by Cross, Amy
I pat the side of my leg, hoping to encourage him up, but he simply lets out another low grumble.
“Don't look at me like that, Bob! Come on!”
He settles down and lowers his head, resting his chin on the ground. Somehow, he looks even sadder than before.
“Fine,” I mutter, turning and making my way along the dark corridor, with only the light from my phone to guide the way. “I reserve the right to rib you for this, though.”
Rain is still lashing down outside, and I can hear a few distant drips in the distance. I guess there might be one or two holes that need fixing, and after a moment I hear an absolutely howling gust of wind that seems to be racing through the rafters of the attic above me. It's quite clear that Ashbyrn House needs some work, although I knew that when I bought the place. As I stop at the first door, however, I can't help wondering whether I've bitten off a little more than I can chew. After all, I'm definitely not the handyman type.
Pushing the door open, I hold my phone up and look through to see a large, empty room.
“I definitely need some furniture,” I say with a sigh, before turning and making my way toward the far end of the corridor. “And curtains. And -”
Suddenly I hear a brief click over my shoulder. I turn, half expecting to find someone behind me, but the phone's light merely picks out the wall panels. I have to admit, my heart is racing just a little, and I feel as if – despite my best efforts and the rigors of a rational mind – the house is starting to get to me. It's at this point that a more superstitious individual would crack.
In the distance, Bob lets out another brief moan.
“Oh, get over it,” I mutter, turning and making my way further along the corridor. I pick up the pace a little, feeling as if I've spent enough time creeping about in my own home, but when I get to the far end I find myself facing yet another door, while the corridor takes a ninety-degree turn to the left and heads off toward a darker part of the house.
Pushing the door open, I find yet another empty room.
“So far, so good,” I whisper, pulling the door shut and then turning to head along the next corridor. “I just -”
Before I can get another word out, the light from the phone briefly catches the wall at the corridor's far end, and for a fraction of a second I see the outline of a woman wearing a wedding dress. I stop, startled by the sight, and the phone slips from my hand.
Taking a step back, I'm already telling myself that I must be mistaken.
“It's not her,” I whisper involuntarily, already thinking back to the bride I glimpsed in London. “It's not!”
With the phone on the floor, all I see ahead of me now is pitch darkness, but in my mind's eye the memory of the woman is still very clear. I saw no features, really nothing more than a silhouette, but I know I wasn't mistaken.
I wait, watching the darkness, listening for any hint of movement.
Finally, in the distance, there's a very faint creaking sound.
“That's just the wind,” I tell myself. “ Just the wind.”
As if to back me up, I hear a howling gust whistling through the rafters.
I hesitate for a moment, before crouching down and picking up the phone. I keep my eyes fixed on the corridor ahead, just in case anything is at the far end, and then I slowly raise the phone again, letting its light creep along the corridor until finally I see the far end again.
The bride is still there.
Except...
I tilt my head, watching the silhouetted woman for a moment, and then I allow myself a faint smile as I realize that there's a frame running all the way around her. Getting to my feet again, I start making my way forward, and with each step I feel a little more relaxed until I eventually reach the end of the corridor and find myself face-to-face with a large painting.
“Well, you sure gave me a fright,” I whisper, holding my phone up higher so that I can see the cracked canvas.
Sure enough, the painting shows a life-size image of a woman wearing a white wedding gown. She looks a little similar to the bride I spotted a couple of times back in London, although I quickly remind myself that every wedding dress basically looks the same. The woman's face is hidden by a thick veil, which keeps me from seeing more than the faintest outline of a human head, while her hands are covered by the flowers she's holding. She's standing outside somewhere, maybe even in the grounds of Ashbyrn House itself, and there's something very calm and stately about her, even if the painting seems pretty old.
Reaching out, I press a fingertip against the surface, only to accidentally dislodge a flake of paint.
“So,” I mutter, taking a step back so I can better admire the painting in its entirety, “all the furniture was taken away, but the previous owners left this behind? Great.”
I have to admit, the painting is pretty imposing, and the color palette is a little too focused on yellows and browns for my liking. Less Turner or Lowry, more Raeburn or Frith, although the artist was clearly talented. Then again, I'm no expert when it comes to art. That was more Vanessa's area. Still, I know what I like, and I definitely don't fancy having this monstrosity hanging here, so I step closer again and take hold of the frame, giving it a gentle tug. After just a moment's work, I manage to lift the painting off the wall, although I quickly find that it's much heavier than I'd anticipated. I set it down on the floorboards and then I start sliding it over to the other side of the corridor, where I turn it around and lean it carefully against the wall so that I'm left facing the back of the frame.
“Sorry,” I say out loud, with a hint of a smile. “I don't mean to be rude, but...”
Pausing, I see that somebody has left some penciled words on the frame's edge. Holding my phone up, I try to decipher the spindly handwriting.
“Catherine...”
I squint a little.
“Something... Ashbyrn? Katherine? Katia? Katinka?”
There's a year, too. 1859.
“Miss Ashbyrn, 1859,” I whisper. “I guess you had a pretty fancy wedding.”
