by Amy Cross
I probably imagined the whole thing.
Turning, I look toward the open door.
“Paula!” Mac calls out. “You can come down now! Everything's working!”
I hesitate, still thinking that perhaps I should go and look in the room, before realizing that I can just as easily go in there tomorrow, once there's a little more light in the house. I watch the door for a moment longer, before turning and heading back to the stairs. Making my way back down, I leave the darkness of the upper floor and return to the brightly-lit hallway below. By the time I get down to the bottom of the stairs, I've already convinced myself that the scratches on the mirror were nothing.
I'm just losing my mind, that's all.
“Whatever was wrong, it's fine now,” Helen is saying as I rejoin them. “Hey Paula, what were you doing at that mirror?”
“At the -”
I'm startled for a moment, before I see that the camera is working again and they have a view of the corridor.
“Just looking at something,” I continue, forcing a smile. I can check the mirror again tomorrow, in daylight, and only then will I know whether it's worth mentioning the scratches to Mac. The last thing I want is for him to think that I'm an easily-scared idiot. Still, when I look at the monitor again, I see that the door upstairs is now shut again.
I freeze for a moment, making sure that I'm watching the correct door.
“Is it possible to rewind this?” I ask cautiously.
“We can rewind all the videos,” Helen replies. “Oh, but not this one. Sorry, it only started working a moment ago. Seems to be running fine now, though. Why?”
I stare for a few seconds longer at the closed door, and then I turn to her.
“Nothing,” I say with a forced smile. “Just planning ahead.”
As Mac and Helen get back to work, I tell myself to stay calm and double-check the door tomorrow. It's probably just a little loose, and there's no way I want to overreact. Mac and Helen seem so professional as they continue to check all the equipment, so they'd probably just laugh at me if I started going on about weirdly-scratched mirrors and doors that open and close on their own.
Despite its infamy, Blackwych Grange is just an ordinary house. Hell, most of the crazy stories about its past are probably exaggerated.
Chapter Forty
With morning light streaming through the windows, I head upstairs alone and check the mirror. There are scratches, sure, but I don't see either a face or any words.
And although the door is now shut, I find only an empty room on the other side. Somehow everything seems more mundane and more normal now, and I tell myself that I simply let my fears run wild during the night. After a moment, I realize I can hear Mac and Helen's voices coming from outside.
***
“It's one of the big mysteries of the house, and one of the things Doctor Pullman was trying to figure out,” Mac explains as he clears some grass from around the edge of the grave. “What happened to the body of Elizabeth Marringham, and why did someone go to all the trouble of erecting a stone when the grave itself was left empty?”
“Maybe it wasn't empty at first,” Helen suggests. “Maybe she was interred here and moved later. The whole thing could well have just been for show.”
“Maybe,” he mutters, but he clearly isn't convinced. “But then where was she moved to? And why? Her bones have to have ended up somewhere.” He turns to me. “We have to constantly ask questions, Paula. Always probe, always doubt, never just accept something that doesn't seem right. Even if it does seem right, question it anyway.”
“Of course,” I stammer.
“And why would a ghost haunt a house?” he continues. “Why would a ghost haunt this house? To be blunt, what's in it for the ghost? Or does the ghost have no control over the matter?”
“Well -”
“And how does the ghost form? Does it simply appear once the individual is dead? Is there a process?”
I turn to Helen and see a faint smile on her lips.
“Are all ghosts the same?” Mac asks. “Or are some stronger than others? And if so, why?”
“I have no idea,” I tell him.
“No-one does,” he continues. “That's what makes this such a fascinating field of study. The chance of ghosts existing is infinitesimally small, but if they're real... There would be so much for us to learn.”
Suddenly hearing the sound of tires in the distance, I turn and look along the side of the house.
“We have visitors,” Helen mutters.
“Whoever they are, get rid of them,” Mac says firmly. “I told Foster that we're not to be disturbed. The last thing we need is a bunch of local morons causing trouble.”
***
“He just sent me out to check on you,” the man explains as he steps away from his Land Rover. “I've been Ronald Foster's groundsman for almost forty years now, and he likes me to keep an eye on the estate.”
“That's very kind of you,” Helen tells him, “but you really don't -”
“Part of that job has meant keeping people away from this place,” he continues, stepping past her and then stopping to look at the house. “You wouldn't think many people'd want to come out here, but you'd be surprised how many folk I've found poking about over the years. If you ask me, Ronald should've just brought in a bunch of bulldozers long ago and flattened the place.”
“So why didn't he?” Helen asks.
He turns to her. “Respect, I suppose. Respect for tradition.” He hesitates, before reaching out a scabbed, muddy hand. “Whitmore,” he continues. “Like I said, I look after the land around here. When I'm not dynamiting beaver dams down by the river, I'm out on the hills, dealing with all those bloody rabbits. You wouldn't believe how much trouble those rabbits cause. I spend half my life engaged in a war of attrition with the little bastards.” He shakes Helen's hand, then mine, and finally he turns and looks toward the house again. “And most of the time, I also make sure to steer well clear of this place.”
