by R. H. Dixon
A single word written on the mirror above the basin.
Its capitalised letters had become obscure as watery courses trailed down from each one, but the message was still readable and somewhat terrifying in its abruptness:
REMEMBER
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15
_
Doctor Chatterjee had upped Sissy Dawson’s medication. She found herself drifting between sleep and consciousness, not quite sure which was worse because the ghosts were there no matter what. In difficult dreams or painful reality, they congregated all around her and in her head. Eleanor. Elizabeth. William. Polly. Even the three babies who hadn’t been named. Then there were all of the other little ones. An army of ageing, decaying ghouls there to torment her. And what was worse was that they hadn’t come alone. She was close by.
Sissy could feel the familiar dark probing of her brain, a parasitic depravity too strong to fend off. Inside, her skin prickled with a chickenwire tangle of fever, scratching and poking sensitive nerve-endings like the onset of influenza. Her bones ached, a deep glacial chill that had burrowed into the marrow. She imagined a slight knock or change in temperature would shatter her baby-bird-skeleton, the fragments of which would then disintegrate and be absorbed into her bloodstream making her nothing more than a bag of offal with white hair.
All those years, when she believed she’d managed to evade evil, she’d been deluded, Sissy realised. A naivety that had brought respite, if that’s what it could be called, but no sense of peace itself because She had never been too far away. Not truly. Faint and only just on the cusp of contact, but always there. Sissy acknowledged this now, with an understanding that that’s why she could sense the corruption all around her at Eden Vale. Because She thrived on the wickedness of people and the carnal activities in which they partook. She had been using Sissy as a receiver to pick up signals of human badness, tuning in to see what smut She could find amongst the sordid frequencies of the morally debased. And boy were there plenty. Extreme examples of the deadly sins were Her channels of choice, lust being Her favourite because She revelled in sexual deviancy. And so it was that, tainted by association, Sissy’s soul was bitumen-black.
It was this corrupt newsfeed, Sissy realised, that had kept Her ticking over. She knew Eden Vale’s staff’s dirtiest most dishonourable secrets, and somehow they kept Her alive. Even at Her weakest She had always been stronger than Sissy, but Her newfound strength was increasing at such an alarming rate that Sissy instinctively knew that something had changed. Something significant. But what? What was the source of this momentous new energy? And why was it happening now after so many years had passed?
The questions were met with no identifiable answers and Sissy quaked in her skin, willing her bones to crumble. She could feel the days of insanity coming back to her like a dutiful dog to its master. Panic swelled in her chest.
Please God, not again. Please show mercy on my demented soul.
But her request went unanswered. There was no mercy to be given today, just as there wasn’t the day before or the one before that. The dead children all around the bed continued to regard her with soulless-black eyes that were absent of childhood and they continued to chant through mouths that were filled with adult teeth. Sissy couldn’t make out what they were saying, their diatribe one continuous chain of words strung together, filling her head like dead leaves on a dead summer wind. She clamped her withered hands over her ears and began to sob.
‘No more, no more. Please, no more.’
But on they went: ‘The darkness…Cold…Here, we all are…She is…You…Awake…You must…Must not…We need…End of…End it…End us…Now… Before the…Stirring.’
Tears seeped from beneath Sissy’s scrunched eyelids. She clamped her palms together as if in prayer and screamed words of her own inside her head… Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war, with the cross of Jesus la la la la la… But the ghosts’ chorus of nonsensical words made for a grim lullaby that couldn’t be escaped or ignored. On and on and on it went: ‘Tireless…In the darkness…Feeding…Taking…Using…She is…She will be…You cannot…You must…Die…Soon…We shall.’
