by Dan Scottow
Diana frowns, thinking, but doesn’t reply.
‘It made me think, he turned up before as well, when that stone stack appeared outside your studio.’
‘Your point being?’
Lucy shrugs.
‘Nothing, I guess. Just that it was… odd.’ She pauses. ‘When exactly did Mylo live down south?’
‘I’m not sure. His father died a couple of years ago, but I don’t know how long he was away. He was there quite a few years. I know him from way back when Claire was much younger.’
Lucy pauses, with her mug midway to her mouth.
‘Hold on… so you’re saying that Mylo and Claire knew each other?’
‘Yes. They dated, very briefly. That’s how I initially met him, and why it was nice to cross paths with him again up here. It was lovely to see a familiar face. Although, my face wasn’t how he remembered it.’ A sadness fills her eyes. ‘Why all the questions about Mylo?’
‘Oh… thinking out loud really. It doesn’t matter.’
Lucy leaves it there. She doesn’t want to push too far. She retreats, leaving her with her wine.
Now she sits in her room, staring at a screenshot she took of the image of Mylo outside court. It is a small world. She knows that. But some coincidences just seem too unlikely. A close acquaintance of Diana’s daughter, and if the picture is anything to go by, still in contact with her around the time of her murder. And now here he is, right where Diana has ended up. Ending up engaged to her lodger, who then dies in a tragic accident.
All too convenient, Lucy thinks.
59
Diana
For the first time in days, Diana feels relatively normal. Her head is clear, thoughts together, and her speech is not slurred. She feels as if a cloud has lifted from her.
A conversation with Lucy about Christopher Kernick set her on edge. The girl had implied that he might be innocent. Diana did not like that. It’s been too long to start dragging all that up again.
Best left buried.
She thinks of Claire, and her heart breaks as it always does. She’d lost her temper with Richard a few days ago; struck him. It’s the first time she has ever done that. She’s not proud. A testament to the fact that she really hasn’t been herself for a while.
Today, though, she feels things may be getting better.
Lucy has gone out. Diana doesn’t know where; doesn’t care. She has the house to herself, and that’s all that matters… well, Richard is here. He’s always here. But she’s not sure that counts.
There have been no ghostly goings on for a few days. Willow Cottage feels… safe. She wonders if she should call Annette, tell her not to bother.
She picks up her cane, crosses to the bedroom door, and heads to her bathroom. Turning on the hot tap, she sprinkles a handful of bath salts into the water, watching them dissolve, turning the water a satisfying blue. She walks to Richard’s room to check he’s okay. He’s sleeping in his chair, head slumped forwards. She watches for a second, holding her breath. When she sees his chest rise and fall, she relaxes.
She returns to her bedroom, undressing, folding her clothes into a neat pile at the end of her bed. She takes her fluffy white towelling bathrobe from the back of her door, sliding it over her skin.
She hasn’t worn it for ages; had forgotten how luxurious it feels. She unwinds the strands of her plait, ruffling her fingers through it, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. She makes her way to the kitchen, opening a cupboard. Biting her lip, she eyes the rows of wine on the shelf. She really shouldn’t. Not when she is beginning to feel well again.
But she wants to.
Just one glass, she tells herself. As she pours the thick ruby liquid, she knows in her heart that won’t be the case. She inhales deeply, holding the drink beneath her nostrils. It smells wonderful. Heavenly.
She slides a stopper into the bottle, placing it back on the shelf, returning to the bathroom. Steam is beginning to fill the air, the scent of the salts swirling around. She sips the wine, sitting on the edge of the roll-top tub, testing the water with her free hand; too hot. She twists the cold tap, crossing to the door. She closes it, and, still feeling slightly uneasy about being alone, slides the bolt in place. She feels safer this way.
