.
The opposite of how I felt when I left all those years ago.
A few minutes later, as we drive away, I glance in my rear-view mirror one final time. I've got to admit, just seeing the house silhouetted against a gray sky is enough to put a little extra weight in my chest. I hadn't realized we were already so far away, but then I guess my head isn't so clear these days. That'll change once we get back home. And then the house flickers out of view, behind the thousands of poplar trees that line the side of the road.
Also by Amy Cross
THE MURDER AT SKELLIN COTTAGE
Skellin Cottage is an oasis of peace and tranquillity. Miles from the nearest town, nestled far out in the English countryside, it's the perfect place for visitors who want to get away from the world for a while. And then one morning the cottage's latest tenant, Deborah Dean, is found brutally murdered.
After several months of police inactivity, the cottage's owner Lord Martin Chesleford decides to take matters into his own hands. Hiring former police officer Joanna Mason, who now works alone as a private investigator, he demands that Deborah's murderer is brought to justice.
But while Deborah had tried to isolate herself at Skellin Cottage, she'd already begun to attract attention. Terrified of her own past, Deborah lived a life of fear, desperately afraid that the truth would one day be revealed. And as the ongoing investigation uncovers old secrets and new rivalries, another murder is right around the corner.
Also by Amy Cross
PERFECT LITTLE MONSTERS
AND OTHER STORIES
A husband waits until his wife and children are in bed, before inviting a dangerous man into their home...
A girl keeps hold of her mother's necklace, as bloodied hands try to tear it from her grasp...
A gun jams, even as its intended victim begs the universe to let her die...
Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories is a collection of short stories by Amy Cross. Some of the stories take place in seemingly ordinary towns, whose inhabitants soon discover something truly shocking lurking beneath the veneer of peace and calm. Others show glimpses of vast, barbaric worlds where deadly forces gather to toy with humanity. All the stories in this collection peel back the face
of a nightmare, revealing the horror that awaits. And in every one of the stories, some kind of monster lurks...
Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories contains the new stories Perfect Little Monsters, I Hate You, Meat, Fifty Fifty and Stay Up Late, as well as a revised version of the previously-released story The Scream. This book contains scenes of violence, as well as strong language.
Also by Amy Cross
THE BRIDE OF ASHBYRN HOUSE
“I have waited so long for your return.”
In the English countryside, miles from the nearest town, there stands an old stone house. Nobody has set foot in the house for years. Nobody has dared. For it is said that even though the lady of the house is long dead, a face can sometimes be seen at one of the windows. A pale, dead face that waits patiently behind a silk wedding veil.
Seeking an escape from his life in London, Owen Stone purchases Ashbyrn House without waiting to find out about its history. As far as Owen is concerned, ghosts aren't real and his only company in the house will be the thin-legged spiders that lurk on the walls. Even after he moves in, and after he starts hearing strange noises in the night, Owen insists that Ashbyrn House can't possibly be haunted.
But Owen knows nothing about the ghostly figure that is said to haunt the house. Or about the mysterious church bells that ring out across the lawn at night. Or about the terrible fate that befell the house's previous inhabitants when they dared defy the bride. Even as Owen starts to understand the horrific truth about Ashbyrn House's past, he might be too late to escape the clutches of the presence that watches his every move.
The Bride of Ashbyrn House is a ghost story about a man who believes the past can't hurt him, and about a woman whose search for a husband has survived even her own tragic death.