“You don't like Blackwych Grange?” Helen asks with a faint smile. “What a shock.”
“This is the closest I've been for a couple of years,” he explains. “I usually park a few miles away and do my inspections through binoculars. Of course, you can't tell Ronald about that. As far as he knows, I come by once a week and check everything up-close. I'm not a man who takes easily to deception, you understand, but Ronald wants me to get right up to the front door and I just...”
His voice trails off for a moment.
“Have you ever seen anything?” I ask.
He turns to me.
“Sorry,” I continue, suddenly feeling a little foolish. “I just meant...”
“Like a black-eyed lady watching me through the windows?” he replies.
“Well...”
Again, I fall silent.
“No,” he adds, “I've never seen anything like that. Others have, or that's what they say, but to be honest I've always stayed well clear. No need to tempt fate, is there?”
“Have you heard anything?” Helen asks.
He opens his mouth to reply, but for some reason he seems to hold back.
“Have you?” I ask.
“I came out one evening to check the place,” he says cautiously. “Like I told you, I always prefer to keep my distance, so I parked up over on the ridge and used the binoculars to take a look. I didn't see anything, but I had an odd feeling so I hung around for a little while, just... I don't know, just to make sure. This was a few years ago, of course. Almost five to the day. Anyway, just as I was about to start the engine again and drive off, I heard...”
I wait for him to continue.
“You heard what?” I ask finally.
Again, he seems hesitant.
“I heard someone cry out,” he says after a moment. “A woman. It was definitely a woman. I heard her cry out, maybe more like a scream, and it was definitely coming from this house.”
“Did you come closer and take a look?” Helen
asks.
“Did I come closer?” His eyes widen with shock. “Did I hell! I turned around and drove back to the village so fast, I damn near crashed into one of the toll-stones along the way. It wasn't 'til I was back at the pub that I even managed to think straight, although I didn't tell anyone what had happened. Frankly, I thought maybe I'd lost my mind, so I wasn't much moved to go on about it.” He pauses, and now there seem to be tears in his eyes. “It wasn't 'til later the next day that I realized what I'd heard.”
“The scream?” I ask.
“I hadn't spoken to Ronald for a short while,” he continues, “and then when I did, he mentioned something about a woman who'd asked for permission to take a look at the house. For some reason, he'd agreed to let her bring a small team out here to give the place a once-over. Turns out, they'd parked around the back, so I didn't spot their car. If they'd parked round the front, I'd have known someone was here and I'd have come to help, but their car was round the back, you see, so...”
Again, there are tears in his eyes.
“I didn't know,” he adds. “I swear, I didn't know anyone was supposed to be here.”
“Wait,” I reply after a moment, “you said this happened five years ago?”
He nods.
“Josephine Pullman,” Helen whispers.
“The scream was hers?” I ask.
He nods again.
“There's not a day goes by,” he continues, “that I don't wonder what would have happened if, instead of running away, I'd come to the house and checked what was going on. I should have, I know that, and I know the Lord won't ever forgive me for my cowardice that day. Of course, when Ronald finally told me there might be some people out here, I immediately...”
His voice trails off for a moment.
“I got the police to come out,” he adds, and now his voice is trembling a little. “I'm sure you know what they found.”
“Doctor Pullman's team,” I reply, “and...”
I pause, thinking back to the stories of that awful day. Doctor Josephine Pullman had brought a team out to the house. On the afternoon after their third night, the bodies of two of her colleagues were found in the main hallway, and Doctor Pullman herself was discovered barely alive in one of the other rooms. Since that day, she's been a patient at a psychiatric hospital in London, and it's said that she's never spoken another word or even acknowledged attempts to get her to speak. And she's never given any indication about what happened to her at the house.
“So that's why I came out to see you fellows today,” Whitmore continues. “When Ronald said he'd agreed to let more people into the house, I tried to persuade him to change his mind. I damn near told him he'd lost his mind, and I stand by that. But when he insisted, I figured I had to at least come and check on you.”
“That's very kind of you,” Helen replies, “but we really -”
“Don't do it,” he adds, interrupting her.
She frowns. “I'm sorry?”
“Don't stay here,” he continues. “Whatever you're trying to find out, just let it be. Whatever you're doing here, it's not worth putting yourselves through all of this. Blackwych Grange isn't a place for people, not anymore. Not living people. There's nothing to be gained from spending time here, so just leave it well alone. Don't disturb the ghost.”
“Thank you for the advice,” Helen says, “but we're academics, and scientists, so we really -”
“You didn't hear that poor woman's scream,” he adds. “The doctor, the woman who was pulled out of the place alive five years ago... If you'd heard her, you'd know that whatever is in this house, whatever she saw that night, it's something that should be left well alone. Like I said, if it was up to me, the whole house would've been burned to the ground and then the land would have been salted to make sure nothing could survive here. Sometimes I think I should just come out here one night and...”
