15
DANNI’S TEARS WERE SPENT.
After the fight she knew she had to get away from Jon before things escalated any further. She had stormed off and, though she didn’t know why, headed to her father's old room. She slammed the door behind her, sat on the bed, and wept.
She allowed herself a few minutes to cry; purging her body of the built-up tension, anger, and regret, then forced herself to stop. Danni knew she couldn’t just hide up here all night. It would just prove Jon right, that she was running away from adversity again, and she did not want to give him that satisfaction.
The fight downstairs had shocked her. He had never been like that with her before.
Ever.
The thread he was pulling at, and the apparent glee with which he pulled, wasn’t like him. Jon knew it was a deeply troubling subject for her, yet he went in on her with both barrels.
She had been no better. When she had him on the ropes, unleashing her own set of truths, she could see her words cutting him deeply.
And in amongst the anger, that felt good.
What had brought them to this point?
The stress of the weekend was a possibility. However, she’d never envisioned that of all the difficulties they would face during their stay, this would be one of them. She’d just assumed that Jon’s unwavering strength and support would have been guaranteed.
And that proved not to be the case.
It wasn’t like him.
It was like he was different here.
One thing Danni did know, however, was that they couldn’t just leave things like this. They needed to talk more and make sure it didn’t veer off into another argument. And, while she was owed a hell of a fucking apology for how he had talked to her, she needed to put things right. She wasn’t the only one suffering this weekend, and it was doing the children no good seeing them set at each other like this.
She looked around the room to see it basically as she remembered. Sparse, dusty, and devoid of any warmth. A nightstand was next to the bed, and on it sat an old lamp and several large bottles of golden liquid. She unscrewed the top of one of them and took a sniff of the pungent alcohol inside.
Scotch.
It was her father’s favourite drink, and drinking always made him worse, made him angrier. There was a small metal bin close to the bed that was full of empty bottles. Danni realised his drinking must have actually gotten worse after she’d fled.
A large wardrobe dominated the wall opposite the old four-poster bed, and a matching dresser hugged the adjacent wall that separated the room from the hallway outside. Opposite that, a double-length window overlooked the front of the property. From here, she could see the road outside and the stretch of fields beyond that. Fields that were, at first, faded and yellowed, and progressed to sharper greens the farther out they got.
The rest of the room was littered with clothing piled on the floor in no kind of order, and Danni had no idea if they were clean or not. She knew that many years ago, when she was very, very young, this room had been different. Another hand had arranged and decorated it, and it had been a happier place.
For a time.
Until her mother took her own life.
Then the darkness came.
The cold.
She stood and walked carefully around the room, looking at the nightstand and the top of the dresser. There were no pictures anywhere. Not of her, or her mother. Old Arthur obviously had no desire to remember either of them.
She pulled open the top dresser drawer, curious to discover if this really was the case, or if, as she hoped, he had memories of them hidden somewhere.
Anything to prove that her father, her own flesh and blood, maybe wasn’t the absolute monster she remembered.
Surely there was some good in those old bones before he died?
The first drawer revealed only clothes. Not folded, simply shoved in. The second showed the same, and the third was empty.
That left only the bottom drawer.
She expected it to be empty, too, just like the last, but as she opened it a single object slid into view. It was a worn-looking notebook with a ring binder to one side. The light-brown, leather cover was creased. She picked it up and opened it to the first page to see that it was filled with well-written handwriting.
And a date at the top.
3rd February, 1984
Today was a good day. So good, in fact, that it pushed me to start something I’ve always wanted to. A diary. Alice gave me the news today. She is pregnant. We are going to have a baby. It’s hard to put into words just how happy this makes me. Those that have children will know the feeling all too well. It is happiness like I have never known before. Marrying Alice was the best day of my life, but I know now that soon that day will have stiff competition. I plan to keep this diary going, and to write in it constantly, both as a way to chronicle my journey towards, and through, fatherhood, but also as something to leave to my soon-to-be child. It may not be much, and I hereby strive to provide everything the child will need in life, but perhaps this journal will mean more than other material possessions.
I don’t know, maybe these are just the ramblings of a soppy, love-struck old fool. But I don’t believe they are. I want this to be a special document.
My child, I hope that if one day you ever read this, it brings you even a small amount of the happiness that I know you will bring me.
Danni realised she was crying again.
This was her father’s diary, but the words, and the feeling with which they were written, seemed alien to her. It was not the same man she knew.
She read on, learning about her parents’ excitement at her upcoming arrival. She even learned they had a scare, a bleed, and saw the anguish and worry her father went through.
It cannot be fair to give someone this kind of hope, only to snatch it away. I spoke with Peter Atkins about this, and he simply said it is out of our hands and God will look after us. What kind of God would enjoy this sort of cruel abuse? I want to help my wife, to comfort her, but I don’t know how to do that.
