This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller

by Shani Struthers

  What had been in the driver’s eyes – horror, anger and something else too – began to dissipate, but with a slowness that was excruciating. Even so, she waited patiently for him to speak and when he did she felt almost weak with relief to notice he was calmer.

  “Capito?” he repeated.

  “Si,” she hurriedly replied. “I understand.” Making a wide arc with her hand she continued, “Just the city, we’re visiting the city, that’s all.”

  “Proibito,” he emphasised. And then in hesitant English, “Do not go. No tourists.”

  “We won’t.” Vigorously she shook her head to emphasise her words. Glancing again at a still startled Rob, she said, “Pay the man and let’s get to our hotel.”

  As the driver stood by – thankfully letting them pass without further incident, she whispered to her husband. “And make sure you tip him.”

  Right now, all she wanted was to appease him and to escape.

  Chapter Two

  “What the fuck was all that about?” said Rob, as he stood on the jetty, staring as the driver reversed his boat to disappear into the thick of the traffic.

  Louise was shocked too. “It’s because I mentioned Poveglia. It must be a bit of a sore point with the locals.”

  Rob stooped to get his bag. “Well don’t mention it again then.”

  Watching him stride off, she couldn’t believe it – he sounded annoyed with her now! She wanted to shout after him, defend herself. You brought the subject up in the boat, not me! But she made a conscious effort to hold back. They were here to have a good time not argue – certainly not over some bloody-minded taxi driver and an island with a dodgy history.

  Making an effort to breathe evenly, she grabbed her bag and followed. In front of her, inscribed in gold lettering on glass double doors were the words Venezia Palazzo Barocci. As she pushed them open and stood in the lobby, she saw that the interior was as grand as the outside. It was nothing less than opulent, with a white marbled floor, and tasteful accents of gold, red and black in the décor. Paintings of Old Venice graced the walls – harking back to a time when it had been a trading port rather than a tourist destination. In the boat Rob had said he hoped she liked the hotel he’d chosen. She didn’t – she loved it.

  As they walked towards the reception desk, one of the paintings in particular caught her eye. Unlike the others it was of a house, set over an archway, a quiet lane beneath. It hadn’t been romanticised, just the opposite; it was bleak, Dickensian in style she’d say. He’d been here too hadn’t he, during his Grand Tour of Europe? That was something else that had come up when she’d researched Venice: Charles Dickens having visited, and how he’d described it as a dreamlike city, ‘so decadent it confused the senses.’ Had images of Italy inspired his books or had they been written before? Whichever way round, the scene in front of her looked more like nineteenth century London than London probably had. But it was Venice all right; a gold plaque underneath with the single word Venezia on it confirmed that fact. She was so looking forward to exploring, to immersing herself in its character and atmosphere.

  About to turn from the painting and join Rob, something else about it captured her. In the window of the house was a shape. Taking a few steps closer, she peered at it. It was a figure, a woman perhaps, something white covering her head – a veil? The artist had made her hazy, as though you were looking at her through layers of gauze. Was she an afterthought, or the focal point? Were you meant to spot her straightaway or was she intended as a late ‘surprise’? Quickly, her eyes scanned the rest of the windows, but they were empty, no one else loitering. Whoever the figure was, she stared back at Louise, taking advantage of having been noticed, mesmerising her.

  “Darling, would you like a glass of champagne?”

  Champagne? With some effort Louise managed to tear her gaze away. Rob already had a glass and the receptionist was holding the bottle, ready to pour another.

  “Oh, erm… yes, please. That would be lovely.”

  “Welcome to Venice, Mr and Mrs Henderson,” said the woman as Louise walked to the desk – Gisela from the nametag – her voice only slightly accented. “Is it your first time?”

  “It’s my first time,” Louise took the glass from her. “Thank you for this, how lovely.”

  “It is a pleasure,” Gisela smiled. She was young and pretty, with dark hair in a chignon, red lips and kohl-rimmed eyes – the very epitome of chic. Louise noticed Rob gazing at her appreciatively and felt very dour, very English in comparison, dressed as she was in jeans, boots and a somewhat scruffy black jumper, her hair also untidy from the journey. Being gorgeous seemed so effortless for foreign women, whereas she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt that way. Get a grip. She raised the glass to her lips and sipped. He’s allowed to look. As another young couple, clearly guests too, walked past them and out into the night, she found herself admiring the male half, tall and lean with a sharp suit on. And you’re allowed to look too. The thought of which made her giggle.

  “Cheers,” said Rob, clinking his glass against hers.

  “Cheers,” Louise replied.

  Her attention back on him, he looked relaxed. So easily he’d put that encounter with the taxi man behind him. His eyes were as lively as Gisela’s, his smile wide. He was handsome, she realised – surprised at how often she ‘forgot’ that. Then again, when you lived with a person for so long, you tended to see the whole person, to focus on their essence rather than their looks. She was sure the same was true of him. A shame really…

  Catching her scrutinising him, his smile became a grin, a cheeky grin. There was a message in his eyes, she was sure of it: hurry up and finish that drink, let’s go upstairs.