She removes her dressing gown, hangs it on a brass hook. By the time she reaches the tub, the water temperature is perfect. Turning off the taps, she sits on the smooth edge, swinging her legs round over the side. She winces as she slides herself down into the water, inhaling the aromas. Pulling her knees up towards her chest, she fingers the rough scars on her legs. Shaking her head, she sips her wine, smiling. A few days ago, she had honestly thought she might be losing her mind. Now she feels… calm.
She hums a tune, relaxing down under the surface. Her shoulders turn red as they sink. She watches distorted shapes of birds swoop past the swirling pattern of the frosted glass window opposite her.
The evening sun is still bright, streaming in, hitting the steam. She can hear the gentle lapping of the waves on shingle.
She thinks of Richard, before. She pictures his handsome face, his immaculate presentation. Diana had been the envy of her circle. Unlike most of her friends, their sex life had been fulfilling. They found ways to make sure of that. Never let it dwindle. Never let the excitement go. She used to watch him from across a room, and tremble with unadulterated lust. Wanting to take him there and then.
And now… the poor pathetic creature in the next room is all she is left with.
She remembers the first time she saw him… after the accident. She’d not long accepted her own appearance. When she visited him in his hospital bed… she wept. She wept for him, of course. It was a tragedy. But she also cried for herself. For what she had lost.
For the longest time, she wondered if this had been a punishment for being so smug. Pride comes before a fall, her mother had always said.
Diana knew Richard was a catch. And that other women wanted him.
Not now. Nobody wants him these days.
She loves him, of course she does. But at times… she wishes things could be different. We got our comeuppance, and we got it good, she ponders. She blinks away the thought, laying her head back onto the edge of the tub. Her hair hangs over the lip, dangling down to the floor; she can’t face the energy and time it takes to wash and dry it.
Closing her eyes, she conjures up Claire as a child. So beautiful, innocent. Always laughing. She was a gift. Diana had taken her as a sign to never give up. Whenever she thought something was impossible, she remembered her amazing daughter.
She thinks of that night. When everything changed. She will never forget the way Claire had looked at her, sitting beside Richard on the red leather Chesterfield, holding his hand. Stroking it with her thumb. Jaw clenched tight.
You are mistaken, Diana had scolded. The disappointment was apparent on the girl’s face.
Diana will always regret that. Perhaps if she had said something different, taken another tack, things might not have turned out the way they did.
Why must she always dwell on sadness? She frequently does this to herself, whenever she feels good, she finds a way to make herself feel… not good. Punishing herself.
She empties the dregs of the wine, reaching down and placing the glass on the floor beside her. Closing her eyes once more, she tries to return to a happier state of mind. And as she does, she hears it. A giggle. Almost childlike.
Quiet, but definite.
She holds her breath. A patter of footsteps on the stairs, and down the hallway.
Another giggle.
She sits up, gripping the edges of the tub.
‘Hello?’
Silence.
‘Lucy, are you back?’
She pulls her knees up towards herself again. Something moves past the bathroom. She sees a shadow on the boards beneath the gap at the bottom of the door. The sound is louder this time. Closer.
She stands, water cascading from her body. Steam rises from her sk
in as she tentatively steps onto the tiled floor, grappling for a towel. Taking her cane, she limps across the room.
The handle rattles.
She takes a deep breath.
‘Who’s there?’ she shouts.
A force collides with the outside of the door. Diana jumps, heart pounds. She takes another step forward. Again, the wood rattles, so hard, so loud, she’s sure it might give way. Her eyes dart to the bolt. It’s holding fast.
Another thump. Violent. Aggressive. Angry.
Stumbling back, she knocks the wine glass, shattering it. Tiny shards scatter across the floor. Diana takes a step backwards as something pounds outside again. The force is immense. She’s sure the entire house is shaking. Her foot lowers onto sharp splinters as she steps back further.
Wincing, she raises her foot, letting it hover above the mess. Glancing down, she sees red swirls appearing on the porcelain tiles. The door continues to bang. She’s unsure how long the bolt will hold. It’s small, not the strongest. Again and again, the noise fills her ears. She sits on the side of the tub, lifting her leg to assess the damage. Pieces of glass litter the sole. She brushes them with her fingertips. A few fall loose, some larger pieces stick fast. They’re in deep. Stinging.
