by Amy Cross
He hesitates, still examining the marks.
“What else?” he asks finally.
“I'm sorry?”
“There must have been something else. I could just... I could tell from the look in your eyes. The mirror wouldn't have been enough to unsettle you so deeply, not on its own. What else happened?”
“You're going to think I'm imagining things.”
“You asked about rewinding the image on the monitor,” he continues. “Why did you ask that? What did you want to double-check?”
“It was this door,” I continue, stepping around him and stopping in front of the door, which is now closed. “I really might have imagined this part too, but I swear it was shut, and then suddenly it was open just a little, and then after a while it was shut again. But it could have been a draft, or a loose hinge, or...”
My voice trails off, and I realize my attempted explanations sound pretty weak right now.
He steps around me, before reaching out and opening the door, pushing it open to reveal the bare room on the other side.
“This was the old nursery,” he explains after a moment. “Notice anything unusual?”
“Not really.”
“What about the furniture?”
I step into the room.
“There isn't any,” I point out.
“Exactly. The rest of the house still has all its tables, chairs, beds and so on, but the nursery is completely bare. Why might that be?”
I step over to the window and look out, seeing the grave in the garden, and then I turn to him again. For the first time, he seems to actually want to hear my ideas, instead of treating me like a glorified fetcher and carrier.
“Elizabeth Marringham had a child, didn't she?” I ask. “Or at least she was pregnant out of wedlock. Wasn't that the reason for the big scandal? Something to do with a local priest? So maybe this room was a nursery, but by Elizabeth's time it wasn't being used? And maybe when she had her child, for some reason, the child didn't come into this room?”
Nodding, he comes through the door and stops in the middle of the room.
“The historical records are unclear,” he says after a moment, “but it seems likely that Elizabeth carried her child to full term. After that, the details are even harder to discern, but there's certainly no record of the child having been baptized or having grown to adulthood. Obviously it's possible that this was a simple omission, or that the child was taken away to be raised elsewhere, but...”
He hesitates, before taking one of the yellow notebooks from his pocket and leafing through the pages. At the same time, he's muttering under his breath, and slowly he starts making his way toward the far corner.
“If the child was never baptized,” he continues, turning to another page in the notebook, “and it died at the house, it would most likely have been treated like a piece of trash. Burned, perhaps, or maybe just tossed into the long grass and left to rot. Josephine had her own theory. She uncovered stories about Elizabeth's father feeding a pack of wild dogs that lived near the estate, and she believed the child would most likely have been thrown to their jaws. Perhaps even while it was still alive. Eventually she uncovered evidence to support that theory.”
Stepping up behind him, I see the pages of the main notebook for the first time. There's scrawled text everywhere, not just filling the lines but also crammed into the margins.
“Josephine uncovered a diary written by someone who knew the Marringham family,” he explains. “According to the diary, Elizabeth Marringham was held at this window and forced to watch while her child was fed to the animals. It's said that her eyes darkened that day, and I imagine that was the beginning of the legend that developed. Supposedly, that's how Elizabeth became the infamous black-eyed lady of Blackwych Grange.”
“But the story was probably exaggerated, wasn't it?” I ask. “I mean, it has to have been.”
A faint smile crosses his lips. “Now you're thinking like a proper academic. Yes, Paula, it's absolutely certain that over the years the stories about Elizabeth Marringham strayed further and further from the truth. The only question is how far, and what really happened here.”
I pause, staring at the notebook in his hands.
“Did Doctor Pullman see the black-eyed woman?” I ask finally.
He turns to me.
“I'm sorry,” I continue, “but... I mean, did she write anything about it?”
“She mentioned the legend,” he replies, glancing at the notebook before putting it back in his pocket, “but she never specifically stated that she saw the woman herself. She mentioned other things that happened in the house, though. Unexplained events, strange noises, the usual paranormal rigmarole that has become the staple of every hackneyed story in countless cultures. But the part that always struck her, and that strikes me too, concerns the fact that nothing happens on the first nights. Why would a ghost wait until the third night to make its move on unsuspecting visitors?”
“I don't know,” I tell him. “Why would it?”
“I've never been able to figure that part out,” he continues. “That's why I was asking you. You seem to have a good mind, Paula. I've studied this house so much, I think I'm tied up in mental loops. I need a fresh perspective.”
“I can't explain it,” I reply, turning and looking back across the bare room. “I mean, maybe she...”
I hesitate for a moment, thinking back to the note I found on the desk, and then to the letters that I swear were scratched into the mirror.
“Maybe she's warning people first.”
“Go on.”
I turn to him. “Maybe she warns people to leave. Maybe she gives them a chance to get out of the house, and then if they don't, once she's given them long enough...”
“On the third night, she appears,” he suggests. “Okay, so far so good, but why? What does she want?”
“Who says she wants anything?” I reply.
“Everyone wants something.”