His voice trails off for a moment.
“I can help you pack, if you like,” he continues eagerly. “It's no trouble, I just -”
“Get out of here!” a voice calls out suddenly, and I turn to see that Mac is coming around to join us. “Go on,” he adds, clapping his hands together as if he's trying to scare a dog, “move! And tell Ronald Foster that I paid for uninterrupted access to the house. I don't want anyone coming out here again and disturbing us!”
“You're the one in charge, are you?” Whitmore replies. “Listen, five years ago -”
“I know what happened five years ago,” Mac says firmly as he reaches us. “In fact, I know far more about it than anyone else, including you. So please, don't think for one moment that I either need or want your opinion on the matter. You're going to turn around and drive away, and you're going to leave us alone up here until we're done with our work tomorrow.”
“But -”
“Do I make myself clear?” Mac adds, stopping right in front of the groundsman and towering over him.
“Well...” Whitmore hesitates, before taking a step back. “I hope I'm wrong. I hope I'm just an old fool.”
“You certainly seem to be,” Mac replies, and it's clear that he's close to losing his temper. “Your interference will not be tolerated. Now get the hell out of my sight before I tell you what I really think of doddery old groundsmen.”
Whitmore seems to be on the verge of replying, but finally he mutters something under his breath as he turns and heads back to his Land Rover.
“Bloody fool,” Mac mutters darkly, as we watch the old man climbing into the car. “Did he seriously think we'd give a damn what he thinks about anything? Idiots like that should stick to what they know best. Whatever the hell that is, anyway. Simple menial tasks...”
He sighs as Whitmore starts the engine, but then suddenly the car door opens again.
“One more thing,” Whitmore stammers. “Please, whatever you do while you're here, never -”
“Go!” Mac shouts, stepping toward him.
“Please,” Whitmore continues, “just -”
“Get the hell out of here!” Mac yells, grabbing the older man's arm and physically shoving him back against the side of the vehicle. There's a brief scuffle, with Whitmore crying out, but Mac manages to force him back into the driver's seat, before slamming the door shut with such force that the entire Land Rover shudders slightly.
“Wow,” Helen whispers.
Whitmore winds the window down and leans out, as if he still wants to warn us about something.
“Get out of here!” Mac yells, and the old man quickly window back up. His face filled with panic, he nevertheless puts the Land Rover into gear and drives away, leaving the three of us standing outside the front of the house. No-one speaks, and instead we all watch the vehicle bumping across the rough landscape until eventually it disappears from view. Somehow, Whitmore's brief visit has made Blackwych Grange feel more remote than ever.
“Helen,” Mac says finally, a little breathless now after his exertion. “Will you be okay moving the sensors by yourself?”
“Why wouldn't I be?” she replies. “I'm not the one who believes there's actually anything here.”
“Okay,” he continues, turning to me. His knuckles are bloodied, as if he cut them while he was manhandling the groundsman. “Paula, come with me. I need you for something.”
With that, he turns and storms back into the house. I turn to Helen for a moment, before realizing that I have no choice but to follow.
Chapter Forty-One
“Tell me what happened to you last night, Paula.”
Stopping as he turns to me, I realize Mac has led me straight to the door that seemed to open and close of its own accord. We're on the landing upstairs, and from the look in his eyes it's immediately clear that I can't lie to him.
“I know something happened while you were alone up here fixing the camera,” he continues. “Don't even try to deny it. There was something in your eyes when you came down, something different. I didn't mention it in front of Helen because I didn't want to put you
on the spot, but I need to know what you saw, or what you heard or...”
He pauses.
“Whatever it was,” he adds, “you have to tell me. It might be relevant to our work here. And don't worry, nobody is going to be ridiculed for anything they say.”
I open my mouth to dismiss the whole idea, but it's pretty clear that he won't let me off that easily. I thought I'd hidden my fears last night, but...
“I'm sure it was nothing,” I stammer finally, “it's just... I heard a noise, and then I saw...”
Turning, I look at the mirror. Now, in the cold light of day, the scratches seem completely harmless, but I can't help stepping slightly to one side, trying to see either the face or the words again.
“Was it the scratches?” Mac asks.
I turn to him. “How did you -”
“What exactly did you see in them? Be specific.”
Spotting the yellow notebooks in his jacket, I pause for a moment.
“It was dark,” I say cautiously, “and the flashlight made everything look slightly different, but for a moment I thought I saw a face.” I pause, wondering how much more to tell him. There's no way to put the experience into words, at least not without sounding like a credulous idiot. “And then maybe some letters. Maybe some words, scratched into the glass. Maybe.”
He steps closer to the mirror and reaches out, running his fingers against the marks.
“I know,” I continue, “it's stupid, I was probably just tired and I let the place get to me, but...”
I watch as he examines the mirror, and he seems completely absorbed. More than that, he seems to be taking my claim seriously.
“Leave this house,” I add.
He glances at me.
“That's what it said. Or what I thought it said, anyway. The same as the note I found.”
