The Haunting of Blackwood House

by Darcy Coates

  The television showed nothing but black for a moment, then a room came into focus. It took Mara a moment to recognise it as their dining area. The camera was set up in the back corner to cover most of the room and the opening leading into the foyer. The video had the inherent graininess and muted colours of eighties’ camcorder recordings but was surprisingly sharp for its time, making her think the equipment must have been expensive. It was night. Two lamps sat at either end of the table, and a glow coming through the archway suggested there were other lamps spaced about the house.

  The image was so still that Mara began to worry it might have frozen, but then a man’s voice said, “If there are any spirits here, I ask that you make yourselves known.”

  Shudders ran through Mara, and she dropped her marshmallow back into the bag. The words transported her back to when she was ten and hid in the corner as her parents held hands and spoke to their invisible guests. I should have expected this. He was a ghost hunter, after all.

  Neil pulled her closer and stroked her hair. “Do you want to stop?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  A sheen of sweat developed over her back as the silence stretched out. Then the voice repeated, “I ask that you speak with me.” A man paced into the camera’s view. He was tall and wiry and had deep crevices across his face as though he’d lost a lot of weight over a short amount of time. “What do you want? Why are you here? Give me a sign if you can hear me.”

  “That must be Keith, the husband,” Neil murmured to Mara. She didn’t trust herself to speak, but she nodded.

  The man suddenly turned towards the kitchen, which was outside the camera’s view. Mara stared at Keith’s face, searching for any expression that might indicate whether he’d seen something. He took a step towards the kitchen then stopped. “Hello? Who’s there?”

  Motion in the back of the foyer made Neil grip Mara’s arm so tightly that it was almost painful.

  “Relax,” she hissed. “It’s just a child—look.”

  A girl, no older than eight and dressed in a nightgown, paced silently towards the dining room. Her hair was tied back in a loose plait, but strands had come free and fell over her pale, sullen face.

  Keith hadn’t seen her, but took another step towards the kitchen. The girl watched her father for a moment then turned towards the camera. She began sobbing.

  “Penny!” Keith’s voice was wound tight. He pressed a hand to his heart as he stared at his daughter then stumbled towards her. “What’re you doing up, honey? Did you have a bad dream?”

  “I want to leave.” Penny continued to stare at the camera as fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “A bad man’s coming.”

  “No one’s coming, sweetheart.” Keith scooped his daughter up and began rocking her. “We’re safe here. Don’t be afraid.”

  “Don’t lie. People died here. Lots of people.”

  Keith fell still. “Who told you? Did your mummy say that?”

  “Lots of people,” Penny repeated. “Peter and Maria and Ethel and Anthony and Reece and Mara—”

  “What?” Neil blurted.

  “Shh, shh,” Keith said, rocking his daughter again. “It was just a dream, sweetheart. C’mon; I’ll put you back into bed and tell you a story. How about that?”

  “Did she say Mara?” Neil looked faintly nauseous.

  Mara shook her head. “No, the audio’s not clear. I think she said Nala.”

  “Hang on.” Neil shed his blanket and crawled to the VCR player. He rewound the tape then pressed play.

  “Lots of people. Peter and Maria and Ethel and Anthony and Reece and Mara—”

  “She said Nala,” Mara insisted. “The audio’s murky—that’s all.”

  Neil groaned and rubbed a hand over his face as he settled beside her. “I don’t like this.”

  Keith, still holding Penny, returned to the camera. He disappeared behind it. Then there was a scraping, crackling sound, and the image turned to black.

  The recording resumed in a new location. Mara thought it was one of the upstairs bedrooms, but she couldn’t tell which one. The decorations were simple but tidy. Paintings hung on the back wall, and a half-visible shelf was stacked full of recording equipment and binders. Mara thought it might be Keith’s hobby room.