Hopping to the cabinet, foot raised in the air, she pauses, a look of horror on her face.
The mirrored doors are covered in a film of steam. Written on the glass, in crude, childish letters, three words.
I am here.
Wiping the message away with her hand, she throws open the door, scrambling around inside. She finds tweezers, and a roll of bandage, and grabs another towel, lowering herself down to sit on the toilet bowl. Tweezing fragments from her flesh, she squirms, as tiny droplets of blood drip to the ground, splattering in a crown pattern on the cream tiles. She shakes her head. The house is silent once more. She takes a hand towel, pressing it to her wounds, lifting it now and then to check if it’s still bleeding. The crimson liquid stains the white fluffy cotton, forming messy red splodges on its surface. She drops it, and winds the bandage around her foot a few times, taking it up her ankle, tucking it underneath itself to secure it in place.
Standing, she holds her foot a few millimetres from the floor, resting her toes gently as she crosses the room. Pressing her ear against the door, she holds her breath. No sound resonates in the house. No movement in the hallway. No footsteps, no laughter.
Only eerie silence.
Suddenly, something thrusts against the wood once more. Diana’s head whips backwards painfully, so hard she falls to the ground. Her buttocks slam into the tiles, her towel falls loose around her.
She sits there, naked, mouth open wide, quivering, as she stares up at the door handle. She doesn’t know how long she waits. Too terrified to leave. As the evening sun lowers in the sky outside, she finally realises she is alone once more. Standing, she presses her ear to the surface again. Satisfied, she slowly slides the bolt as quietly as she can. It makes a clicking sound as it slips out of its casing, and she screws her eyes shut tight, not daring to breathe. After a moment, she opens them, pushing the handle, letting the door swing out.
The hall is empty.
As it should be. No sounds from upstairs. All is calm. As Diana steps out, she gasps, eyes flick downwards. Her head whips from side to side, unsure where to look.
It can’t be possible, yet here it is.
Her gaze passes slowly across the rug and floorboards, taking in the angry-looking splashes of red liquid that once more cover them, spilling out from the foot of the stairs, running down the plug socket mounted outside the living room.
60
Diana
She is sitting on the bottom stair when Lucy arrives home. The girl enters through the kitchen, heading down the hall to the stairs. She pauses halfway along, staring at the floor, then towards Diana.
‘My God! What happened? Are you okay?’ Her eyes drift to Diana’s bandaged foot.
She nods.
‘It isn’t my blood. It’s hers.’
Lucy bites her bottom lip.
‘Who?’
‘Rose’s.’
Lucy’s shoulders slump as she sighs.
‘Let me see,’ she says as she steps over the mess on the floor.
‘It’s not mine. I trod on a broken wine glass. Tiny splinters. It’s hardly bleeding at all anymore.’
The girl looks down at the floorboards.
‘I was in the bath. I heard noises. And this,’ she motions with her good arm, ‘is what I found.’
Lucy glances into the bathroom, seeing the remnants of the glass shattered across the tiles.
‘How much have you had to drink?’
‘I had one small glass of red, and most of it ended up on the floor anyway. Check the bottle if you don’t believe me. It’s on the shelf in the cupboard.’
‘If that’s what you say you had, then I trust you. We should get this cleaned up, or you’ll be paying that man to come back and sand them down again. You’ll not have any floor left at this rate.’
She enters the kitchen. Diana hears the tap running, cupboards opening and closing. She’s checking the bottle. She finally emerges with a mop and bucket which she places outside Richard’s bedroom door. She crouches, rolling the bloodstained runner into a compact heap, taking it through to the laundry room. She sloshes the mop onto the floor. It hits the boards with a wet slap.
