by Lily Morton
I gasp and then try to step back. She hears me and starts to turn.
I’ve seen her many times now, and I know she was trying to protect Levi, but something about the way she turns and the angle of her body makes my blood run cold and every nerve tighten.
I close my eyes but when I open them, my stomach lurches in horror. I try to scream but I can’t. She’s standing near me, her dead eyes fixed on me. Her face is purple, and there’s a livid mark around her neck from the noose. But what makes terror curdle in my stomach is the fact that she’s covered in blood. It’s splashed across that pretty dress, making scarlet flowers bloom hideously amongst the faded violet ones. A speckled mist of it lines her purple face, dripping from her lips, and as she moves towards me, she flicks her fingers and blood rains in fat drops onto the wooden floor, making sticky splatting noises as it lands.
She opens her mouth to speak, and her tongue lolls out just as footsteps start to sound on the stairs. Movement catches my eyes and I turn my head and stare as blood begins to run down the walls.
The sight loosens something in my throat, and I scream. And scream.
And sit bolt upright, gulping in air, another scream—this one silent—tangling in my throat and a secret knowledge hammering in my brain.
I breathe in and out noisily. Just a dream, I tell myself. Oh fuck, it was just a dream.
My hands are shaking. I’m freezing cold and a whole-body shiver passes through me. Breathing in, I reach over to shake Levi’s shoulder. “Levi, wake up. I know where the diary is.”
“What? Where what diary is?” Levi says sleepily, sitting up with the covers falling to his waist. He stares at me. “You okay?”
I wipe my forehead, only just realising that I’m sweating.
“Not sure, to be honest. I think Rosalind visited me in my dream.” I shiver again, and he exclaims, pulling me to him.
“I smell awful,” I try to protest, but he gathers me close and tangles my legs with his own, clutching me in a tight grip. After a few minutes, the shudders stop, and his warmth seeps into me.
“What happened?” he whispers.
I tell him, holding the covers up tightly over us, creating a nest. He brushes my hair back from my forehead, and my eyes sting because the gesture is so tender.
“But how do you know it was a diary?” he finally asks.
I shrug. “I just woke up knowing it.”
“That’s fucking creepy.”
Astonishingly, I laugh, something I didn’t see myself doing after that dream. “It’s under the floorboards in the attic.”
He scrubs his fingers through his hair. “Shit, that makes sense. I bet I even know where.”
I look at him in surprise.
“There’s a board that creaks in the corner of the room even when no one’s standing on it.” He pauses. “Only now I’m considering this new information, and I’m thinking someone dead might have been standing on it all along.” He sighs. “Fuck my life.”
I repress a smile and nod. “That must be the place.”
He kisses my forehead. “Well, I suppose that’s amazing, although we probably do need to discuss the fact that you’ve added a rather creepy item to your list of talents and you can now commune with ghosts in your dreams.”
“Let’s table that discussion for a few years in the future. Like seventy,” I suggest.
He grins. “We’ll go back to the house tomorrow and get the diary, take it back to the hotel, and solve the crime.”
“Okay, Scooby-Doo,” I hiss. “It’s brilliant that you’ve solved the case without those pesky kids. But you’re ignoring one very important piece of information.”
“You’re raining on my parade, Blue,” he mutters. “Okay, what’s the information?”
“What’s the date tomorrow?”
“November the fifth.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Sparklers and toffee apples,” he offers hopefully.
“Yes to all of that, and yes to the fact that it’s also the anniversary of the murder.”
“I’d say that doesn’t matter, but your expression is saying otherwise,” he says slowly.
I nod solemnly. “Is it saying that it’s probably the most dangerous time to be in that house?”
He nods.
“Well then, my expression is very wise, Levi.”
Chapter 17
Blue
The Minster bells are ringing when we get back to the house, and the street is dark and quiet.
