Echoes of Darkness

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  She waited for his response, but all she heard was his deep, rhythmic breathing. He was asleep. She sighed and slipped into bed beside him. "Hold me," she whispered, pressing herself close to him. He grunted, turned on to his back and began to snore. Emma lay on her side and stared into the darkness. The baby kicked inside her. Despite this and despite the fact that she was sharing her bed with the man she loved, she had never before felt so alone.

  "Of course it's no trouble, Mattie," Mark was saying as Emma walked into the kitchen the next morning. "We've plenty of room here and to tell the truth it would take a weight from my mind knowing there was going to be someone here during the day. It'll stop Emma getting too introspective."

  "What will?" Emma said, though she knew and dreaded the answer.

  Mark looked round at her and smiled. "Mattie was saying that she has a few old friends in the area she'd like to look up. I suggested that rather than checking into an hotel she stays here with us...sort of use this place as her base."

  Emma said nothing, just stared at him blankly. Mattie was sitting across from him at the table, smiling.

  Mark continued quickly, "You have to admit, Emma, Mattie will be much more comfortable here. After all it did used to be her home."

  Slowly Emma nodded her head. She hated the idea, she hated it so much she wanted to hit Mark for even thinking it, but she held the urge in check. She knew instinctively that Mattie would welcome such a response.

  "Okay," she said, keeping her voice light. "Though I'm afraid you'll excuse me if I seem a little preoccupied at times, Mrs Holt. As you can imagine the next two weeks are likely to be a bit frantic. There's a lot to think about at a time like this."

  "So you don't mind, Emma?" Mark asked, but Emma ignored him.

  "Well if you're sure it's all right, dear," Mattie said.

  Emma met her eyes, held her gaze, smiled sweetly. "Why shouldn't it be?" she said. "As Mark said, we have plenty of room, and you won't have any trouble making yourself at home, will you...in fact you seem to have done so already."

  A smile spread over Mattie's lips, and for a moment something flickered in her eyes, a challenge. Emma turned quickly away and busied herself at the sink.

  Over the next few days an uneasy truce settled over Belvedere cottage, helped by the fact that Mattie was hardly ever there during the day. She was usually back by the time Mark got home, and she dominated the conversation at meal times. Emma tended to withdraw deep inside herself, sitting quietly until the meal was over and it was time to do the dishes. It wasn't the incessant chatter that annoyed Emma, but the number of times she would enter a room only to find the conversation between Mark and Mattie reach an abrupt conclusion. Most evenings were spent watching television, with Mattie choosing channels.

  "How much longer, Mark?"

  "What now?" He yawned, punched his pillow and turned his back on her.

  "Don't you dare go to sleep on me!" Emma snapped. She was becoming more and more irritable and hated herself for it. "When is she going?"

  "The weekend, she says, satisfied now?"

  "No, not really. I want to know what you two find to talk about."

  Mark rolled over and switched on the light. The sudden glare hurt her eyes and she shielded them with her hand. "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "You asked a question. Obviously you want a full answer. Well, that's going to take a while, and I hate lying awake in the dark."

  Emma reached up and yanked the switch. "Goodnight," she said curtly.

  "I thought you wanted to talk."

  "Go to hell!"

  A floorboard creaked on the landing outside their room, followed shortly by the sound of the lavatory being flushed. The board creaked again. "Goodnight, Mark," Mattie called softly.

  "Goodnight, Mattie."

  "And you, Emma, goodnight."

  "Go to hell," Emma whispered into the pillow.

  By the time Friday came the daily routine had become so established that Emma was surprised to find Mattie still in the cottage when she returned from shopping.

  "Not visiting people today then?" Emma said, setting the heavy shopping bag down on the kitchen table.

  "Not today no," Mattie said. Emma had noticed that Mattie never said much to her now, and smiled at her even less frequently. Mark was the target of all her conversation, and it was he who received the glowing smiles.

  "You don't like me very much do you, Emma?" Mattie said suddenly.

  Emma almost laughed out loud but suppressed it. "What makes you think that?" she said.

