The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  He pulls back, clasps her hands, the idea gripping him. ‘I can set this right.’

  She does not respond.

  ‘Don’t you see? There’s nothing to stop us now.’

  She snatches her hands away.

  ‘I’ll make no claim to Scarcross Hall,’ he says. ‘We’ll go on as we planned. No one need ever know the truth.’

  She is incredulous. ‘You must leave at once.’

  He must make her understand. ‘Don’t you see? There’s no one left to hinder us.’ Again he snatches up her hands, brings them to his lips and kisses them fervently. ‘We can live as man and wife. That’s what we shall be to the world. No one need ever know the truth.’

  Her fingers begin to tremble in his. ‘You are mad . . .’ she whispers. ‘Do you not see what we’ve done? God is punishing us.’

  ‘No. God has brought us together. He’s cleared the way for us.’ Again she pulls her fingers from his, throwing him a look of disgust, turning her back. He’s losing her. ‘I know you feel as I do. You cannot deny it.’

  ‘You’re a liar. No – worse than that. I knew it from the start. I was a fool to trust you.’

  ‘Mercy, please . . .’ He spreads his arms in supplication. ‘Please, listen to me . . .’

  She turns back and he sees a tiny sliver of feeling. ‘Why?’ she says. ‘Just tell me why you came here. Did you mean to ruin us? To destroy us?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Never.’

  ‘Then why?’

  He can hardly remember now what his intention had been. How can he explain it – the years of grief, guilt and torment, dogged by the question that gnawed at his soul, extinguishing the goodness that Betsy had tried so hard to teach him? The slow, painful death of hope. Then, a chance encounter, the tale, told over a pint pot, of a man named Bartram Booth who had lost a wife and son at Bolton and taken his daughter to live like a wild creature on the moors. The wife was dead, but the boy? No one knew what had happened to the boy. What was the boy’s name? he had asked, but no one could remember.

  Bartram Booth. Boy Briggs.

  You are nobody’s son. You are nothing.

  Briggs’s words, branded into him like a tar mark: not true. And he would prove it. He would find this man and the daughter who had taken the place that should have been his. He would have his revenge upon them for abandoning him to a life of poverty and violence. He would claim his birthright and with it redemption, for Briggs, for Gretchen, for Betsy.

  But that was before he met her, before she cast her heathen spell upon him, before the Devil cursed his body and mind with temptation and sin, and by the time he was sure he had found them, it was too late: his desire, his love, had grown stronger than his hate.

  ‘I came to find you,’ he says simply. ‘God sent me here, to my rightful place.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ she says. ‘When God has abandoned us?’

  ‘If that’s so, then what does any of it matter?’

  He sees the moment she begins to doubt herself, when her eyes spring tears and she no longer has the strength to fight. He seizes that chance, slips a hand to her face, cradles her jaw and lowers his mouth to hers. He feels the hard crags of her heart open to him and thinks: She will understand, as I have come to, that this is the only way now. He fought it for so long but now he sees it differently. When they lay together he felt no guilt or misgiving, just something strange and wonderful. There can be no wickedness or shame in something so sacred. She will come to see that in time.

  But then she pushes him away. ‘No . . . I cannot.’

  His own words echoed back to him – how they wound him now.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ he appeals to her, losing patience. ‘You can be free, just like you wanted.’

  ‘Where’s the freedom in living a lie? Where’s the freedom when death will bring certain damnation? No. No, you must leave.’ Her face is flushed. He sees her struggle, knows she is fighting the same battle he has already lost.

  ‘I won’t go.’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘Think, Mercy. You can have everything you want in this life.’

  ‘But what of the next?’ She puts her hands to her face, mouth yawning in an anguished, silent cry.

  He recognises the conflict in her: the fear of Hell’s flames, of eternal suffering, competing with the human need, the desperate yearning and the wilful spirit in her that will forsake all consequences, if only she will let it win.

  ‘No!’ she cries out. ‘No – you must go!’