“Shit, I wish the train had been on time,” I mutter, pacing behind Levi as he digs in his coat pocket for the keys. “It’s dark. It’s completely the wrong time to be doing this.”
He looks at me curiously. “Is all that stuff they say about the light keeping away ghosts true, then? I always thought it had been made up by horror writers.”
I shake my head. “It’s based in truth like a lot of the old tales. Put it this way, it would take a strong spirit to appear during the daylight hours.” I pause. “Strong or just really pissed off. Tom says that the entrance to the path between the living and the dead is covered with a very thin curtain. During daylight hours it’s fairly strong, but at night it’s raggedy and gaping.” I stare at him. “And on the anniversary of a violent death it’s almost non-existent. This is completely the wrong time to do this.”
A firework goes off overhead, making us both jump. The gold and red glow from it highlights the troubled expression on Levi’s face. “But I still think we have to do it, Blue. Rosalind appeared in your dream last night on the eve of the murder. Surely there must be a reason for that.”
I give a long sigh. “I know.” I grab his arm. “We get in and grab the diary and then we’re out, got it? We can’t stay here a moment too long, Levi. I won’t risk you.”
“You won’t risk me. What about you?”
I bite my lip. “I’ll be fine. You can’t see anything. You’re like a giant baby blundering around.”
“What a lovely and charming image you have of me,” he says dryly. “Now I see why you wanted to jump me.” I shake my head as he exclaims and holds up the key. “Got it.” He fits it into the door and looks at me. “Ready?”
“No,” I mutter. “But let’s do it anyway.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Literally.”
The silence in the house when we go in is almost an anti-climax. Levi looks around, his gaze straying to the foot of the stairs, and a small shudder runs through him.
“Did you clean up when you were here to get the clothes?” he whispers furiously. “I told you to be quick.”
“Much as I love the futility of you bossing me around, I didn’t do it.”
“Well, who did?”
“Who do you think?”
He opens his mouth to speak the name, and remembering, I slap my hand over it. I stare into his indignant eyes. “Do not name the dead in here tonight, Levi.”
When I take my hand away his brown eyes are as serious as I’ve ever seen them.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Stay close. We’re going up to the attic.” I look around. “We’ve got five minutes tops, and then we’re out of here.”
He nods and follows me up the staircase as I move swiftly, my eyes darting everywhere. The house is silent. As silent as the dead, I think morosely, and then wish I hadn’t. I take the stairs to the attic even quicker, so we’re panting when we barrel into the room. I flick the light switch on, slam the door behind us and lean back against it.
“I’ll stay here,” I whisper. “You try the board that’s always creaking.”
He nods. “I hope the builders didn’t nail it down or we’re going to need the toolbox.”
“Where is it?”
“The cellar.”
“Let’s pray they’re crap at their jobs, then.”
He nods and darts over to the corner of the room where I saw Rosalind standing. I think of the crimson stains all over her and shudder. Levi pulls the thick rug back and sta
rts to tap.
“Don’t do that too much,” I hiss. “It’s drawing attention.”
He nods and then gives a quiet exclamation. “Here it is.” He looks up and grins. “Thank God for shoddy workmanship.” He pushes the board and the room is so quiet that I hear the click as the board lifts up, showing a black gap underneath it. He looks up at me, his eyes bright in the light with excitement. “There’s something in here wrapped in cloth.”
Against my will, the same excitement stirs. This is something that has lain here a secret for well over a hundred years. “Lift it out carefully,” I instruct. He pulls out a small object and lays it on the floor. Abandoning my station, I move and stand over him.
The object is wrapped in a shawl embroidered in lilac and pale mint green. I hold my breath as he unwraps the material, carefully opening the folds until a book is revealed. Made of white leather, it looks delicate and feminine, and Levi’s hand looks huge as he opens the cover. Written on the fly page in small handwriting are the words, “The Diary of Rosalind Evelyn Cooper.”
“Fuck,” he whispers. “This is it.”