  "I suppose it's because you think I'm going to take Mark away from you."

  The matter of fact way she said it rocked Emma for a moment. The idea was absurd, wasn't it? "Don't be ridiculous," she said finally. "You're old enough to be his grandmother."

  "Ah, but I was young once. I was really quite beautiful when I was your age. Long blonde hair, almost to my waist, skin like peaches and cream."

  "When was all this...back in the nineteenth century I suppose," Emma said sarcastically.

  "Oh no, dear, long before that. The date on the hearthstone refers to the date the cottage was rebuilt. And now I'm going up to read in my room. Call me when Mark gets home."

  She turned to leave the room but Emma grabbed the sleeve of her dress and spun her round to face her.

  "Why are you here? What do you want from us?"

  Mattie took hold of Emma's hand and squeezed. She had a grip like a steel talon and Emma winced with pain as her fingers opened involuntarily and let go of the dress.

  "You know why I'm here, Emma and you know what I want. Deep down inside you know, just as you know that my coming here was no accident. You knew from the first day, I could sense it. You see things the others haven't. You've been more of a challenge to me, it's been fun."

  The eyes were burning into Emma's, fogging her mind. "You want Mark," Emma said.

  Mattie's eyebrows arched. "Perhaps you aren't as clever as I thought. If Mark were all I wanted then I'd take him...like that." She snapped her fingers under Emma's nose. "Oh no, I want much more than that."

  "You're mad," Emma said.

  Mattie patted her hand. "If it gives you comfort to think that then feel free to do so." The patting hand closed like a vice on Emma's fingers, making her cry out in pain. "You'll learn soon enough." Mattie released her, spun on her heel and walked from the room.

  "You'll never get him," Emma called after her. "Mark needs someone young, you're an old woman...a crazy old woman!"

  At the top of the stairs Mattie stopped and turned. "Age, Emma, is like beauty...only skin deep."

  Emma heard the door of the spare bedroom close and went into the sitting room. During the course of her pregnancy she had refrained from alcohol but now she needed a drink. She poured herself a small neat whisky and swallowed it down in one gulp. Her hand was shaking when she replaced the glass on the table. She sat down in a chair by the fireplace and waited for the tears to come, but she couldn't cry. The situation had gone far beyond tears. Tonight when Mark got home she was going to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. Facing up to Mattie seemed to have given her strength. She was going to insist that the woman leave, and if Mark honestly wanted their marriage to survive he was going to have to back her up. If not, then Emma would simply go upstairs, collect her suitcase, and drive to her sister's. She sat in the armchair and closed her eyes, letting the silence of the cottage and a deep inner resolve lull her into a deep sleep.

  She was troubled by a dream. In the dream the door to the sitting room opened and Mattie entered, creeping softly across the carpet towards her, stealthily as a cat. She held something in her hand, something that caught the last dying rays of the afternoon sun streaming in through the window, something that glinted wickedly. Emma felt herself drawing back in the chair, she wanted to wake, to open her eyes and prove she was alone in the room, but the dream was too strong, the sleep too deep. It held her enthralled, as Mattie's eyes had held her that first day, s
truggling but helpless, a butterfly waiting for the pin. She felt a hand stroke her hair, felt a strand lifted away from her head, and then a snip of the scissors and Mattie's throaty chuckle. Her hand was lifted gently and the scissors cut the fingernails, a sliver from each of her fingers. Finally a cloth was wiped along Emma's lips, and over her tongue, and the moisture of her mouth was captured. "Now you're mine," Mattie's voice whispered in her ear.

  Emma awoke suddenly and rubbed her eyes to dispel the sleepiness. The house was still. She cocked her head to one side, listening for some sound of movement from upstairs, but she couldn't hear anything.

  Perhaps Mattie had decided to go out after all. She stood up, then collapsed back into the chair, head spinning. Her whole body ached as though someone had been systematically kicking her. Her legs were weak and rubbery, so she sat for some time with her eyes closed before trying again. This time she was able to stand but only by supporting herself, holding tightly to the arms of the chair.