Rolling onto her side, no longer caring about the pain that wracked her swollen joints, Sissy propped herself onto her elbow and shooed at the ghosts with lunatic grunts. If she could just get down onto the floor then she might be able to slither away from their verbal onslaught. Escape their incessant babble. But her thin arm could barely withstand the weight of her own flimsy body, it shuddered and buckled, threatening to collapse her back down onto the mattress. Worried she might fail her mission before she’d really tried, she heaved sideways and flung herself from the bed. Moss green carpet rose up and hit her face with a dull wallop, threatening concussion and promising a black eye. The cheap nylon also grazed the skin off her cheekbone with an undulating sting that wasn’t nearly enough to distract her from the snapping sound her wrist made. Squawking in shock, she tried to gain leverage on the carpet using the clawed hand at the end of the severed bone to drag herself forward. The pain hadn’t yet fully registered, and her feet were caught up in the sheets so she hung from the bed at an awkward angle. Kicking and struggling, she made shrill noises. The spectres looked on, gathering close to her heaped body. And their babbling took on a different tone, one of excitement. Or urgency, perhaps. The sheet that was tangled around Sissy’s feet pulled even tighter as she battled with it, snaring her, holding her fast, and her sense of panic heightened because pain began to emanate from her broken wrist in fierce waves that suddenly made everything flash in intermittent shades of red. Cold sweat stabbed at her forehead. The intensity of the pain was enough to increase her efforts. She twisted, kicked and convulsed, shouted, screamed and swore, until eventually the sheet inched loose from where it was tucked beneath the mattress, becoming slack enough to release its hold. Sissy’s legs clattered to the ground, her hip taking the brunt of the fall. Brittle bone fractured upon impact and immediately a new hurt, even worse than that from her wrist, blazed through her body. The internal inferno created a backdraft which reached all the way up to her shoulders. This time Sissy screamed and screamed till her throat was red raw. She didn’t see that the ghosts trembled at the sound. And she was too preoccupied to notice when they diminished altogether. _
_
16
_
As promised Emily arrived just after four. Her boyfriend dropped her off at the gate in his souped-up electric blue Citroën C2. John went outside to introduce himself, to see who his little sister was involved with and to determine any disapproval he might have on the matter. But as soon as he stepped onto the pavement Emily, still in her green and black Asda uniform, squealed excitedly and rushed at him. She threw her arms around his torso and squeezed tight. Her hair smelled faintly of the bakery and she seemed to have grown an inch or two taller. John returned her hug almost as forcefully.
‘You’ve lost weight since last year,’ she said, dropping her arms and stepping back. She looked him up and down with eyes that were the same blue and equally as judgmental as his own.
John raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise, but really her observation was no revelation. His thirty-four inch Levis were cinched by a leather belt that was on the fifth and final hole to keep them from falling down. He remembered a time they’d been too tight. ‘You think?’
‘Definitely. You need to get some pies down your neck, matey.’
‘Alright, Mam. Did you fetch any?’
‘No, but I will tomorrow. And jammy doughnuts.’ She poked him in the belly. ‘I’ve seen more meat on a whippet.’
Apart from being a little bit taller, Emily looked no different to the last time John had seen her. Fresh-faced and willowy with long dark hair that hung in glossy, texturised strands as though she’d been swimming in the sea and had let the waves and salt dry naturally in it. Unlike John she had a tirelessly sunny disposition and an unfailing energy that would be well suited to working with children. Her infectio
us smile made him feel instantly happier.
‘That’s Cam by the way,’ she said, pointing to a broad youth who’d stepped from the Citroën.
At the mention of his name Cam came over to shake John’s hand. ‘Alright, mate? You must be the big brother she keeps harping on about.’
John smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘Aye, must be.’
‘Cameron Goodale.’
‘Good ale? Nice one.’
Cam was slightly taller than John. He had shaggy fair hair that was more strawberry than yellow blonde and warm brown eyes that weren’t afraid to maintain contact. His smile was sincere, and John thought he might well forgive him the ridiculous car because he’d had the decency to step out and introduce himself properly. That said a lot about a man. At least, to John it did.