“Okay, grab it and let’s go, Levi,” I whisper harshly. “We haven’t got time to read it now.”
My demand falls on deaf ears. He’s flicking through the pages, and I recognise the fixed look he gets when he’s reading.
“I just want to look,” he whispers. “Shit, there are hundreds of entries.”
“Well, let’s read them at the nice modern hotel where the only danger we’ll be in is eating too much room service or fucking each other to death,” I hiss.
“How are we supposed to find anything in here?” he mutters, ignoring me and standing up. He moves towards the desk. “I’ll get a pencil and we can mark the interesting passages and—”
It happens quickly. The smell of lily the valley enters the room and at the same time Levi lurches to one side as if he’s been pushed and the book falls to the floor.
I dart over. “Are you okay?” I whisper urgently. “Are you hurt?”
He rubs his chest, staring past me. “Something pushed me. It fucking hurt and—”
His eyes go huge as he stares past me.
I whirl around, my own eyes bulging in shock. “What the hell?” I whisper.
The book lies open on the floor, the pages turning on their own. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster with odd pauses as if the air is looking for something.
“Blue, there is no draft in here,” Levi whispers.
“I know.”
“What’s happening?”
“I think Rosalind is looking for the right passage and got fed up with how slow you were being.” The book’s pages stop moving. “Yay! I think she’s found the correct passage now,” I whisper.
We both move slowly towards the book, approaching it as if it’s as toothy and terrifying as a fucking T-Rex. Levi kneels, and I hover at his back looking around wildly, but there’s no sight of Rosalind or anything else. I wonder why I can’t see her now.
“It’s the last entry,” he says slowly. “It takes up several pages.”
“Read it out,” I whisper. “I don’t think we’re meant to leave here before you do that.”
“I’ll try,” he mutters. “The writing’s quite small.”
October 30th 1895
I know the truth. I cannot believe it. I do not want to believe it. But it is the truth.
I write these words hoping that no one will ever read them. I have not written in this diary for many years. I had no need when I was married and happy, but now I have to put down what has happened even if it is just a way of assuring myself that I am not going mad.
Last night my brother made me a drink of hot milk, announcing that I looked pale. As I’ve done for the last few months, I smiled and thanked him for being such a good brother to me. However, this time I didn’t drink it.
My suspicions have been growing for a while because every night that he has done this I have slept like the dead and woken with great difficulty. At first I believed it to be a symptom of my illness, but gradually I have come to believe that Alfred is putting something into my drink to make me sleep.
I wondered at first whether it could be because he had found out how ill I was, and was, in his kindness, attempting to give me sweet dreams. However, a small part of me knew that this could never be true. Alfred and I were never close as children, a fact that I regarded at the time with relief because I saw what happened to the people who his attention fell on. I have always known him to be a cruel man.
I once saw him hurt an animal. It was a stray cat that used to came begging for scraps from the servants at the kitchen door. I used to wait to play with it because it was a charming little creature. I arrived late one day and saw Alfred attempting to drown it in the pond.
I ran at once to get my father, but Alfred told him a pretty story about fishing the poor scrap out of the water where it had fallen. My father believed him, and I was whipped by him that evening for telling lies. I was then forced to apologise to my brother. He accepted it with a lovely show of manners, but I saw his eyes and I knew then that I would not be forgiven.
My marriage and exit from my family home filled me with happiness and it was with great despair that circumstances forced me back into living with him. He has punished me in some small way every day since.
Curiosity, therefore, naturally filled me as to why he wanted me to sleep so heavily. That and a deep-seated knowledge that it could not be for anyone’s good. So, tonight I accepted the drink and promptly poured it into a plant while he wasn’t looking. I then pretended to become sleepy while watching as he became more and more agitated. It was as if he was impatient and eager, and it made a chill run down my back for some reason.