There's some tape on the back of the painting, too, as if a repair has been made at some point. I've got to admit, the frame itself is pretty nice, even if I don't entirely like the painting itself.
“Sorry, whoever you were,” I say as I check to make sure that the damn thing isn't about to fall down and scare the dog witless. “I'm sure you look lovely, but you're not my idea of a nice painting. You'll be going in the shed tomorrow, along with -”
Suddenly there's a very loud banging sound nearby. Turning, I use my phone to light the corridor, and this time I'm certain that the sound came from the room at the far end. I really don't feel like experiencing any more surprises tonight, but I make myself walk swiftly to the next door and push it open, only to find that a window has been left unfastened. Sure enough, a moment later there's another gust of rain-lashed wind, and the window slams shut before swinging open again.
“Really?” I sigh, heading over and finding that plenty of rain has been blown inside. I pull the window shut and secure it properly, and I can't help thinking that I should have realized right from the start that the noise was caused by something so mundane.
Stepping back, I look around the room, but there's absolutely nothing here. I don't know how I'm going to even begin filling this house with furniture, and in fact I'm starting to think that maybe I really could just leave a lot of the rooms bare. Ashbyrn House boasts far too many bedrooms, and whereas I used to think that it'd be fun to have so much space, now I'm becoming more and more aware of the daunting task I've created for myself. I guess maybe, in the back of my mind, part of me quite liked the romantic idea of coming to live all alone in a big old empty house.
I'll get used to it.
And besides, I'm not alone. I've got Bob.
Heading back along the corridor, I see that the painting is still resting against the wall, still turned so that the image of the bride isn't visible. As I walk past, however, I spot a faint patch of darkness on the ba
ck of the frame, and I stop for a moment to take a look. I swear there was no darkness just a few minutes ago, but now it looks as if something has stained the wood on the rear of the painting. I run my hands against the patch, in case there's some water damage, but it seems completely dry. Stepping back, I keep my phone raised and after a moment I realize that the stain looks vaguely human shaped. It's almost as if the bride in the painting has begun to seep through to the rear of the frame. I guess she didn't like being turned around and forced to face the wall.
Or, more likely, there's just a weird damp patch that happens to have taken a vaguely human shape.
“Nice try,” I mutter, turning and heading along the corridor, making my way toward the top of the stairs, “but I don't scare that easily.”
Outside, the wind is howling louder than ever, and I can hear rain still lashing against the windows. It's almost as if the elements are trying to scrub the house away. A moment later, I hear Bob starting to bark in the hallway.
“Okay, Bob!” I call out as I get to the stairs and look down to see him sitting standing in front of the dining room door, barking angrily at nothing. “I think I've had enough of this place for one night. How about we get some sleep and take a proper look around in a few hours?”
Heading down, I pat his side and find that once again his hackles are raised. I look through toward the darkened dining room, but of course there's no sign of anything untoward.
“Leave it out,” I continue, starting to feel a little irritated by his refusal to pipe down. “The man in the pub said you're not much of a guard dog, Bob. I'm glad you're proving him wrong, but please, let's just cut out the ear-piercing sound for the rest of the night. Deal?”
He doesn't stop, of course. Even when I pick him up and carry him away from the door, he's still furiously barking at some imagined threat. I'm starting to think that taking this dog into my home might not have been the best idea after all. Not if he insists on barking at thin air. Just as I'm about to turn and take him upstairs, however, I spot a dark shape in the next room.
“Huh,” I mutter, peering through and seeing that a large mahogany desk has been left behind by the previous owners. “I guess I'm getting a little help in the furniture department after all.”
Chapter Ten
Katinka - 1859
With a gloved hand, I reach for the poker that I have left sitting for some time now in the fire. The end is glowing red hot, and I am quite sure that it must be ready.
I take one final look over my shoulder, to make sure that everybody else is upstairs asleep, and that I shall not be disturbed tonight, and then I move the poker to my bloodied side and press the burning metal against the wound. The pain is intense, unlike anything I have felt before, but at least the affected area will not bleed again. Still, it takes all my strength to keep from screaming and waking the rest of the house, and I've barely even started.
This will take me all night. And yet when morning comes, I must be up and ready to receive Charles, and I must ensure that nobody knows I am in pain.
Chapter Eleven
Owen - Today
Morning sunlight streams between the branches of the trees, casting dappled light across the lawn. The grass is still a little wet underfoot as I wander away from the house and over toward the old ruined church, but for the most part the storm seems to have finally given up on its attempt to blow us all away. I guess the house is a stronger than it looks, which is fortunate since it looks pretty rundown.
“Bob!” I call out, tramping past the edge of the trees and around to the next clearing, carrying the heavy painting toward the shed. “Come on! This way!”
Turning, I see that Bob is busy sniffing a patch of grass, although after a moment he starts hurrying after me. He seems to be a cautious dog, and it's clear that he doesn't want to be alone out here.