Emily set about heaving a large holdall from the boot of the car, making John wonder if she was planning to stay the entire month. Cam hurried round and helped her to the gate with it, scoring himself extra brownie points. When they wrapped their arms around each other and kissed goodbye John turned away, faking interest in the neighbour’s garden till they were done. Cam then got back in the car and did a U-turn. As he drove out of the street the Citroën’s exhaust created a low, bassy growl that made John’s internal organs hum. ‘Seems like a canny lad, not sure about the car though. Here, give me that.’ He reached down and took the holdall. ‘So, how are you?’
‘Fifty shades of awesome.’
‘Good for you.’
‘And you?’ Again her blue eyes were scrutinising him closely.
‘Seven shades of, er, you know what.’
‘Shit?’
‘Hopefully not now you’re here.’ He put his arm across her shoulders and squeezed her to him. ‘Anyway, Seren’s dying to see you, let’s get inside.’
John left the girls in the kitchen and took Emily’s holdall upstairs, having already assigned her the futon in his mother’s sewing room. As he climbed the stairs Seren’s inane chattering and Emily’s enthusiastic responses to whatever she was saying filled the house with a sound that reminded him of childhood. Of weekend mornings and family togetherness, when the house had been full and busy, lively with the sound of kids larking about and his mother vacuuming and pottering about the place. His dad complaining that he couldn’t hear the television over the racket, but nobody taking any notice because it didn’t matter anyway, it was only football replays. The smell of home-baked bread wafting from the kitchen and the promise of summer both comforting and enchanting. Back then there had been no responsibilities except for staying in touch with friends and the odd round of washing up. No worries either, apart from who could pull the best wheelie and whether the blonde girl who lived above the corner shop was going out with anyone. John hoped Seren might look back at her own childhood someday with the same sense of cosy nostalgia. From now on he had to help make lots of happy memories with her.
He opened the door to the sewing room and a loud bang startled him. Dropping the holdall, he turned. It sounded like something heavy had fallen over in Seren’s room.
‘Everything alright up there?’ Emily called up the stairs.
Crossing the landing, John opened the door to his daughter’s bedroom. ‘Yeah, fine,’ he replied, scanning the room. There was nothing noticeably out of place in the predominantly lilac space. No fallen wardrobe or collapsed set of drawers. No misplaced ornaments or broken curtain rail. No faulty fixtures or fittings of any kind. Just the usual calm of an empty room.
Unsure why he thought of it, he looked up and expected to see that the ceiling was mouldy. It wasn’t. But the cord tassels on the ceiling light were moving, invisible fingers teasing them in a clockwise circular direction. John presumed he’d caused a draught when he opened the door, but then the shade itself began to move. Backwards and forwards. Backwards and forwards. Swinging like a pendulum in a widening arc, continuing to build momentum as though someone was pushing it. Eventually the plastic cable it was suspended from began to buckle erratically, making the sateen dome structure crash against the ceiling. John stood watching, mouth agape, transfixed by the spectacle and hoping Emily and Seren didn’t come upstairs to see what was going on, because he had no way of explaining.
The air around him felt supercharged. It touched his bare arms with a thickness like the static build-up on the surface of a CRT television screen and it caressed his neck with the weighty promise of any decent lover’s breath. He rubbed at his skin, feeling increasingly paranoid that there was something else in the room. Something unseen that was toying with him and had enough substance to move the light shade. Something sentient. Something he didn’t want touching him.
A harrowing moan drew his attention to the landing, making his innards flinch and his hair follicles react defensively.
Otis was standing at the top of the stairs. His wiry body was visibly shaking and his front legs were set in a combative stance. He didn’t seem to notice John and was, instead, glaring beyond him into the bedroom, his eyes wide and snout curled into a toothy snarl. When he issued another strangulated growl to the empty room, John bent down and extended his hand. ‘Hey, boy, you feel it too?’
And then everything fell flat.
The sound of his voice had broken through the tension, the atmosphere neutralising all around him as though the charge had been earthed by his words, thus banishing the unwanted, probing energy back to the circuitry aether from where it had come.
