by Cross, Amy
There are earrings and necklaces, rings and even what looks like a tiara, and they're all glittering in the low light. I've never been around fancy jewellery before, but as I reach down and pick up one of the necklaces, I can't help thinking that these are real diamonds and real pearls. For a moment, as I hold the necklace up, I'm mesmerized by the beauty and opulence, and by the realization that in all my life I've probably never touched something so stunning.
And then, suddenly, I set the necklace down, shocked by the thought that I was considering...
No.
No, I wasn't considering taking anything.
I'm not a thief.
Trying to distract myself, I pick up a dusty old framed photo that's standing close to the jewellery. I have to wipe the grime away from the glass, but finally I see a very old, very faded image.
There are two people in the picture. One is an old man with a very intense stare, wearing old-fashioned clothes, while the other person is a frail, angry-looking woman sitting in front of him on a chair. She looks painfully thin, almost as if she was ill when the photo was taken. At the bottom of the image, somebody has scrawled the year 1888 in spidery, almost indecipherable handwriting.
There's another photo, this time showing a younger, happier-looking couple standing on what looks like some kind of clifftop. The difference in their faces – in their postures and their dress, in pretty much every aspect of them – is so great, it actually takes a few seconds before I realize that these are the same people from the first photo. Comparing them now, I can't even begin to imagine how two people could change from looking so happy to looking so utterly miserable, but I guess stuff like that happens sometimes.
These must have been the owners of the house. I can't imagine why their stuff would have been left here, but then maybe they had no children. Maybe they died a long time ago, and somehow the house ended up just standing here.
I set the photos down and turn to leave the room, but suddenly my foot catches against some kind of old case that has been left under the desk. I almost walk away without taking a closer look, but something about the battered old trunk – with one corner sticking out almost as if it was designed to trip somebody – makes me crouch down. My wound bites with a sharp pain, and I wince as I pull the case out a little further. There's plenty of dust on the top, and it takes a moment before I'm able to open the clasps and raise the lid.
There's nothing inside, of course.
I pull the case all the way out and check for another, but there's nothing. And then, just as I'm about to get to my feet, I see that there's what looks like a small handle set into one of the floorboards. The handle was hidden by the case at first, but now I reach down and give it a tug, only to find that a square hatch starts shuddering. I pull again, trying to jiggle the hatch open, but there's plenty of resistance and finally I stop as I realize that this thing probably requires proper tools if it's ever going to be pulled up.
Still, I've disturbed plenty of dust, and now I can see the square outline of the hatch's door. There's clearly some kind of hiding place here, in the floorboards under the desk, and I can't help wondering what might be down here. Probably nothing, but still...
I pull the handle a few more times, but the hatch seems to be stuck fast. I check for any kind of lock, although there doesn't seem to be anything in the way. I guess maybe the hatch door has simply warped over the years, and I'm pretty sure there's no way I'll be able to get it open. I still try a few more times, tugging several times until I finally realize that there seems to be something keeping the hatch firmly shut. Short of finding an ax and smashing the thing open, I'm pretty sure I'm done here.
Besides, I doubt there's anything interesting down there.
Getting to my feet, I turn and start heading back to the doorway. Somehow I feel even more exhausted than before, even though morning has come. I reach down and check my wound again, and to my relief I find that the stitches seem to be holding. Seeing as I don't seem to have lost any more blood, I figure it's time to get out of this house. Whoever helped me with my injury, they're obviously not around, so I guess they don't want to be thanked in person.
I'll write a note, and then I'll leave and -
Suddenly I hear an almighty crashing sound over my shoulder, and I spin around just in time to see that the obstinately closed hatch has burst open of its own accord, sending splinters of broken wood scattering across the floor. And now, as I stare in shock, I see that the hatch is fully open, revealing a stash of old papers and books.
Chapter Twenty
Doctor Charles Grazier
Sunday September 30th, 1888
“It's so beautiful out here,” Catherine says, standing in the sunlight and watching the waves from the clifftop. After a moment, she turns to me and smiles. “Are you sure, Charles, that we can't move down here?”
“To Cornwall?”
Stepping over to her, I place a hand on her waist. I want to tell her that leaving London is impossible, that my work will bind me to the city, but for a few seconds I cannot help staring out at the beautiful sea and feeling a tug on my heart. This would be an idyllic place for us to live our lives.
“Never mind,” Catherine says suddenly. “I am putting too much pressure on you. Forget I said anything.”
“Perhaps we can manage it one day,” I whisper, even though I know that I am promising too much.
“Let's never grow old, Charles,” she replies.
“Now you really are asking a lot,” I point out.
“Fine,” she says, sounding a little exasperated as she places her hands on my shoulders, “but if we must grow old, then let us at least not grow bitter, or angry. Let us always remain filled with the joy of life.”
“I have no intention otherwise,” I tell her with a smile.
“You must take this seriously!”
“I am.”