‘I think that rug has had it, I’m afraid,’ she says matter-of-factly while she sloshes over the red patches. ‘I’ll try to get it out. I’ve put it in the sink to soak overnight. You never know.’
She glances at Diana. The woman stares back at her incredulously.
‘Are you just going to act like nothing has happened here? As if this is completely normal?’
The girl stops, leaning her chin on the top of the handle.
‘I don’t know what you want me to say, Diana.’
‘I want you to say that you believe me. That what is happening here, is… her. Trying to terrorise me.’
‘I want to, honestly I do. But I don’t believe in ghosts. And anyway, why would Rose be out to get you?’
Diana’s eyes flick away. She ignores the question.
‘What about the Ouija board? You saw it with your own eyes.’
Lucy leans the mop against the bannisters, sitting beside Diana on the stairs.
‘I’ve done some research online. Have you heard of the ideomotor effect?’
Diana shakes her head.
‘It’s what the game relies on. It’s when someone… unintentionally moves the pointer, without even realising they’re doing it.’
‘That’s not what happened. What about the glass, afterwards, flying from your hand? You said you felt a presence…’
‘We were both pretty spooked… maybe I simply dropped it. I’m not sure.’
Diana looks towards the ceiling, exhaling heavily through her nose.
‘No.’
‘Diana… I know you want to believe she is here. But you’re an educated woman. Surely you realise that’s… impossible.’
She doesn’t respond. Lucy stands, continuing to wash the floor. The water wrings from the head, a muddy red colour. It’s coming off, but it’s going to stain. She takes the bucket to the kitchen, emptying it down the sink, running the tap. Swirls of pink gush down the plughole. She watches, fascinated by the patterns.
Diana is standing when she returns.
‘Would you like me to take a look at your foot?’ Lucy asks.
She shakes her head.
‘Can I help you to bed?’
‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’
She crosses the hall, pushing into her room, slamming the door behind herself.
Lucy sighs, shaking her head. Staring down at the dark stains on the floor, a chill creeps across her, causing her to shiver. She eyes the red patches, biting her lip. Definitely not blood, she thinks. But as she returns to the kitchen, she can’t help avoiding it, as if touching it might be
bad.
61
Lucy
She wipes the last of the red from the plug socket, staring intently at the dark stains that mark the boards once more. She purses her lips. Diana is moving about. Lucy can hear her banging drawers and cupboards. It’s good that she’s decided to have a bath, at least. Must mean she is feeling a little better.
Eventually the noise from Diana’s room stops. Lucy presses her ear to the door. Silence.
Crossing to the lounge, she pulls her purse from her pocket and slips Valentina’s business card from the folds of the leather. She flips it over between her fingers a few times, biting her lip. Glancing towards the hall, she lifts the receiver from the telephone, quickly dialling. After a few rings, the call is answered.
‘Ciao!’ the woman barks down the phone.
‘Valentina… I’m so sorry to call you in the evening. It’s Lucy here, at Willow Cottage.’
There’s a pause, as Valentina is trying to catch up, or maybe she honestly has no idea.
‘Richard Davenport’s carer,’ Lucy elaborates.
‘Oh yes, hi.’
Lucy hears a long breath being exhaled; she imagines Valentina is blowing out a huge plume of menthol cigarette smoke.
‘Everything okay?’ she asks, a hint of trepidation in her voice.
Lucy pauses, wondering how exactly to tackle this. She doesn’t want to panic the poor woman.
‘Yes, don’t worry. There have been some… developments, and you asked me to call.’
‘Oh God, what’s happened?’
‘So… last week, there was… an episode. We had to call the doctor, Mylo and I. She’s fine now, she seems much better.’
‘What sort of episode?’
‘It was quite scary. She fully flipped out, thought there were bugs crawling under her skin. And she’s still going on about this Rose thing. She’s convinced her ghost is here, tormenting her. She made me do a Ouija board with her. I’ve been out with Mylo tonight, and when I got home… you know the stain at the bottom of the stairs?’