  Why can she not see how simple it is? He feels the dark twist of anger in his belly, the blackness pressing in on him. He will not give up now, not when he has come so far, not when he is so close.

  ‘You must trust me,’ he says, struggling to keep the frustration from his voice.

  ‘Trust you?’ she exclaims. ‘How could I ever trust you again?’

  ‘You will come to. You’ll see – we are the same, you and I.’

  ‘I’m nothing like you.’

  The anger burns in him now, raw, dark and untamed. ‘You are mine,’ he says, determined. ‘And I will have what’s mine.’

  As she searches his face, her expression alters. ‘What has happened to you?’

  ‘You will do as I say.’

  She understands him then, understands that if he is forced to, he will leave her no choice. He sees fear flash behind her eyes.

  ‘My God . . . you are the Devil himself,’ she breathes.

  ‘No, only the devil in you.’

  He pushes her up against the wall next to the hearth and presses his mouth to hers. She struggles, bites and kicks, but he’s stronger than her, and the rage makes him more so. It burns within, all-consuming, black fire scorching any other thought to ashes.

  His hands go up to her neck. She tries to push him away, gasping, trying to call out, so he squeezes to quiet her. He forces his mouth to hers, presses harder so her tongue begins to bulge forward. He takes it into his mouth and she is kissing him back, her arms around him, pulling him closer. Her heartbeat becomes his. Her breath is his breath. This is what he wants, he thinks, sinking into darkness, and he will take it.

  The sound is what pulls him back: a shot, ringing so loud that he feels the shock of it all through his body. He releases her, spins round.

  Sam stands by the table, holding the pistol out before him, half hidden in a plume of gun smoke. He had forgotten about the boy.

  He looks back at Mercy, sees the red weals on her throat. My God, did he do that to her? She’s staring at him, eyes bright with horror and shock.

  There is no pain at first, just a seeping wetness beneath his waistcoat and a creeping awareness that something is wrong. He puts a palm to his right side, just beneath his ribs.

  It comes back bloody.

  Chapter 46

  I watch the knowledge register on Ellis’s face as he stares at the blood on his fingers. He holds his hand out towards me like a question: What is this? What does it mean?

  There is a clatter as Sam drops the pistol, face stark white, a smudge of gunpowder grey across one cheek.

  I stumble away from Ellis, gasping for the air that he forced out of me, bright points of light glittering before me like snowflakes. I grab a knife from the sideboard.

  ‘Keep back.’ My voice is choked, tongue dry and heavy. I expect Ellis to fall but he just stands there, reaching out his gore-smeared hand.

  The wind rises, whistling down chimneys and howling through broken panes in the hall. One of the boards that we nailed to cover the gaps comes clattering down, echoing like a second gunshot.

  ‘Mercy . . .’ Ellis takes a few steps, winces and doubles over, clutching his side. Blood begins to drip onto the flags.

  I brandish the knife. ‘Stay back.’

  But the fire has gone from his eyes. Again, I’m rem
inded of Father – the impassioned, violent rages, followed by confusion and dismay, then desperate contrition. The kinship is clear now Ellis has shown his true colours: hellfire-red and brimstone-black.

  I skirt the edge of the room, making for the door into the hall, and pull Sam into the passageway with me. His eyes are wild with fright, his whole body quaking. I must get him away from here. He stares across the hall to Agnes’s body. Even in darkness, she seems to stare back.

  ‘Look at me,’ I tell him, turning away. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  I know the words are absurd, worthless, but I don’t know what else to say. I grab a pair of my old boots, cast aside by the door.

  ‘Put these on.’

  He looks at me as if I’m mad.

  ‘Please, Sam. Hurry.’

  ‘Don’t make me go out there,’ he says, teeth chattering.

  ‘You must. Put them on, quickly.’ Over his shoulder I glance at the door to the kitchen, but there’s no sign of Ellis.

  Sam steps into the boots, eyes welling. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him, only to stop him hurting you.’