“No, you're not.” She stares up into my eyes, as if she is searching for something, and I fear I can see a note of concern in her expression. “People can become old and twisted, Charles,” she continues finally. “I don't know how. Life, I suppose, batters one so very often, from all directions. I have seen it in members of my own family, I have witnessed the way they can be chipped away at until they despise the world. Let us never, ever become like that. Happy to the end?”
I open my mouth to make some humorous remark, but at the last moment I realize that this would perhaps be inappropriate. I must, instead, calm Catherine's fears.
“Happy to the end,” I reply, and I see an instant wave of relief in her features.
“I think the photographer is ready now,” she says, reaching down and taking my hand as we both turn to see the photographer waiting just a short distance away. “Now do try to smile like a normal person for once. You always look so terrified and unnatural when you're having your photograph taken.”
“I do not!” I protest, although I know deep down that she has a point. “I'm simply not used to such things,” I add, taking a moment to adjust my jacket so that I shall look more presentable. “How is one ever supposed to relax when one has one of those infernal cameras pointed in one's face.”
Behind us, waves are crashing against the base of the cliff. Catherine was right when she said this place was idyllic, but the memory serves to remind me of the path not taken. After all, as I stir from these remembrances and find myself sitting alone in one of the spare bedrooms, I know full well that we never again visited Cornwall, not after that brief trip.
I blink, and the memory is gone.
It must be almost sunrise, and I have been sitting here for so long, delaying the moment when I must go back through and attend to Catherine's body. I have allowed myself to become lost in memories that seemed so real and so immediate, it was almost as if I was back there myself. Yet now, alone in the darkened room, I feel the full weight of the moment pushing down against my shoulders.
I only sat down to make some notes. I have one of my books open on my knees, and I t
ake a moment to add some annotations concerning the most recent procedure. I have been keeping meticulous records of my work, complete with diagrams and notes concerning Catherine's recovery. I have also kept notes concerning my nocturnal activities, even going so far as to document the details of the whores I have killed. All these notes have greater value as a record of my endeavors, and I quite sure future generations will be able to look past the trivial details of the killings, and will instead focus on my achievements.
I make a few more notes, but in truth I am weary and I feel that I have explained myself enough. Setting the book aside, I take a moment to rest, before realizing that I am in danger of once more slipping into a comforting dream.
Getting to my feet, I'm about to go through to Catherine's bedroom, when I spot a familiar photograph resting on the dresser. I walk over and pick it up, and sure enough I find myself looking down at the picture that was taken during our trip to Cornwall all those years ago.
Catherine and I stare out of the photograph, looking so happy and carefree.
Where did those days go?
A moment later, I spot another photograph on the dresser, and this one sends a shudder through my chest. I was the one who suggested having our portrait re-done, around a year ago when Catherine's illness first began to show. At the time, we had not yet accepted that she was sick, but looking at the photograph now I can see the pain and fear etched into her features, and the fear in my own face. How did we go from being the happy, optimistic couple in the first photograph, to being the bitter souls in the second?
“People can become old and twisted, Charles,” I hear Catherine's voice whispering in my mind. “Life, I suppose, batters one so very often, from all directions.”
Turning, I look out through the doorway, across the landing toward the opposite bedroom. Even from here, I can see Catherine's dead body on her bed. I am sure I closed her eyes earlier before I left the room, but now her eyes are open and staring up at the ceiling.
She is the love of my life, and now I must attend to her ravaged and damaged corpse.
Chapter Twenty-One
Maddie
Today
Getting down onto my knees, with my back to the door, I reach down into the open hatch and pick up one of the many notebooks.
The cover immediately starts to come away from the spine, and I take a little more care as I set the notebook down and open it to take a look at the pages. The book is filled with what look like medical diagrams, with pencil and ink sketches of body parts. There are a load of notes, too, handwritten at the sides, but the writing is really old-fashioned and to be honest I can barely make out any of the words.
“Kidney extraction,” I whisper, trying to decipher one particular line, “along the... exterior... clavi... os...”
I'm not sure what the rest of the sentence says. It might be medical jargon, or it might just be written in too spidery a hand, but after a moment I give up and try the next page. The writing here is no easier to understand, but at least I can make out the diagrams. And as I flick through some more pages, I see more and more sketches that seem to show procedures being carried out on a human body.
Pictures of kidneys.
Of open bodies.
Of a liver – I think – being removed from someone.
I don't know much about medical history, but I've got to admit to being quite surprised that such complicated procedures were being carried out back in the nineteenth century. Some of the images have dates scribbled next to them, suggesting that these notebooks were written in the year 1888. I don't think I've ever held anything so old, and finally I close the book and set if very carefully back in the space beneath the hatch.
Looking at the hinges of the hatch, I try to find a spring or some other mechanism that might explain how the whole thing suddenly sprang open with such force. There are small splinters of wood all around, so it's clear that the hatch opened violently, but I can't find anything that might explain what happened. It's as if, after my half-hearted attempts to get the hatch open myself, it finally decided that its time had come. Then again, I know such things are impossible, so I can only assume that some hidden system was at work.