“She's a ghost.”
“But we're assuming that she's still somehow the same woman. She's still Elizabeth Marringham, even in death. So she wants something.”
“Revenge?” I continue. “For what happened to her child?”
“Then why warn people away first?” he asks. “It doesn't make sense. If there's a ghost here, and if it's Elizabeth Marringham, she must want something more than simply making a few weird noises in the night and then scaring people. Plus, the people who wronged her are all long dead.”
“Maybe she wants to be reunited with her baby,” I suggest.
“Then how does she expect to achieve that?” He pauses, before shaking his head. “We're not seeing the whole picture here, Paula. There's no -”
Before he can finish, there's a loud bump from one of the other rooms. We both turn and look toward the open door, but there's no sign of movement.
“Was that -”
“Was that a ghost?” Mac asks, turning to me. “Why would it be? Think critically, Paula. What would the ghost of Elizabeth Marringham gain by banging a door or a wall at that exact moment?”
“I don't know, but -”
“It seems unlikely that she'd do it at random. There has to be more to this.”
“What did Doctor Pullman think?” I ask.
“She had some theories, but -”
“Can I read her notebook?” The question has left my lips before I have time to reconsider. I already know the answer. “I mean...”
He shakes his head.
“I'm sorry,” I continue, “I know you don't let anyone else look at them.”
“She wrote in a very distinctive manner,” he explains. “Honestly, I don't think her notes make much sense to anyone else. She and I had an understanding, I knew the way her mind worked. To you or anyone else, her work would just seem like random scribbles.”
“Do you still visit her?” I ask.
He hesitates. “She's not well,” he says cautiously. “The last time I went, she -”
Suddenly there's another bump, this time coming very clearly from the next room along.
“This way,” Mac says, hurrying to the door and then out to the corridor.
Heading after him, I catch up just as he enters the next room, which turns out to be a large bedroom, complete with old, dusty furniture left behind by the previous occupants. The most striking feature is a four-poster bed with a burgundy red tester raised high atop four columns. Even the bed-sheets have been left in place, although when I step closer I see that there's dust everywhere.
“Maybe she wanted us to come in here,” I suggest.
“Maybe,” he mutters, stepping forward as he looks around. “God knows why, though.”
“To find something?”
He sighs. Taking the notebook from his pocket again, he flicks through the pages. After a moment, however, he turns to me.
“Paula, I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Tonight,” he continues, “if something happens and...”
His voice trails off, but I can see the fear in his eyes. For the first time, he seems almost uncertain.
“If I tell you to leave the house,” he adds finally, “then you have to leave, is that understood? Don't even wait to ask me why, just get the hell out of here, and take Helen with you. There'll be time for questions later, but I need to know that you'll follow my instructions without hesitation.”
“But -”
“Promise me, Paula.”
Realizing that he's probably not going to explain properly, not even if I spend the rest of the day asking, I figure I have no choice but to agree.
“I want to take a look around up here,” he continues, “but do you mind going and checking on Helen? She might need help, and we have to get all the equipment set up by the time it starts getting dark.”
“Sure,” I reply, even though I want to stay up here and help him some more.
“And Paula,” he adds as I turn to walk away.
I glance back at him.
“Thank you,” he continues. “You've been very useful. Some of your suggestions have helped me to see things differently. I'm very glad that you're here.”
A few minutes later, once I've headed downstairs, I wander from room to room. I find traces of Helen every so often, with cameras and monitors and leads in the process of being moved, but the woman herself is a little harder to track down. Finally, once I've been through every downstairs room twice, I reach the hallway just as Mac comes back down.
“I can't find her,” I tell him, trying not to sound too worried. “She must be upstairs.”
“She's not,” he replies, and I can immediately tell that he's concerned too. “I've been through every room. She's down here somewhere.”
“But I've -”
“Helen!” he calls out, stepping past me and cupping his hands around his mouth as he enters the drawing room. “Where are you? Helen!”
Chapter Forty-Two
“Maybe she quit,” I suggest as I join Mac in the study later, having spent the best part of two hours searching for Helen. “The van's still out front, but maybe she just decided to -”
Suddenly there's a loud bump from above. Looking up at the high ceiling, I realize the sound came from the room directly above us, although the house has already fallen silent again.
“Don't even bother going to check,” Mac mutters. “I heard two noises like that while I was up there just now. It would seem that the house is starting to stir now that darkness is falling. That's not entirely unexpected.”
Turning, I look toward the window and see that he's right. The sun is low in the sky now, casting long shadows. In another hour or two, we'll be well and truly underway with our third night at Blackwych Grange, and I can't deny that I'm starting to feel a little nervous. I keep telling myself that Helen must simply have decided to leave the house, but deep down I know that she's not the kind of person who'd just abandon the project. Besides, unlike Toby, she's never even hinted that she's concerned about being here. She's the skeptic of the group, the one who rolls her eyes whenever ghosts are mentioned.