Otis whimpered and cowered low, his tail so far between his legs that it ran along the length of his underside. John tried to coax him with his hand again but the dog turned and fled down the stairs. For a long moment John was too afraid to move and listened till the sound of Otis’s frightened paws had retreated to the kitchen. When he finally summoned courage enough to turn around John saw that the ceiling light in the bedroom was completely still.
With tentative steps he went to the centre of the room and stood beneath the tasselled shade. Eyeing it suspiciously, he watched for the faintest of movements. Anything to confirm that it had been moving back and forth so violently just moments before. Anything to suggest that he wasn’t delusional and losing his grip on reality.
Nothing.
Not even a slight waver of the cord tassels.
Raising his arm, he prodded the shade with his index finger and watched it move in a lazy, pendulous arc. Then he hit it again, harder this time. Still it didn’t move with the same ferocity. In fact he imagined he’d need to punch the damn thing to get it to bounce off the ceiling like it had. He couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. Moreover, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. The electric-crackle of the air had been the same as that which he’d experienced when he’d found Otis hanging from the loft hatch, entrails and all, so perhaps the episodes were psychosomatic. Maybe the sensory perception of having static all around him was some sort of forewarner to a hallucinogenic interlude about to happen. The very idea terrified him. He clutched his head and squeezed his eyes shut.
It could also be stress or depression presenting itself in a whole new way, he supposed. Something upsetting the balance of hormones in his brain, something that could be controlled with the right medication. Or maybe not. What if his brain was short-circuiting with the onset of some other mental condition that was untreatable?
No, don’t even think it.
But no that couldn’t be true. This latest episode must have happened because his mother’s dog had shared the experience. Otis had been visibly spooked by something too.
Because he heard the loud bang, you idiot.
John went for a lie down on his mother’s bed before he felt able to rejoin Emily and Seren downstairs. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he might be going crazy and hoped not to let the possibility affect his interaction with the girls. His kid sister had come to stay, this was meant to be fun for everyone. Besides, Emily looked up to him and didn’t pity him like other family members did. He didn’t want either of those things to change, so he
forced himself to act cheerfully for the rest of the evening. He didn’t think either of them suspected anything. By the time Seren had fallen asleep on the couch, her head in Emily’s lap, it wasn’t yet nine o’clock.
‘Here, I’ll take her up.’ John rose from the armchair. His little girl was lightweight in his arms, all legs and elbows. He cradled her to his chest and she didn’t object. Upstairs he nudged her bedroom door open with his hip and flicked the light switch down with his elbow, stealing a wary look at the light shade. This time it wasn’t the light shade which gave cause for concern; the patch of mould had returned. Right above the bed. Only now it was denser than before, sticky black like old blood seeping through the plasterboard.
‘Shit.’
‘Hmmm?’ Seren groaned, becoming rigid in his arms. She rubbed her eyes.
‘Shhh it’s alright. Go back to sleep.’ John backed out of the room and switched the light off. ‘You’ll have to sleep in Gran’s room tonight.’
‘No.’ Seren’s eyes cracked open and the whine in her voice indicated an unwillingness to cooperate.
‘There’s something wrong with the ceiling in your room, kidda. I’ll get it sorted tomorrow, then you can have it back.’ His explanation seemed to mollify her, she went limp in his arms again and by the time he settled her down into his mother’s bed she was snoring gently.
He crossed the room to shut the curtains and found half a dozen dead flies on the sill. By morning he figured there may well be a dozen more. He left them where they were and found a wind-up torch in the front pocket of his travel holdall, then out on the landing he used a wooden pole to slide a set of aluminium ladders down from the loft. The bang he’d heard earlier, the swinging light shade and the ceiling mould had to be connected, so for the sake of his mother’s spare room he had to check the loft. And for the sake of ease (and his sanity), he hoped to find that something heavy had fallen over and leaked. The alternative was a burst pipe, something he wasn’t qualified or equipped to deal with.