  Keith himself sat in front of the camera, rubbing one hand over his stubbly, craggy lower jaw. He was scowling and didn’t speak for several long minutes. When he finally inhaled and began talking, it was in a monotonous rush as though he’d said the words hundreds of times in the past. “Keith Spiegleman, twentieth of March, 1984. It is”—he checked his watch—“11:49 at night. And this house is sending me crazy.”

  He turned his palms outwards and shrugged. “I don’t know what to do. In every other haunted house I’ve been in, the spirits all wanted something. Justice. Company. Sympathy. Reassurance that it’s safe to pass on to the next life. But here”—he licked his lips—“here, I’m starting to think there’s only one thing they want: more deaths.”

  He stood and began pacing across the cramped room, gesticulating aimlessly as he did. “I don’t understand why. Usually spirits are focussed on having their needs met. They don’t care about what happens to their human companions—though you will, occasionally, find a ghost that wants to protect a living relative or similar. But a soul that’s so malevolent, so evil, that all it wants is to perpetuate suffering… how can you even begin to remove that? I’ve already tried the usual—burning sage, seances, holy water. But this energy is far, far too deeply engrained in Blackwood. It’s going to take someone with abilities much greater than my own to purge it.”

  He stopped walking and let his arms flop to his sides. “I’m about ready to call it quits and leave this mess to someone more capable. My wife cries all the time. Penny hardly sleeps. We’re—it’s a mess, and I—I’m tired—” He broke off abruptly and turned towards the door. It took Mara a moment to realise why. The camera’s audio equipment was barely able to pick up the faint creaking of the downstairs rocking chair.

  Keith swore and snatched up the camera. The screen turned to a jumble of indistinct shapes as he ran down the hallway and stairs, then the blur resolved into a fuzzy image of the rocking chair rolling on its struts. Keith adjusted the lens to focus it on the scene. “Mary, is that you?”

  The chair continued to move. Mara had to tap Neil’s hand to tell him to relax his grip on her shoulder.

  “Mary, I want to help,” Keith repeated. “I know what you did. But it’s okay. I’d like to help you move on to the next life if you can. Your husband and baby boy are already there. Wouldn’t you like to see them again?”

  The rocking chair slowed then stopped. Keith took a step towards it. “Mary, are you still with me?” The camera swung back towards the foyer, and Keith swore again. “What was that?”

  He moved to the foot of the stairs and panned the camera up their length and across the landing. Then he turned back to the living room. “Mary?”

  The rocking chair remained still. Keith’s breathing was raspy as he edged through the room and towards the library beyond. The shelves were filled with a jumble of books—many with titles that hinted at paranormal subject matter.

  Keith slunk into the room. The camera shook as he focussed on the walls and then the doorway into the recreation room. There was only one lamp inside, and it filled the area with just as much shadow as light. Mara felt a jolt of discomfort at the sight of the same television they were watching. She half expected to see herself and Neil huddled on the ground, but the area was empty.

  “Hello?” Keith called. Everything was still for a moment, then a quiet thud made him swing towards the library. “Hello? I—”

  Keith broke off with a horrified choke. The image turned into a blur of shapes as the camera tumbled to the ground. When it settled, Mara was able to make out four of the library’s shelves and the entrance to the living room.

  “Sal,” Keith choked. “Sal, what—are you bleeding? What happened?”


  There was no reply, but Mara heard a soft footstep. A low, heavy scraping accompanied it, and Keith’s voice rose in terror.

  “Good God—where’s Penny? What have you done? What have you done? Sal—”

  A dull thwack. Keith’s words deteriorated into a scream. Another thwack. The screams cut out. A drop of something dark hit the lens and dribbled down the glass. A final thwack, then a beat of silence followed by the resumption of the scraping, grating noise.

  A barefoot woman appeared in the camera’s view, walking towards the living room. One bloodstained hand gripped the handle of a large, vicious-looking axe, which she dragged along the floor to produce the grating sound. Her white nightdress was splashed with red. She paused inside the living room and turned towards the camera.

