by Amy Cross
“I saw a ghost last night,” I reply, turning to him suddenly. “Out by the hanging tree.”
“Elizabeth -”
“I did!” I continue. “Oh, I knew you'd laugh, but I'm absolutely certain. I heard voices, and I think I witnessed a hanging that took place long ago. I heard someone weeping, too, and then...”
I pause, seeing the disbelief in his eyes.
“Are there ghosts at Blackwych Grange?” Matthew asks.
I turn to him again.
“I don't like this talk of ghosts,” he continues. “They scare me.”
“There are worse things,” I tell him. “Things that abide in the house. Tell me, after you're sent to bed at night, do you sleep without rising until morning?”
He nods. “Of course.”
“And do you dream?”
“Yes, but -”
“Of what?”
He shrugs. “I don't know. Going on adventures.”
“And nothing worse? Nothing darker? Nothing that frightens you?”
“Like what?”
I could tell him, but I worry that I might put ideas into his head.
“You're lucky,” I continue. “Some of us are awfully plagued by nightmares, by visions and sounds that creep into our minds at night. There is something about Blackwych Grange, something that infests every room. Sometimes I wonder if the house is built upon cursed ground. It is quite clear that something has disturbed the place and allowed spirits to be called forth.”
“I've heard you crying out,” he replies.
“I'm sorry if you were scared.”
“It's okay, I knew it was you.”
I glance at Daniel and see that he seems both amused and frustrated by the conversation. He never likes it when I talk about such things, but I needed to distract Matthew from thoughts of my departure.
“Father says only heretics believe in ghosts,” the boy continues. “He's quite adamant, he says it's a sin to even talk of such things.”
“He would,” Daniel mutters, taking another sip of beer. “Sorry, Matthew, but your father is not the most popular man around these parts.”
“He's rich!” Matthew points out.
“So? Money can't buy you respect.”
“Perhaps we shouldn't discuss this right now,” I tell them, hoping to change the subject yet again. “Matthew is still a child, remember?” I continue, turning to Daniel. “He's very young and -”
“I'm not!” Matthew protests. “I'm old enough to know things!”
“And young enough to not understand them properly,” I add, forcing a smile. “If you don't see ghosts, Matthew, then I am very glad. I pray that you never see or hear anything untoward, either at Blackwych Grange or further afield. For myself, I am quite sure that this whole area is haunted by the spirits of those who have died in unfair circumstances. I can only pray that we are all spared such a fate.”
“You cry out at night sometimes,” he replies.
I hesitate for a moment, before looking over at Daniel and seeing the concern in his eyes.
“It's nothing,” I tell him, forcing a smile.
“Sometimes I come to your door,” Matthew continues, “and I listen. I never come into your room, I think that would be wrong, but I listen. It sounds as if you're having the most awful nightmares. What are they about?”
“I never remember,” I stammer, keen to change the subject. “I'm sure it's not important.”
But now that the boy has mentioned my troubled nights, it is difficult for me to think of anything else. Even as Daniel and his friend Joe continue to talk, I struggle to listen. Instead, I find myself thinking back to the awful visions that plague my sleep every night, and I cannot shake the feeling that tonight they shall come to me again. One can only avoid sleep for so long, before one must succumb for at least a few hours.
And later that afternoon, Daniel tells me that he is leaving the next day. He makes his usual promises, but they sound so hollow. I am quite sure that once he is gone, I shall never see him again. I shall simply stay at Blackwych Grange and try to save my poor dear cousin from his father's influence.
Chapter Sixteen
I hear them before I see them. I hear them during dinner. That's much earlier than usual. The sun has barely even set, so I imagine they're particularly keen tonight.
As usual, Uncle John insists that Matthew and I join him at six o'clock. Lionel brings our meals, and my uncle makes the usual small-talk that seems to keep him amused. I smile, as I am supposed to do, and I make the occasional comment, although for the most part I am focused on the meal that I must eat. I feel sick to my stomach, and I am even starting to sweat a little as I feel the hands of night preparing to grip my arms.
And in the distance, a very faint scratching sound hints at their arrival. A sound that only I can hear, getting louder and louder, filling the house until -
“Elizabeth?”
Uncle John's voice cuts through me. Shocked, I drop my knife, and it makes the most awful clattering din as it hits the plate.
“Elizabeth, are you alright?”
Forcing myself to look up, I see my uncle at the other end of the table. He's watching me with a concerned expression, as if he genuinely worries that something might be wrong.
“I am fine,” I stammer, even as I feel a bead of sweat dribble down my forehead. “I merely -”
I gasp suddenly, as I hear a whispered voice behind me. Turning, I see no-one at all, and I quickly realize that I have been fooled again. By the time I turn back to look at my uncle, however, it is evident that I cannot hide my discomfort. He is a cruel man, but not a fool.
“Somebody is coming to see you tomorrow,” he says after a moment.
I flinch.
“A woman,” he continues. “On the recommendation of Father Carlisle, the local priest. He thinks that certain...”