  I crouch so we are face to face. ‘Listen to me. You must fetch help. You must run to your pa. Do you understand? Fetch your father. Tell him to come at once.’

  ‘But the snow’s too deep.’

  ‘You can do it, Sam. I know you can.’

  He looks at me with such sorrow it takes my breath. ‘I won’t leave you here. Come with me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  How can I explain? I know if I leave now I’ll never return. I’ve no idea what Ellis might do, what might be in his power. To leave would be to forsake Scarcross Hall for ever, to abandon Father and Agnes to an unholy fate, to give up the one thing I have fought for my whole life. I cannot do that. ‘You must do this for me, Sam. Please.’

  I fetch down a coat, far too big for him but there’s no time to find better, and bind one of Agnes’s old shawls around his shoulders. Then we go to the door and I slide back the bolt.

  Outside, the snow has stopped, but the wind sends drifts spiralling and shifting in the moonlight.

  Sam looks up at me with those sad eyes – eyes that have seen far more horror than a boy of his years ought – and a wave of guilt sweeps over me. I wrap him in my arms, hold him close for a few seconds, feeling his sickroom breath on my cheek.

  ‘You must hurry. Keep running – whatever you do, don’t stop. Do you understand?’

  His face takes on a determined cast. I see all the grit of his father in him. Then he steps out into the snow. I watch as he struggles through the drifts to the gate, towards the coffin path. He could make the journey blindfold – the moor is in his blood, as it is in mine – but as he disappears into the night, I remember the coin found beneath his pillow, and what it foretells.

  I shut the door and reach for the small leather pouch at my belt, feel the cold metal discs inside, fetched from beneath my mattress. While I have the coins close, I reason, surely Sam will be safe.

  I pick up the knife, stand and listen. The house creaks and groans, wind moaning in the rafters. I go back to the kitchen, expecting to find Ellis lying, bleeding, before the hearth, but the room is empty.

  I check the kitchen door and find it bolted. He must still be in the house. Besides, I know it. I know he’s waiting for me.

  I take a single candle from the mantel and, knife gripped tight, creep out into the hall. Everything is darkness and moon shadow, the golden glow of the candle stuttering as my hand shakes. My heart pounds so loud I feel sure he’ll hear it.

  I cross the flags towards Agnes. Snow is gusting in through the broken pane from the tree outside the window, dusting her body. There’s still warmth in her, the flakes melting on her arms. The grief that racks me when I look upon her is stifled only by fear. I think of Ellis, his hands about my neck, that dreadful look in his eye. It has taken hold of him – this thing, this evil – as it has possessed and poisoned all of us.

  If it has the power to make him a killer, what else might it have done? All this time I’ve sought answers for the terrible events of these past months in the commonplace. But it seems clear now that such malevolence, such corruption, is the work of something unholy. And it is not done with me yet.

  A vision rises in my mind’s eye like a deep-buried memory, an echo of the past – a pale figure at the Slaying Stone, a pact with the dead, as bodies burn and curses are sworn. Searing flames. Roasting flesh. The screams of those slaughtered in the name of old forgotten gods. My blood runs chill. I hold up the candle, casting light into shadowed corners, but find nothing. For a moment I think I see a face at the window but it’s only my own reflection, distorted in the leads. Still, I know it’s here. I know it’s close.

  A noise makes me start: a low thunk, something heavy, hitting the floor in an upstairs chamber. I wait, barely breathing. I know what comes next. Long seconds run by. And it comes – the sound that has taunted me all these months – the slow scrape of something dragged across the boards.

  I make my way up the staircase, my whole body thrumming.

  Thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .

  I feel insubstantial, apart, as if I’m watching myself from afar.

  Thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .

  I reach the threshold of the old bedchamber. The noise stops.

  I step inside.

  Silence.