It’s the waiting.
No quick answers, no explanations, just the knowledge that everything might be fine… or it might not. But we have to wait to find out.
And there is nothing to do while you wait, either. Just worry. You can try to busy your mind, but the fear is always there. Buried in my gut.
The knowledge that this poor, unborn child may never get a chance at life is more than I can bear.
Danni learned that the bleeding subsided, and they saw out the rest of the pregnancy with no further concerns. But she’d had no idea that it had ever happened. Then, flicking ahead, she read the entry about her birth, written a few days after she had come into this world.
I don’t really know how to put this into words.
My daughter, Danielle Watson, arrived only two days ago. She is all I can think about.
There are moments in life you know will be special. But knowing this and experiencing it are two vastly different things.
I smile as I write this, but in many respects she was an ugly little thing: a wrinkly, grey, pudgy baby. The way all babies are. But, she was also the most beautiful thing in the world.
And holding her in my arms for the very first time…
I could never do that experience justice with the written word. So, I won’t begin to try.
Just know, Danielle, if you ever read this, you made me happier than I thought possible.
Danni was reeling.
Reading these words, feeling her father’s emotion and the love he had for her made her wonder what had happened to turn him into the monster he had become. She almost wanted to stop, just leave it there and take comfort in the knowledge that, at one time, he was a seemingly kind, loving man.
But she turned the page and read on, skimming until she read of their move to a larger house.
The mid-terraced property they were in was just too small for them, and apparently her father had ea
rned himself a good promotion.
It would have been a stretch, financially, to afford this place. Thankfully, it comes with a past; one that has harmed its selling value. Other people’s superstition has become my good fortune. It is perfect for our needs: big enough so that we can add to the family one day, and it gives us a good deal of privacy. It even has an old mill on the edge of the property, one that I fancy we could fix up and convert into a nice living space for us.
This place could be perfect. Sometimes, I cannot believe my luck in life.
Danni learned that they moved in, and that the first few months were happy.
But then, things began to change.
I know how this will sound, but I fear something is wrong with Alice. She is becoming sharp with me. And with Danielle, too. It worries me. I know she is not sleeping. Last night I awoke and found her sitting up in bed, watching me. I wish I could say she was smiling, just happily gazing at me as I slept, but the look on her face was not one of love, nor of kindness.
The diary went on, growing progressively worse.
Alice often goes out to the mill alone. Says she likes the privacy and peace out there. Danielle is far from a needy child, and I try to give my wife space when she feels like this, so why does she need to go there for some kind of peace? On top of that, there is nothing in that mill; it’s empty, dark and dirty.
And yet she still prefers to go out there, alone, rather than spend much time with us. I try, but still she pulls away from me.
With her acting like this, the house, our home, has a darker, colder feel to it. We are not the family I wanted us to be.
I just want to know what I need to do, so that I can fix this for her.
Worse, and I know how this sounds, I always feel like I’m being watched in this damn house. It seems unsafe, somehow, and I worry for my child.
I fear I am struggling to cope.
Then, another entry:
Alice was in tears tonight. She said there is something here, something that talks to her and eats away at her mind. She wasn’t making much sense, but her words scared me. She told me how this thing wanted to control her, and to have her act out its will. To cause pain. To offer her soul to it.
I asked her what she meant, and who was she supposed to cause pain to.
Her answer?
You.
And Danielle.
I exploded in anger, I’m ashamed to say. I yelled and screamed, telling her I didn’t know what was wrong, but she couldn’t say things like that about our daughter. I think I even threatened to have her committed. It wasn’t the help a troubled mind needed, but I couldn’t control myself.
As Danni read on, she followed the deterioration of her mother’s mental state until finally it all came to a head.
It has been over a week since it happened.
I have long since given up hope of this diary being a gift to my daughter. I now cling to it as a place to unburden myself, to help keep my sanity. Something I will need over the coming months, I fear.
Alice is dead.
Last Monday, she was not next to me in bed when I awoke. This wasn’t strange in and of itself, but she was not in the house either. I figured she’d be out in that damn mill again.
Turns out I was right.
I opened the door and stepped inside. The morning light gave some illumination to the almost unnatural dark of the place. Alice was hanging before me.
A thin rope tied to a timber strut above cut into her neck as she swayed gently from side to side. I remember her glassy eyes, how they almost popped from her bloated face.
There was a note on the floor, messily written. I transcribe it here, so that I never forget:
I’m sorry, Arthur. This is what I have to do to protect you and my daughter. Doing so has taken the last of my strength, but I won’t let it take me. You and Danielle must leave this place. Know that I love you, and that what I became in the end was not really me.
Alice.
And that was the note, in full.
Danielle was devastated by her mother’s death, as any young girl would be. I, too, am crushed. My heart is ripped out, and it feels like I have been physically punched and I cannot get my breath.