  Much to the bemusement of the receptionist, she downed it in one, no longer feeling dour but sexy, and eager too, more so than she had in months, longer even.

  The bubbles must have gone to her head. A few minutes later, when they were alone in the lift, she couldn’t resist grinding her body against his. Rob’s response was immediate. When they reached number 201, he opened the door and they practically fell into the room, their hands still busy exploring. Her eyes on him rather than the plushness of their surroundings, she dragged him towards the double bed and pushed him onto it before climbing swiftly on top. Meanwhile, he tugged at her jeans, fumbling with her belt.

  “I can’t undo the damned thing,” he complained.

  She batted his hands away. “Here, let me.”

  Standing again, she swiftly removed her jeans and jacket, indicating for him to copy her. He readily complied; clearly impressed with the way she was behaving. Semi-naked, she pulled him back onto the bed, taking the lead, riding him. In control of everything except her emotions, but this time wanting to give free rein to them. It felt good, so damned good, riding that wave, all the way to the top, higher and higher, further than she’d ridden it before. When she reached the summit, her cries of pleasure seemed to be torn from her. Rob couldn’t help himself either. Despite being in a hotel room, his cries were loud too – guttural. Afterwards, she collapsed by him, her breathing as ragged as his.

  “Bloody hell!” Rob said, when he was able to. “I should whisk you away more often.”

  Louise took in his bemused expression. “I think it’s me who brought you to Venice. You kept putting it off remember, and all because of that coffee.”

  “That damned coffee! Look what it’s deprived me of all these years.”

  “Don’t worry, we can make up for lost time.”

  “I hope so, but in a while perhaps. Once the little fella’s had time to recover.”

  Seized by a new desire, Louise tapped him playfully on the stomach. “Nope, come on,” she said, pushing herself away from him and rising to her feet. “It’s getting late, it’s nearly seven. I want to go and explore.” In fact, she was almost as rabid about that as she’d been about seducing him. Rabid? She paused. What an odd way to describe it! But it was also apt. “Do you know what, I’m foaming at the mou
th to get out there.”

  “Foaming at the mouth? Sweetie, how vulgar.”

  Retrieving her knickers from the floor, she threw them at him.

  “If you don’t want to put me to the test, move your lazy arse.”

  Artfully, he dodged them. “Me lazy? You cheeky cow.” Pushing himself off the bed too, he chased her towards the bathroom, both of them shedding more clothes en route. In there, he trapped her against the doors of a very swanky shower, the cool of the glass a welcome contrast to the heat of his penis, which throbbed at the front of her. Clearly the ‘little fella’ had more than recovered. As Rob leant inwards to nuzzle her neck, she willingly succumbed – just one more time and she’d let him take the lead. She suspected Venice, like so many cities, never really slept; they had hours to explore, there was no need to panic.

  “I’ll show you who’s lazy,” he murmured, his kisses showering her rather than the water.

  Chapter Three

  It was gone eight by the time they made it out. The rain might have stopped but it was still wet, the damp in the air compounded by the water lapping at the sides of the embankment. A city built on water; it was, as Dickens described it, dreamlike.

  Outside the hotel, in the Grand Canal, were several gondola mooring posts – red and white striped like giant candy canes and nothing less than iconic. Louise insisted Rob pose for a photo in front of them, Rob rolling his eyes at the prospect.

  “Lou, you’re being embarrassing again,” he complained.

  “Oh, shut up and smile,” Louise admonished and he did, albeit reluctantly.

  After she’d got the picture she wanted, they continued walking, inwards rather than along the main thoroughfare.

  “We can go to St Mark’s Square if you want. It’s just west of here,” Rob suggested, looking at the map Gisela had given him. “Look here it is, the Piazza San Marco.”

  Louise shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow. Let’s walk the alleys around here tonight.”

  “Like a couple of tramps, you mean?”

  “In your case, darling, not mine.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Lou, the way you were acting in the hotel room earlier.”

  Louise came to a halt. “Are you calling me a tramp?”

  “Erm… I was joking.”

  “A joke’s funny, right? That wasn’t. It’s perfectly okay for a woman to have a sexual appetite, to take the lead now and then. These are modern times, not the dark ages.”

  “No, I realise—”

  “Then why say such a thing?”

  Rob looked far from impressed by her outburst. “Louise, back off okay? It was a joke, just a joke. What happened up there, in the hotel room, I loved it. I hope there’s more of it to come. It’s… you know, it’s been a while since it’s been like that between us.”

  For the second time that evening Louise had to consider her reply. He was right, what had happened was a good thing, it had been a while, a long while, and she knew he was joking, of course he was. Why had she got so riled about it?

  She decided to change tack. Adopting a coy smile, she asked, “So you loved it?”

  “You know I did.”

  “And you want more?”

  “Lots more. Please act like a tramp again when we get back.”

  With peace restored, Louise burst out laughing. “Buy me a posh dinner and I might.”