  "I need a shower, wash the cobwebs away," she said to herself, trying to give herself some motivation for moving away from the chair. She took a few tentative steps and made it to the door. She rested for a moment, breathing hard. She could feel her heart pumping with the exertion, blood pounding in her ears. She felt exhausted, drained.

  She took the stairs a step at a time, clutching at the handrail, hauling herself up each one. She reached the top and leaned against the wall to get her breath back. Moving slowly along the landing she rested every few steps, even the normal action of walking required great effort.

  The door to the spare bedroom was open, a curious sound was coming from within, like the wind rustling autumn leaves, like tissue paper being crumpled.

  Emma hesitated outside the door. She was tired and she was frightened. Then she pushed the door fully open and looked inside. For a moment she thought she was still trapped in her dream, as her eyes drank in the details of what she saw, and her mind rebelled against the vision.

  On the dressing table, curled like a grey cat asleep, was a wig. On the floor, scattered everywhere, were Mattie's clothes. On the bed something writhed and twisted, moaning softly with each movement. A naked form that twitched and jerked, its wrinkled skin split and torn in a hundred places, peeling away, flaking, each flake making a soft whispering sound as it detached itself and fell away. Where once had been withered old flesh Emma could see patches of pale pink new skin showing through. Wet, soft, disgustingly young.

  She made a ball of her fist and rammed it into her mouth to stop the scream that was filling her throat. The figure on the bed was suddenly still, apart from the head which moved slowly from side to side, as if listening, as if aware it was being watched.

  Abruptly it sat up and a gasp escaped from Emma's lips as the thing stared at her with blank white eyes. Its hairless head swayed and rocked on a slender neck, that seemed incapable of supporting it, and even as Emma watched in fascinated horror and revulsion, the skin of the face peeled away. Slowly the creature Emma once knew as Mattie slid its legs from the bed and stood erect. The body was that of a young woman, with firm high breasts, slim waist, long shapely legs. It took a step forward, and the arms raised up in a gesture of embrace.

  Another step closer and Emma stumbled, turning back, fumbling along the landing towards the stairs. As she reached them she glanced back just as the creature emerged from the bedroom and moved towards her. It was then that Emma screamed, a scream of panic, which echoed around the house. She stepped forwards, her foot twisting under her. She pitched into space, down the full length of the stairs, landing at the bottom, jarred and twisted, blood trickling from her nose and mouth, and from a deep gash in her forehead. A ferocious pain burned deep in her womb. Oh my God, the baby, she thought as consciousness slowly ebbed away from her.

  For a moment she didn't know where she was. Slowly it came to her, she was in the spare bedroom. "Mark!" she called but her voice was weak, feeble, barely audible. The bedclothes felt heavy, making her body ache with their weight, pressing down on her, making it painful to breathe. The sun poured in through the window, catching dust motes in the air and making them sparkle like tiny diamonds.

  The spare bedroom overlooked the back garden, and she could hear noises, people laughing, the occasional shout, happy sounds. She pushed the covers back and tried to sit up. She pushed her elbows deep into the pillow to try and gain some leverage, but the pain that burned up her arms forced her to lie back again.

  The baby, she thought, and smoothed her hands across her abdomen, feeling for the familiar bulge that would tell her everything was all right. It had gone. She moaned aloud in disappointment that she had been cheated. She had missed the birth of her own child, she couldn't remember anything about it. "Mark!" she called again, but the words barely got past her lips.

  A woman's voice sounded from outside, from the garden. "Mark, be careful, you'll drop her." And then a peal of happy laughter, laughter she knew. Mark was down there, but who was with him?

  Then it all came flooding back as though someone had drawn back a curtain and let the memories come rushing into her mind. Frantically she clawed her way from the bed, almost falling to the floor. On her hands and knees she crawled across to the dressing table and pulled herself up to look into the mirror.

  She didn't recognise the face that stared back at her. A face, eyes bulging with terror. A face lined and wrinkled, ravaged by age. The face of an old woman, speckled with liver spots, framed by wispy white hair. She tore her frightened eyes away, and stared down at her hands. They were like claws, shrunken, parchment dry. She moaned deep in her throat, and dragged herself across to the window. She pressed her face close to the glass, and gazed down into the garden.