  Mara remembered how Chris had referred to her brother’s eyes as dead. Like the person inside had been sucked out and left nothing but a human husk. At the time of Chris’s story, she’d passed it off as a fanciful embellishment. But staring at the long-faced woman, Mara thought she had never heard such an apt description. Sal’s eyes were dead.

  The woman knelt on the wooden floor and placed the axe ahead of her. She seemed to be arranging it carefully with the wooden handle pointing towards herself and the sharp blade aimed at the ceiling. Once she was satisfied, Sal rose to her feet and disappeared from view. When she returned, she was carrying a wicker chair, which she placed a few feet behind the axe.

  Sal then climbed onto the chair. She stood tall, head held high, and began to tilt forward.

  Mara realised what Sal had planned, but was incapable of looking away. The woman fell in a smooth arc towards the waiting axe’s blade. A millisecond before impact, the screen cut to static.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Bargaining

  Neil inhaled sharply and jerked away from the television. He looked sick.

  Mara’s mind was blank. The television’s crackling static felt like a parasite trying to eat into her head, so she crawled to the box and unplugged both the television and the VCR.

  Silence fell over the room. Mara found herself, against her will, turning towards the entryway to the library. She could picture the exact spot where the axe had been laid and how carefully the chair had been arranged before it.

  “I guess your friends are right. I am a bad influence.” She’d hoped the joke would break the spell that seemed to hover in the air, but it occurred to her a second after it left her lips that it was in bad taste. Neil didn’t speak. She turned to see him on his knees, eyes still fixed on the empty television screen, with one badly shaking hand pressed over his mouth. She reached towards him then hesitated, afraid that he might no longer want anything to do with her. But when he turned his blue eyes on her, there was none of the dreaded hatred or revulsion—only grief and shock. He took Mara’s hand and pulled her against himself. They clung to each other as they waited for the immediate shock to pass.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I had no idea—”

  “No, of course not. That wasn’t your fault.” Neil held her so tightly that she felt almost crushed, but Mara liked it. She needed the safety he provided. She pressed her ear to the place over his heart and listened as his pulse gradually slowed.

  “It wasn’t a murder after all.” His fingers still shook, but he had enough control to be gentle as he stroked her hair. “Or, I suppose it was—but not by a stranger like the police assumed.”

  “Who would have expected her to fall on her own axe?”

  Neil was silent for several minutes then said, in barely more than a whisper, “How’d that tape get from the recorder to the box in the attic?”

  Shudders clawed their way up Mara’s back.

  He sighed and kissed her forehead. “I think our tea’s well and truly cold, but I need it anyway.”

  Mara nodded and slipped off his lap so that he could stand. They went back to the kitchen, where they’d left their mugs when the footsteps had begun. Neil put the kettle back on the stove then gulped his cold tea. Mara picked her mug up but couldn’t bring herself to drink it.

  “Ready to leave this place?” He placed both hands on the bench and stared at the kettle. “We can go right now if you want.”

  She closed her eyes. Please, not now. I don’t want to fight this battle again. “I still intend to stay in Blackwood.”

  Neil dropped his head. He looked ghastly. “I was afraid you might.”

  “That video was horrible, but it doesn’t change anything.” She didn’t know why she felt compelled to explain herself, but she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. “We already knew Keith and his family had been killed here. And my leaving won’t bring them back.”

  Neil exhaled. “I don’t want to fight. I just wish I knew what was the right thing to do.”

  Mara blinked at the tears stinging her eyes. She moved to him and wrapped her hands around his forearm. It felt cold; she rubbed at the skin to bring some heat back into it. “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’ll be fine here.” The kettle had started whistling, and Neil moved it off the stove with a motion that looked more automatic than conscious. “But there’s the chance that you’re wrong.”

  He turned to look at her, and Mara lost her breath at the intensity of the fear and fierceness in his blue eyes.