His voice trails off for a moment. He glances nervously at Matthew, who is obediently eating his dinner and pretending not to listen.
“Leave us for a moment, boy.”
Matthew pauses, with a forkful of food halfway in his mouth. After a moment, however, he lowers the fork and sets it on his plate; then he gets to his feet and shuffles out of the room, leaving me alone with my uncle. Obedient, as always.
“I see that you are troubled,” Uncle John continues, “and I have exhausted all other options. The priest believes that this woman might be able to help you. I am skeptical, but... I cannot have you perpetually in this state. There will soon be talk in the village if you are seen with such wild, staring eyes and -”
“You think I'm mad?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Because I see ghosts?”
“Because you allow foolish notions to fill your mind.”
“So this woman...” I pause for a moment. “What is she going to do to me, exactly?”
“She has ways to help you, or at least that is what I am told. I do not know her methods, and I do not need to know them. I just need to see the result, which will be you much restored to your old self.” He watches me for a few seconds, and his disdain is evident. “The priest says the woman will cure you. I am inclined to doubt this, but I must at least accept his help, must I not? After all, he is a man of God. Perhaps he can actually be of some use for once.”
Even as I force a smile, I can hear a faint bumping sound over my shoulder. They are gathering as darkness falls, and they shall surely visit me tonight. Any madness here belongs to the world, not to me.
***
I wait in complete silence, flat on my back in bed. The room is dark and the house is quiet, and I can hear my own breath. Staring up at the ceiling, I see only the faintest shades of gray. I do not dare move, I do not dare speak, I barely even dare think.
They are in the room now.
They are all around me, watching from every corner.
I feel them coming closer.
My heart is pounding. This happens most nights, of course, at least when I dare to stay in m
y room. This time, however, their presence feels keener and more direct, as if they are becoming braver. I have often wondered what they want, and I have felt that they are building up to some grand scheme. Checking me. Prodding me. Probing. Gathering information. Now, alone and silent, I fear that tonight they shall perhaps seek to advance their cause.
So I wait.
Still.
Quiet.
Trying to calm my pounding heart.
Suddenly a hand reaches around from beneath the bed and presses against my mouth, as if to silence me. I flinch as I feel the cold, clammy fingers pushing down upon my lips and nose, but I do not fight back. I know better than to anger them. Instead I wait, with tears in my eyes, trying desperately to keep from trembling. For several minutes, the hand merely rests on my face, not moving at all. And then, very slowly, the fingers creep up across my cheek until they reach my eyes, at which point they fumble at the lids. I know what I am supposed to do, so I close my eyes, but this only makes my heart beat faster.
And now I must wait again.
Somehow their presence feels stronger tonight, as if they have broken through more fully. I can feel their gaze, I can sense their eyes staring at me, and I know it's only a matter of time before -
A click fills my ear.
I shudder, but I don't dare open my eyes.
Another click.
Then another.
Several now, all around me.
Bare bones, dry and exposed, are creaking in the darkness.
I know I shall see them if I dare open my eyes, but I am not that brave. Not now. I dared once, long ago when they first came to me. I briefly saw their faces in the darkness, but I shall never dare look again.
And now there are voices.
Hushed voices. I sometimes wonder whether anyone else hears them. Do my uncle or my cousin never pass the door to my room at night, and perhaps hear these whispered creatures? Perhaps they do, but they simply keep walking and never think to see if I am safe. Or perhaps they know what is happening, and they do not want to interfere. Or perhaps -
Suddenly I feel the touch of cold bone against my cheek.
A moment later, the bed-sheets are pulled away, leaving me in just my night-dress. I am shivering, I cannot help that, but at least I do not cry out.
One by one, more sharp bones brush against my body, and the whispering continues. They seem to be locked in discussion, and some of them even sound a little agitated. I hear the sound of them moving around me, as if they seek to get a better look from some other angle. I know full well what they want to do, what they will do, but I suppose that first they want to pick their spot. I have determined over the past few months that these creatures only ever create one incision during each visit. Why this might be, I cannot begin to imagine, but they seem held back by either natural trepidation or maybe by some kind of limit that holds them in check.
And now their discussion sounds more like an argument. Two voices in particular seem particularly clear, while the others defer.
Finally, after several minutes, the argument seems to end. All the voices are quiet now, and the only sound comes from occasional creaks as one of them moves around my bed.
My eyelids flicker. I want to look, but I cannot. If I see their faces again, I shall surely lose what little sanity I still possess.
And then silence.
Absolute, impenetrable silence. Even the dead are holding their breath.
My throat is dry.
Suddenly I feel an incision. A sharp, jagged edge of bone digs into the flesh of my neck, just below the jawline, and I cannot help but let out a murmur of pain as I feel the skin being torn. At the same time, I tense my body and tilt my head back as a bead of blood runs down to my collarbone. Finally, as the fragment of bone slices up toward my mouth, I let out a low, trembling groan of pain.
Why must they come and do this to me every night?
Chapter Seventeen
“Miss Tremayne, please allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Elizabeth Marringham.”