I spend a few more minutes looking at another notebook, but again the writing is way too hard to read. I do manage to make out a name, however, written on the first page.
“Doctor Charles Grazier,” I whisper.
At least, I think that's what it says.
“I don't know who you were, Charles Grazier,” I continue, “but it looks like you were very busy.”
And maybe influential, too. Glancing up at one of the framed pictures next to the jewellery, I realize that Grazier might be the man in the photos.
Suddenly I realize that these old notebooks have to be linked somehow to the other things I've experienced in this spooky old house. Reaching down, I brush my fingers against the thick loops of black wire that were used to stitch my wound, and I'm starting to think that whoever lives in this house now must be some kind of surgeon. After a moment I turn and look back toward the open doorway, but there's still no sign of anyone. Glancing around, however, I start wondering whether there might be somebody watching from somewhere, or even hidden cameras.
Sure, the idea's crazy, but so's everything else that's happened here tonight.
Quickly putting the notebooks back how I found them, I close the hatch and get to my feet. I keep telling myself that I'm probably overreacting – I hope I'm overreacting – but I start backing away as I feel a tingling sensation running over my shoulders and up to the back of my neck. Whatever's going on in this house, I really don't think I want to stick around and find out.
“So I'm gonna go now,” I say out loud, and I can hear the fear in my own voice now. “I won't tell anyone about this, okay? Thank you for helping me, but I promise I won't breathe a word to anyone. I don't know what's going on here, but I don't need to know. Deal?”
I wait, but the house remains silent.
I really think my mysterious savior is away right now, in which case it'd probably be wise to get out of here before he comes back.
Turning, I head toward the door.
Before I've managed even two steps, however, I hear a faint creaking sound over my shoulder, along with what sounds like jewellery rattling slightly. I freeze, and now the sounds have stopped, but after a moment I can't help turning back to take a look.
I closed the hatch.
I swear I closed it, but now it's open again.
And on the dresser nearby, some of the beautiful necklaces are swinging just slightly, as if they were touched a moment ago.
I wait, looking around, but there's definitely nobody else here.
I guess there must have just been a strong breeze. One that was strong enough to make the necklaces sway. And to open a heavy wooden hatch.
“Okay,” I mumble, “thanks for everything.”
With that, I turn and hurry out of the room, trying not to panic but still picking up speed as I head to the top of the stairs. To be honest, I'm pretty worried that I'll suddenly hear another noise, or that a hand will suddenly grab my shoulder from behind, and as I head down the stairs I can't help thinking that somebody must be watching me from somewhere. Even if the guy who lives here isn't around right now, he might have little cameras hidden in the cracks in the walls. I mean, maybe he's totally friendly and benign, and he only wanted to help me and I'm being a totally suspicious bitch, but right now I'm filled with an overwhelming sense that I need to get the hell out of this house. It's not my mystery to solve.
When I get back downstairs, I hurry to the front room and grab my clothes. They're still pretty wet, but this time I don't even hesitate to start putting them back on. I wince a little as I feel the cold fabric against my skin, but at the same time I keep glancing over my shoulder, just in case a figure appears in the doorway. In fact, no matter how much I tell myself to keep from panicking, I'm starting to get increasingly convinced that I'm not alone in this ho
use. I finish getting dressed, and then I grab my bag and haul it over my shoulder before hurrying back out to the hallway.
I glance up the stairs as I head to the window, but there's still no sign of anyone.
Climbing back out through the broken window, I struggle a little as I feel a few twinges of pain in my waist. Still, it's light outside now, and morning sunshine has chased away the rain. I push my bag out first, before clambering through the window and dropping down into some bushes in the garden. I land awkwardly, feeling a brief pain in my ankle, and I somehow lose my footing and slam down butt-first against the ground. Letting out a gasp of pain, I immediately start getting to my feet, but as I do so something slips out of my shirt pocket and falls down against the damp grass.
Earrings.
I freeze as I see a set of beautiful, glittering earrings.
They're clearly from inside the house, but I have no idea how they ended up in my shirt pocket. I swear I didn't take them, but they look like they match the jewellery from the room upstairs. Reaching down, I pick them up and take a closer look, and I'm no jewellery expert but these things sure look like they're worth some serious money.
I just don't understand how they ended up in my shirt pocket, when my shirt was downstairs in that empty room all night.
And now here I am, poor and penniless and homeless, on my knees with what seem to be some valuable earrings in my hands. For a few seconds, I can't help but imagine the possibilities. It's almost as if these earrings were deliberately given to me, as if fate has been leading me to this point so that I could be offered a second chance. I actually start imagining some secretive figure creeping through the house, stitching my wound and then – for some reason – slipping some jewellery into my clothes. That doesn't make much sense, but then nothing about this crazy night makes sense right now.
I turn and look back up at the broken window, and then I look down at the earrings again.