  “If I knew for certain you were in danger, I would drag you out of here by force.” His voice was low and thick. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Mara. I would even survive your hating me for it afterwards. As long as I could make sure you were safe.”

  “Shh, calm down.” She ran her fingers through his hair. He sighed and leaned into the touch. “Who says you need to look after me? I’m strong. And remember, starting tomorrow, I’m going to hire a bunch of people to test this place. By the time they’re done, we’ll know for certain that Blackwood is okay.”

  “EMF inspectors, mould inspectors, botanists, gas inspectors…”

  “And anyone else I think might help.” Mara lowered her hand to brush it over the stubble developing on his chin. “I’ll err on the side of caution; don’t worry.”

  Neil gave her a quick, searching look and wet his lips. “Would you do something for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you hire a priest?”

  Mara felt as though someone had plunged her heart into a bucket of ice. She withdrew her hand. “Why would I do that?”

  “You want to be thorough.” Neil was speaking carefully and didn’t meet her gaze directly but watched her out of the corner of his eye. “And I know you don’t believe in ghosts. But, just in case—”

  “Just in case my house is haunted?” Mara hated herself for the patronising tone she’d used. “Is that what you think?”

  Neil cleared his throat, poured the freshly boiled water into their cups, and opened his box to find teabags.

  Mara took a deep breath and purposefully lowered her voice. “I’m going to be cautious. But I’m not going to be stupid. I don’t need a priest.”

  “Chamomile?”

  “No, give me the red one. I’m sick of chamomile.”

  He dropped their teabags into the mugs and watched as they tinted the water. “You have a logical answer for everything that happens. And I’ve tried to believe them. But there’s still too much stuff I can’t understand.”

  The cold in Mara’s chest was like a vicious vice. “Tell me.”

  “The mysterious footsteps in the attic that can come and go in a heartbeat. The static distortion from a brand-new webcam and reliable laptop. And you said those handprints on the wall were yours, but they’re too small. They belong to children, Mara. I was prepared to think maybe some kids had broken in while you were trapped in the basement, but…” He shook his head. “Chris said her family threw out most of the junk from the attic, but if you look through it, some of that stuff might have been there since Blackwood’s earliest owners. Surely someone, at some point in the house’s history, would have thrown it out.”
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br />   Mara shrugged. “People are lazy.”

  “I would feel more comfortable if we could talk to a priest.”

  “Well, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t give a crap about your comfort.”

  Neil flinched, and Mara could have slapped herself. “I’m sorry.” The ache in her chest had wound so tightly that she could barely breathe. She moved closer to him, hands outstretched, but didn’t dare touch him. “Crap, Neil, that was a horrible thing to say. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it—I—” No, stop it! Don’t you dare cry. “Neil—”

  “It’s okay. Shh, Mara, it’s okay.” His arms were around her. His lips pressed against her forehead and her wet cheeks. His arms moved over her back as she hiccupped. “Shh, sweetheart. It’s all right. We’re going to be fine.”

  “Stop being so damn sweet,” was all she could manage. Neil rocked her gently as she buried her face in his shirt. The sensation of safety enveloped her, and Mara gradually regained control and fought the tears back. “I’m sorry,” she repeated once she was certain her voice was steady. “Sorry for saying those things. And sorry for making you deal with my crap.”

  “I love your crap.” Neil cringed. “The metaphorical stuff. I didn’t mean literally.”

  Mara laughed, and the giggles shook her whole body. Neil joined in, kissing the top of her head as he did. When they sobered, he said, “Can I ask something?”

  “Go ahead, and I’ll try not to bite your head off this time.”

  “Don’t take this as criticism, because it’s not, but why are you so determined to stay in Blackwood? You just watched a video of a family being butchered two rooms away, and you won’t even leave for the night.”

  Mara frowned. “I… I’m not completely sure. I think, um—” She cleared her throat. “Buying Blackwood is the first big thing I’ve done by myself. And I don’t want to be wrong about it.”