The funeral was horrendous.
The weather was pleasant, and there was a most generous turnout, but it was the single most difficult day of my life. Being there for poor Danielle is so hard when I’m crumbling inside myself.
What will we do now?
Danni set the book down.
She had no idea.
Danni had always thought, assumed, that her mother had taken her own life due to being unhappy, given what kind of man Arthur was.
But the story about her mother, what she went through, what she thought she was fighting in the house, scared Danni. Too many strange happenings were linked to this place for it to be some kind of coincidence. She remembered her father’s words in the diary, saying that it had come with some kind of a past. She also recalled when her friends from school playfully teased her for living in a spook house. Danni knew bad things had happened on the land—she’d always known that, it was normal for her. But other than what had happened in the past, she assumed everything else was just legend and scary stories.
No different than every other small town in England.
Growing up, she had paid it no real mind.
So, could there actually be more to it?
Again, Danni began to read, hopeful to get some insight into her father’s state of mind. To find out how he went from a seemingly loving man to what he eventually became.
She was not disappointed.
Certain snippets began to worm their way into his writing like an infestation.
It’s so hard.
Alice has taken the easy way out and left the burden to me. Sometimes I have thoughts that shame me, but they persist.
In another passage:
That damn child is pushing me past my breaking point. Why can’t she just do as she’s told?
And more:
She’s like her mother. Same cowardly type of woman. I would not be surprised to find that her mother’s spirit has somehow taken hold in the girl, in an effort to torment me and make me suffer.
They are all the same.
Snakes with breasts.
Nothing more.
Danni was horrified. But the writing became ever more hateful.
Yelling at the girl gets a good enough response. I push it as far as I can, just to see the fear in her. It’s enjoyable.
Just as that thing said it would be.
A horrible, inhuman, terrifying thing it may be, but it seems to speak the truth. Perhaps I should listen to it more.
Danni’s stomach tightened.
Such a release. My father always drilled into me that striking a girl was as cowardly and despicable an act as could be conceived. I laugh when I think how he would have reacted seeing me strike a young girl.
More and more she read, and the writing veered into violent scribbles, becoming messier and harder to decipher.
It seems that striking the bitch is not enough. I know she is scared, but her fear hasn’t yet reached its peak. The thing in the mill wants more, and I need to provide it. I know what I must do. If others ever find out, I will be shunned, hated, and arrested. So be it. My soul is claimed, so there is nothing that can be done to me that I cannot bear. She is of age now, anyway. I’ll do it tonight.
Danni flipped through even further.
It is done. The thing is pleased. I don’t know how I feel, but I know I must keep going. Only one thing left now. I need to take my daughter’s life.
Danni realised, in horror, just how much of a lucky escape she’d had when she had run away all those years ago. She had no idea what he’d really been planning.
That fucking bitch has escaped! Ran off and left me. No matter where I look or who I call, I can’t find her!
The fucking cunt.
She has ruined my plans. Selfish, loathsome bitch
! If I ever see her again, I’ll wrap my hands around her little throat and not stop squeezing until the life drains from her eyes.
The rest of the journal was filled with more hateful bile. It stopped being a diary and instead turned into random thoughts of cruelty and hate. Most of it directed at Danni. She saw a section focusing on Annie—the girl from the funeral—and how her father was furious at her for escaping as well.
Just how close had he come to killing someone?
Thankfully, the pages ran dry. The rest of the book was empty.
All except the last page.
I cannot fight this.
I’m sorry.
Please forgive me.
Danni let the book fall to the floor and swayed on her feet, unable to process what she had just read.
It was all too much. Seeing once-loving parents turned into such monsters.
And by what?
Something that didn’t seem possible. Her head continued to swim, and the room began to blur.
She was only faintly aware she was passing out.
As she fell, and darkness claimed her, she swore she could see a figure watching her from the corner of the room.
Dad?
16
JON FOUND Danni in her father’s old bedroom.
She had been upstairs too long, so, growing impatient, he had gone up to look for her and found her sprawled out on the floor. The shock of seeing her this way caused a surge of panic in him, and his heart raced. He instinctively ran to her and gently shook her, bringing her back to consciousness.
‘Danni,’ he said, shaking her again as her eyes begin to focus. ‘Are you okay?’
He helped her to a sitting position and saw that she had dark circles under her eyes and looked tired.
‘What the hell happened?’ he asked, noticing the small notebook on the floor next to her.
‘I don’t know,’ Danni said, rubbing her forehead. ‘I must have passed out.’ She then looked around, and her eyes widened. ‘It’s getting dark, how long have I been up here?’
‘Hours,’ Jon said, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘I wanted to give you space, but started to get worried. Then I found you like this…’
‘I’m okay,’ she said, still looking a little dazed.
The Demonic: A Supernatural Horror Novel Page 10