  The air is strangely still and midwinter-cold, despite the embers of Sam’s fire glowing in the hearth. There’s a strong smell of burning, tinged with the sickly scent of animal flesh. I cross the room to the casement, place the candle on the sill, press my forehead against the panes and peer out – nothing but the snow and wind against the glass.

  I know when he finds me. It’s not the sound of his laboured breath, or the unsteady step along the gallery, but the familiar sensation – the shiver down my spine, the watchful eye upon me.

  He stops by the door. He has no weapon that I can see, just the small golden key from the ebony box, clutched in one hand.

  I hold out the knife. ‘Come no closer.’

  But he does, one step and another.

  The candlelight throws shadows across his face. He is pale, deathly. He has removed his waistcoat and I see now the large red stain flowering his shirt, the slick of it down one leg. He falters, bending, hands on knees, taking deep, ragged breaths. ‘Where is the boy?’

  ‘Somewhere you cannot hurt him.’

  ‘I won’t hurt him. I promise.’

  ‘Your promises mean nothing.’

  ‘If you sent him out there, you must go after him. Bring him back.’

  ‘So you can take your revenge?’

  ‘He’ll never survive.’

  ‘Yes, he will. And he’ll fetch help. People will come.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’ve sent him to his end.’

  ‘How dare you lay blame on me? I’m the only one who has not lied.’

  He gives a grunting, humourless laugh. ‘There are different kinds of lie, Mercy. Those meant to deceive, those made out of good intentions and those we tell ourselves. Before you condemn me, ask yourself, which have you told? Which are you telling now?’

  ‘How can you speak to me of truth?’

  ‘We’ve all been lying,’ he says. ‘We’re all damned by our secrets. But I’m done with it now.’ He grimaces and sucks in a breath. ‘Put the knife down. I won’t hurt you. I never meant to hurt you. Besides, I’ve not the strength.’

  I can see he’s truthful about that at least. The violence in his eyes is gone, faded, along with his anger. He seems a different man from the monster with his hands about my throat. The man who took me to his bed, who held me and comforted me, in whom I placed all my hopes, is returned. How can one body contain both?

  Slowly, I place the blade on the sill next to t
he candle. Despite my caution, part of me aches to see the life leaking from him – the part that desperately wants him. My heart, which I thought dead as a winter tree, finds feeling in its depths. Is he right? Have I been lying? Was I already damned by my secrets, my past sins, before our sin secured it?

  Despite everything, the devastation and betrayal, I cannot deny that I have loved him. I felt a bond between us from the very first, but have been too afraid to own it. Instead, I buried it deep, where it took root and grew, until it became this terrible, beautiful, poisonous thing – a winter hellebore blooming in the snow.

  He reaches a hand towards me. ‘Come . . . please . . .’

  I’m spent, nothing left to give.

  ‘Please, Mercy . . . We are blood.’

  He keels and collapses, legs giving out, head hitting the floor with a hard thunk. The key tumbles from his palm.

  And all my anger, all my bitterness, leaves me in the face of one simple truth: he is my brother, my love, and I am losing him.

  I drag him to the bed, his boots making a long, low scrape across the boards.

  He comes round as I struggle to heft him onto the mattress, leaving a fresh streak of scarlet on the coverlet.

  His breath is shallow, all colour drained, cheek sticky from the wound on his skull – the wound I made – a deep red gash, a slice of bone. I prop him gently against the bolster and sit beside him. He reaches for my hand. His fingers are slick with blood but he brings mine to his lips.

  ‘Be kind to the boy, if you see him again,’ he whispers.

  I hush him. For a few moments, he lies there, thin breath wheezing, lost to all sense. If God were kind He would let him go now, I think. But God does not hold sway here.

  He stirs again, looks at me, and there’s no temper in his eyes, no blame or fear.

  ‘Mercy, what is my name?’ he asks softly.

  ‘Ellis. Ellis Ferreby.’

  ‘No, my birth name . . .’

  ‘What does it matter now?’

  ‘I am nobody’s son. I am nothing . . .’