  Mark was there, lying on his back on the grass, a baby held aloft in his hands. He was laughing and pulling faces at it. Beside him sat a woman, a beautiful young woman with long fair hair, and a peaches and cream complexion.

  There was just an instant when the young woman glanced up at the bedroom window, and in that instant those horribly familiar piercing blue eyes burned up in triumph at the ravaged face pressed against the glass. With a sob Emma fell back from the window. She lay on her side and curled her legs up to her chest, hugging them tightly with her arms.

  MOTHS

  Simon Desborough stared out through the leaded glass of the bedroom window at the approaching car as it meandered slowly along the lane. Soon the occupants would see the lights of the house and the lights would draw them in, a beacon in the early evening twilight. On the bed behind him something moved sensuously under the sheet, silky, fluid movements that betrayed growing anticipation and rising excitement. Desborough turned away from the window and threw a desultory glance at the bed. "They're here. You'd better get ready." Then he walked from the bedroom, closed the door behind him, and prepared himself to greet his guests.

  In the battered BMW, Heather Grant turned to her boyfriend of just three months. "Are you sure Simon won't mind you bringing me along?"

  David Aylwin negotiated a pothole in the lane, allowing the power steering to do most of the work for him. "Of course he won't mind, he's expecting it. I told him I was bringing you, remember?"

  Through a stand of elms Heather caught brief glimpses of a house, a mighty structure that called upon influences from several different architectural styles. A solid Victorian, redbrick building that boasted Gothic elements in its towers and turrets, yet finessed by the Regency portico and windows that presented a more refined appearance to the world. An annexe stood on the west side of the house, connected to the main building, but seeming to stand alone in its Edwardian simplicity.

  "Is that the house?" she asked.

  "Desborough Hall," David said.

  "Rather grand isn't it?"

  "You'll get used to it after a while."

  The car crunched onto the gravel forecourt, and David stopped the engine as Simon opened the front door and came down the steps to meet them.

  He regarded Davi
d coolly for a moment then a huge grin spread over his face and he hugged his friend. "It's been too bloody long," he said warmly.

  "Two years and only one letter, you uncommunicative bastard," David said, and threw a mock punch. "How the hell are you?"

  "Fine, just fine," Simon said, and turned to Heather. "Well, for once you didn't exaggerate, David. She's as beautiful as you said she was."

  Heather felt her cheeks flush. To hide her embarrassment she leaned forward and kissed Simon on the cheek. "David's told me so much about you, I feel that I know you already," she said. "I can't wait to see inside the house either. David tells me you have an amazing collection of art."

  Simon laughed. "If no-one's warned you yet, let me be the first. David exaggerates wildly about most things. It's part of his charm."

  "Nonsense," David said. "The house is a bloody museum."

  "Come inside, then. You can judge for yourself." He led them up the steps to the front door. "You both look done in," he said affably. "I'll show you to your rooms and you can freshen up. Drinks at seven in the morning room, dinner at eight, black tie. The others should be here soon."

  David paused on the top step. "Others?"

  "Just a few friends and neighbours, nothing too elaborate. They wanted a get together to welcome me back to the country. I thought tonight would be as good a time as any."

  They followed him into the house. The entrance hall was huge, its marble floor laid out in a chess-board of black and white squares, so brightly polished it squeaked under their feet.

  Heather looked about her with excitement and something close to awe. The only time she had been in a house as impressive as this she had had to pay for a guided tour. As a former art student her eyes consumed the details of the hall greedily. From the Frederick Leighton original at the top of the sweeping horseshoe staircase, to the cabinet containing a breath-taking collection of Lalique glass; from the gilt and crystal chandeliers, to the deceptive simplicity of the Tiffany lamp that shared a small walnut table with a, decidedly 'fifties style, black bakerlite telephone. An eclectic assembly of art, untrammelled by one dominant style or trend, revelling in the disparate nature of its own randomness. A sheer delight. And this was just the hall. She could not wait to see the rest of the house.