After ten minutes I excused myself. He kissed me on my forehead and wished me sweet dreams. When I got to my room, I didn’t get undressed. Instead, I crawled fully clothed under the blankets in case he came to my room to check on me. I was right to do so because within half an hour I heard his heavy tread on the stairs and then came the light knock on my door. I closed my eyes and feigned sleep when I heard the door open. He gave a sigh of what sounded like satisfaction and then his tread descended.
I immediately jumped out of bed and seized my cloak. When the front door shut with a click, I ran down the stairs and stepped out into the night after him. York is different at night, as if it is given over to the dark. Tonight, however, no one was about which must be connected to the terrible murders that have been happening. I followed his heavy deliberate footsteps as he moved over the cobbles, a mist obscuring him from my gaze which was a blessing as it hid me from him too.
He moved with deliberation, as if he knew where he was going, and after a few twists and turns down side streets, I noticed that his pace had picked up. At times it was hard to keep up with him and oh, how I almost wish I hadn’t. That I could have been spared my dark knowledge.
Instead, I kept pace until the area grew poorer and I almost lost him when one of my pains struck me. I leant against the brick wall for a few moments, riding out the pain and trying not to moan as the damp mist speckled my hair and cloak. Eventually the pain passed and I heard voices nearby, one of them being my brother. When I peeked around the corner, I found him talking to a young woman. Her clothing identified her as a loose woman, as did the way she was hanging from his arm and touching him indiscriminately.
At first a wave of relief hit me. He was consorting with prostitutes, not doing something worse. The idea of what he could have been doing has made me frightened this week because always I have that knowledge of how cruel Alfred really is beneath the charm. A knowledge buttressed by the fact that every time he has drugged my drink, the next morning’s papers have brought news of another hideous murder.
I was about to leave and race back to the house so he wouldn’t find me gone, but then everything seemed to happen at once. Alfred whirled the woman around so that her back rested against him. Something silver in his hand
flashed in the weak light and in that split second her eyes found mine. At first I went to draw back, horrified that she would give me away, but then his hand came down in a swift motion and she gave a hideous gurgle that will haunt me until the end of days and sagged against him. Her eyes drained of life even as I watched and the blood on her throat fountained out in great spurts and poured down her chest. It made my breath catch and stars flash behind my eyes.
I leant there unable to look away as he lowered her to the ground. He reached for a bag that I only noticed at that point. Our father’s old Gladstone bag. When he pulled out another knife and bent towards her eyes, I backed away.
I don’t think I have run like that since I was a young girl, and I doubt I ever will again. I recall the burning in my chest and the coldness of the night as I flew down the lanes towards home as if the devil was after me. A laugh caught in my throat because why would he be? This devil knew where I lived. I was sharing a house with the Devil of York.
When I flew into the house I fell to the floor and spent a precious few minutes panting in a heap. Then I rallied and tried to work out what to do. My first thought was to go to the police, but much as I hated it, I had to dismiss it. I have too much knowledge of how charming and what a brilliant liar Alfred is, to trust that a group of men would see through him on the word of a woman.
For a long time I sat there until a desire to know more came over me. This was acerbated by the fact that Alfred had left the cellar door unlocked. That room has always been Alfred’s sanctuary. He made it into his study when he bought the house and he has the only key. Mary and I are forbidden to enter, even to clean. He must have thought himself safe tonight with me drugged and abed.
I did not want to look, but I knew I must. At first it looked like any other room. Bookshelves lined three of the walls and his desk and huge leather chair were innocuous enough. But my attention was drawn to an opening in the far wall made possible by the removal of some bricks which lay in a neat stack next to the hole.
It took me a while to gather the courage to look in, but I knew it was my duty and steeled myself. What I saw will haunt me to my dying day which fortunately is not too far away now. Inside the cubby hole were shelves on which large jars stood. Each one was filled with murky liquid in which strange objects swam as if in a nightmare. I knew before I even examined one what I would find and what would be added tonight. That poor girl’s eyes and who knows what else.