As my uncle steps back, I offer a brief curtsy. I smile too, although the elderly woman does not smile in return. Instead, she has already noticed the fresh cut on my neck, even though I had endeavored to wear my hair down so that it might be covered.
“You will leave us, please,” she says, turning to my uncle. “We must be alone.”
He hesitates. “I would prefer -”
“You will leave us,” she says again, a little more firmly this time. “It must be just the two of us.”
She turns back to me, and I swear I can see a hint of tears in her old, bloodshot eyes. A moment later, to my absolute shock, my uncle turns and obediently leaves the room. I believe this to be the first time I have ever seen him heed a woman's command.
***
“You have nightmares,” Miss Tremayne whispers as she examines the wound on my neck, using a scalpel to pick at the edges. “Vivid, traumatic nightmares.”
“How do you know?” I ask, my voice trembling with fear. “Did my uncle hear me cry out?”
She places a hand on the side of my head, tilting my face back so that she can get a better view of my neck. Morning sunlight is streaming through the window, almost blinding me, but I do not protest. Something about this woman feels strangely calming, as if she has entered the chaos of the house with a singular purpose. I trust her.
“I imagine your uncle is oblivious,” she says after a moment. “He probably sees and hears nothing untoward whatsoever. Great men are commonly not so great when they are in their own home.”
I swallow hard, and then I flinch as the scalpel's tip prods the meat of my wound.
“It is an accident of fate,” she continues. “The wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the wrong circumstances, helpless and alone. And then you are noticed, and you attract their attention. I have seen this sort of thing before.”
I wait for her to continue, but now I merely feel her breath on my neck as she leans closer.
“Of whom do you speak?” I ask finally. “Whose attention have I attracted?”
“They are in this house,” she replies. “Oh, there is no doubt about that. I sensed them as soon as I walked through the door. Again, this is a matter of sheer, bad luck. Had you never set foot in Blackwych Grange, my dear, you would most likely have lived a long and happy life, and you would have remained forever unaware that such things even exist.”
“Such things?”
I wait for her to explain, but she seems engrossed by my wound. A moment later she turns away, and I hear her taking something from a nearby table. A few seconds after that, she presses a soft, wet pad against my neck, and I instinctively pull away as I feel a flash of pain.
“Iodine solution,” she says with a faint smile, as I turn to her. “I had to be sure.”
“Sure of what?” I ask, seeing a patch of blood on the pad.
“Their work leaves certain residues.”
I stare at her, and for the first time I am starting to wonder whether perhaps she is not of sound mind. I know she was recommended by the local priest, but he is not a smart of impressive man, and it's entirely possible that he too has been fooled.
Turning, she shuffles around the table.
“Are they ghosts?” I ask finally. I feel foolish even letting such words leave my lips, but I have to know the truth. “I have seen ghosts before. At the hanging tree...”
“The hanging tree?” She smiles. “You mustn't believe everything you're told, my dear.”
“But the hanging tree -”
“No-one has ever been hung there,” she adds, interrupting me. “Oh dear, you do seem rather suggestible, don't you?”
“But I saw ghosts there,” I tell her firmly.
She holds up a small bottle and gives it a shake, watching the dark red liquid.
“I saw ghosts at the hanging tree!”
“You heard a few stories about the place,” she mutters, “and your overactive imagination filled in the re
st.”
“No. That is not what happened.”
“Do not be so defensive,” she continues. “What I am telling you is true. Nothing happened to you at the hanging tree, not really. But the things you have experienced in this house... Those are real enough.”
I wait for her to continue, but she seems focused on the bottle.
“You hear them talk,” she says after a moment. “The figures who come to the house, I mean. You hear their voices.”
“I... I hear whispers.”
“At night? When they come to you?”
“I never make out what they are saying,” I continue. “Only that they speak while they...”
My voice trails off. Reaching up, I touch the wound on my neck and find that it is wet again.
“And tell me,” Miss Tremayne continues, “have you ever looked at their faces?”
She glances at me, and I shake my head.
“Not even once?”
“I...” Taking a deep breath, I think back to the night several months ago when I allow my eyes to briefly slip open. “I saw hands,” I stammer, preferring to lie. “Just hands. Not faces.”
“Tell me about their hands.”
“They were thin. I don't know if they had flesh. Maybe it was just very tight, maybe clinging to the bones, or maybe...”
I shudder as I remember the way the hands glinted in the moonlight. Although I know the idea is ludicrous, I cannot escape the feeling that those hands were merely bones. Yet if that were the case, how did they move? How did I feel them brushing against my own flesh? Such things are quite patently impossible.
“It is alright,” Miss Tremayne says after a moment. “You are not the only one who has seen them.”
I turn to her. “Have you?”
“No, but I have met others who have told me similar stories. And I believe you, Elizabeth. You have unfortunately become an object of interest for these creatures, and they will visit you night after night until you leave Blackwych Grange.”
“I cannot leave,” I tell her.
“And why is that?”
“I have nowhere to go.”