When I glance back toward Mac, I see that he's once again going through the notebook. I swear, he spends half his time reading that thing over and over.
“What are we supposed to do now?” I ask.
“We already discussed the plan before we arrived. We simply continue with our schedule.”
“But we need to make sure she's okay.”
“I'm sure she's fine.”
“There are only two of us now,” I point out, trying to stay calm. “Until Helen comes back, at least. We can't study the house if it's just you and me.”
“Of course we can. I anticipated that we'd lose at least one member of the team, maybe more, and I was fully prepared for that to happen.”
“But -”
“To be honest,” he adds, “I expected you to be one of the quitters.”
I hesitate, not really knowing how to respond.
“Aren't you wondering why I picked you, Paula?” he continues, setting the notebook down. “I've been waiting for you to ask, but either the question hasn't occurred to you, or you're just being polite. There were plenty of applicants who wanted to come and help with this project, and while you certainly have an impressive track record as a student, there were others who seemed – on paper, at least – to be better suited to the task. So why do you think I decided to invite you?”
“I really don't know,” I reply, “but right now, shouldn't we be more focused on finding Helen?”
“She'll show up.”
“She'll show up?” I wait, shocked by his callousness. “You can't just say that! She might be hurt!”
“Paula -”
“Maybe she fell,” I continue. “Maybe... Maybe she's injured, and somehow we've missed her, and we just have to keep looking!”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe she set off alone on foot, but she left a note!”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe -”
I pause, realizing that he genuinely doesn't seem concerned at all. In fact, he seems more relaxed than ever, and I can't help wondering whether he might know more than he's letting on. After a moment, I look at the little yellow notebook on the table and realize that he seems unusually fixated on Doctor Pullman's account of her time at Blackwych Grange. For a fraction of a second, I consider reaching out to grab the notebook, so I can take a look through its pages and see if there are any clues. Somehow, though, I hold back. I know Mac would be furious.
“Everything is going well so far,” he says finally, stepping over to the table and taking the book, almost as if he knows what I was thinking. He slips it into his pocket. “Just stay focused.”
“But -”
“And make sure you're not distracted,” he adds, interrupting me. “Trust me and stay focused. And make sure you don't allow yourself to become distracted from the task at hand.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but it's clear that he thinks his pronouncements should settle the matter. I always admired Mac's single-mindedness before, maybe I even wanted to be more like him. He seemed like the perfect role model, an academic who put the work first and never let other considerations get in the way. I thought I wanted to be like that. But he doesn't seem to give a damn about Helen's disappearance, and I'm starting to wonder just how many risks he's willing to take in order to get to the truth about Blackwych Grange.
“It's almost six,” he continues, checking his watch. “By eight, the sun will have set and we need to be ready for whatever the night throws at us. Right now, that means staying calm and double-checking all the equipment. Can I count on you for that, Paula? I hope you're not going to let me down. You trust me, don't you?”
“I...”
For a brief moment, I'm not sure of the answer. He keeps asking me to trust him, and that alone is enough to set off a few more alarms.
“Of course,” I tell him finally. “Yeah. Of
course I do. One hundred per cent.”
***
Just as I lean down to check the camera, I hear it again.
A faint brushing sound, as if someone let their shoulder touch the wall as they walked past.
Looking back across the dimly-lit dining room, I wait in case there's any sign of Mac or Helen, but of course I'm alone. Still, I realize after a moment that I'm holding my breath, which I guess means that I'm a little more nervous than I'd like to admit.
Forcing myself to stay calm, I turn back to the camera.
I immediately hear the sound again.
Turning, I look toward the door at the room's far end. The brushing sound seemed closer just now, as if it's slowly edging toward me, and this time I get to my feet without even thinking. My heart is pounding, and a moment later I hear a distant bump in another part of the house, which means Mac definitely isn't close.
“Hello?” I say cautiously, watching for any hint of movement. “Helen?”
I wait.
Nothing.
Taking a couple of steps forward, I force myself to remember that this is a very old house. Even though none of the amenities have been connected for many years, it's entirely possible that some old pipes are creaking or that the floorboards are shifting slightly as night brings colder temperatures. A house is not a static thing, and the change from day to night makes the place subtly colder, which in turn causes contractions throughout the structure. The scientific, academic part of my mind knows all these things, but there's another part of me that still worries about what else might be lurking just out of sight.
How many people have claimed to see the black-eyed woman of Blackwych Grange again? Five, maybe six? And that's only the ones whose accounts were written down. Can they all have been lying, or wrong?
“Elizabeth Marringham?” I say suddenly, figuring that I should test myself a little. “Are... Are you here?”
I wait.
This is dumb.
Silence.
“If you're here,” I continue, looking over at the empty doorway and then toward the windows, “then why hide? Why not just come out and tell us what you want?”