“What do you think about that?” I ask as I stop and look at the ruined church ahead. Setting the painting down for a moment, I watch as Bob scurries on ahead and starts sniffing the bricks. “I'm not a superstitious man,” I continue, “but I've got to admit, having a church in the garden is a little... different. Maybe I should start taking an interest in the history of the house some time after all.”
Bob continues to examine the bricks for a moment, before turning and inelegantly raising his back leg.
“I think that's sacrilegious,” I tell him, picking the painting back up and heading toward the shed as Bob finishes peeing. “You want to make sure no-one catches you doing that!” I shout back to him. “Some of the locals might not be too happy!”
It takes a few minutes to discover which is the right key for the shed door, but finally I get the damn thing open and find myself staring at a dark and damp-smelling interior. I haul the painting inside and prop it against the wall, once again with the picture of the bride facing away from me, and then I take a step back. There's still a very clear human-shaped stain on the back of the painting, and if anything the outline is a little clearer than before. I have no idea what's soaking through or how, but something definitely seems to have caused an upset.
Still, I don't suppose it matters too much. Out of sight, out of mind, and I figure the painting can just rot in here for the rest of time.
“Seeya,” I mutter, stepping back outside and taking a moment to lock the door again. The key doesn't seem to want to turn properly, and finally I give up, leaving the shed unlocked. If somebody wants to come and steal a crumby old painting, I'm not going to try to stop them.
Heading back across the clearing, I see that Bob is still exploring the ruins of the old church. He looks less timid than before, as he follows scents that seem to criss-cross the lines of the brickwork. He's a persistent dog, that's for sure, and he definitely seems to be onto something. Then again, I imagine the land around Ashbyrn House is teeming with wildlife, so Bob's probably just picked up the scent of a badger or some other critter.
Wandering over, I watch him for a moment before stepping around a line of brickwork and look up toward the old tower.
And then, spotting movement nearby, I turn and look toward the main house, just in time to see a figure walking past one of the windows. I freeze, and the figure is already out of view, but there's definitely someone else inside Ashbyrn House.
***
“Well that's where they made their mistake, then,” Andy mutters as he carries another bag of tools through the front door. “See, when they gave me the key and told me to come fix the electric, they said you wouldn't here before Monday. And today's Saturday, so -”
“It's fine,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I'm sorry I came rushing in like that, I just...”
My voice trails off. To be honest, I probably seemed like a madman, but deep down I'm more than a little relieved to find that the figure at the window just now turned out to be a man who'd come out to do some work on the house. My heart-rate is just about getting back to normal, and Bob seems happy enough with the visitor. In fact, as Andy opens the cupboard under the stairs and starts poking around inside the fuse box, I can't deny that I'll be glad once the lights have been fixed.
One night in the dark at Ashbyrn House is more than enough.
“Shouldn't take long,” he explains, as several spiders scuttle away from the equipment and make their way into the shadows. “You're connected to the grid, but the fuse box is no good. I need to switch it out for something more modern.”
“That sounds great,” I tell him, heading to the door that leads through to the main corridor. “Just let me know if you need anything.”
“You weren't here last night without any juice, were you?”
I turn to him. “I arrived pretty late.”
“Huh.” He starts unscrewing a panel. “What about that painting? What are you gonna do with it?”
“I -”
Stopping suddenly, I can't help wondering how he even knows about the damn thing.
“It's upstairs, isn't it?” he continues, glancing at me. “I've never seen it
myself, but I've heard plenty of stories. If you ask me, you should just take the risk and burn the damn thing, frame n'all. I mean, seeing as you're not from round here, maybe you could get a fresh start.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I tell him.
“The painting,” he replies, matter-of-factly. “You must've found it, it'll be in -”
“I found the painting,” I continue, interrupting him. “What I don't understand is why it matters.”
“Well, it's of her , isn't it?”
I wait for him to continue. “Her?”
“ Her . Her Ladyship.”
Again, I wait, but he seems to think I should already know what he's babbling on about.
“Lady Ashbyrn,” he adds, less-than-helpfully. “Katinka Ashbyrn.”
“Katinka?”
“I expect you know all about her,” he continues. “Like I said, I've never actually seen the painting, but I've always wondered about it. I don't wanna go and take a look now, but... Well, is it, you know...”
His voice trails off.
“Is it what ?” I ask, trying not to sound too exasperated.
“Is it... horrible?”
“It's not exactly a masterpiece,” I mutter. “I certainly won't be taking it to Sotheby's to get it appraised, but it's not the worst thing I've ever seen.”
“Sure, but...”
Again, whatever's bothering him, he seems unable to spit it out.
“Well, what I mean is, is it... nasty-looking?”
“You mean, is it haunted?” I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
“That's one way of looking at it.”
“I'm sorry,” I reply, feeling as if I've let this conversation play out for far too long already, “but I really have to get on with some work. Any local hysteria concerning the house is none of my concern. If you know of anyone who'd like to take the painting off my hands, free of charge, then please tell them to pop by some time. Otherwise, I'm sure it'll make a fine addition to a bonfire some time in the next few days.”
“You can't take it out of the house!”