  As she fell into step beside him, Rob pulled a face. “Posh? No, no, no, Louise, real Italian cooking is honest; it’s down-to-earth, it’s real. We need to find where the locals go.”

  If there was one thing Rob was passionate about, besides architecture and sex, it was food. He adored cooking, often dominating the kitchen at home with his bold and brave recipes. Italian cookery was one of his favourites, if not his utmost favourite, and she agreed with him. It was more authentic dishes she wanted to eat too, not fodder for the masses. They’d managed to find some superb restaurants in the other cities they’d visited – she never knew a simple ragu could taste so good – and hopefully they’d manage to find more of the same here. But first the passages of Venice waited. They were more of a maze than she’d expected. They were dark too, only barely lit by ornate lanterns attached to the many and beautiful buildings that lined the waterways. Quiet was another way to describe them. Away from the Grand Canal, and despite their hotel being in the popular San Marco district, the silence on corner after empty corner was almost preternatural.

  “It’s as though Venice belongs to us and us alone,” Rob marvelled.

  “I know. Where is everyone? One minute you see them and the next you don’t. It’s like they’ve been spirited away, gone up in a puff of smoke.”

  As they continued to wander, their footsteps the only sound to accompany them, a thought struck her. “How are we going to find our way back? I’m lost already.”

  “Simple, we make our way to the Grand Canal and follow it home.”

  She stopped, took the map from him and began to study it. Between the lack of light and the tiny writing she couldn’t read a thing. Unease shoved excitement aside. “We’d better not stray too far. It’ll be easier to get our bearings tomorrow.”

  “Rubbish,” Rob protested. “We’re not going to get lost, besides which, I want to go over the Rialto Bridge, into the San Polo area that Gisela was telling me about. It’s the most ancient part of Venice apparently, where the fish market is held during the day. She said there’s some great restaurants over there, that we’d love it.” He then went on to explain that Venice was divided into six districts, or sestieri. There was the district their hotel was in – San Marco; San Polo over the bridge; Cannaregio, which was apparently the Jewish district; Castello; Dorsoduro; and Santa Croce, the area immediately behind San Polo.

  “How’d you remember all those names?”

  Rob made a show of looking smug, but quickly he caved. “It’s on the map, you idiot. Each area is a different colour and there’s the legend for it in the bottom right hand corner.”

  She wished there was better lighting; she might have had half a chance of checking what he’d just said. All the research she’d done and the divisions of districts had passed her by. Too busy looking at tourist attractions she supposed, amongst other things.

  Holding out the map, Louise asked Rob to point to the San Polo area, and to their hotel. He obliged and her unease increased. “There’s quite a distance between the two­—”

  “But that’s where Gisela said the best restaurants are, the most authentic.”

  “I don’t want to go that far!”

  “For God’s sake, why not? What are you scared of?”

  She looked around her, at the narrow alleys with no one in them. “What if… it’s not safe at night in Venice? For tourists I mean.”

  “Not safe? Are you joking? Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know, I’m not sure…” But her unease refused to abate. That encounter with the taxi driver had really thrown her. Were all Venetians as aggressive as him? She shook her head, scrubbed the thought. He’d only got angry when she’d mentioned Poveglia. Even so, it hadn’t got their weekend off to the best of starts. Exhaling, she rubbed her temples before pushing strands of hair away from her face. They were safe, of course they were safe, and it wasn’t as if she was wandering an unknown city alone, she had Rob with her – he was tall as well as broad and more than capable of looking after them should they encounter any trouble. “Okay, okay,” she relented, “lead the way to San Polo. You’re right, it does sound good, but are you sure you’ll remember the way back? Your sense of direction is a bit suspect at times.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who got us lost in Rome, in Florence, in—”

  “All right, all right, you don’t have to go on. It’s just… I’m relying on you, remember?”

  Unlike in the guest room earlier, she didn’t feel in control at all.

  On the way to the Rialto Bridge, they found more bars, restaurants and people – passing some lovely shops too, selling a chic assortm
ent of clothes, hats and gloves. Louise tried to remember the names of the ones she wanted to visit the next day but she was still finding the whole Venice experience bewildering. She could honestly say she’d never been anywhere like it before; it kept twisting and turning. Despite stopping to look at the map several times with Rob, she would never have worked out where to go if it hadn’t been for signs on walls pointing the way to the Rialto Bridge and even those appeared to have been placed at haphazard intervals. Scurrying along, that’s what they were doing, like mice in an experiment, veering this way and that, trying to find an exit. It started to get busier. She found the hustle and bustle around her comforting rather than annoying with couples, groups of friends and families passing by, some assured of their direction and others, like them, clearly confused. Suddenly Rob cried out, obvious relief in his voice.

  “The bridge! There it is!”

  “At last!” Louise replied before frowning again. “Oh… it’s covered in billboards.”

  It was, and scaffolding too – not quite the thing of beauty she’d seen on the net. As the oldest bridge across the Grand Canal it needed to be maintained, she understood that, but staring at giant pictures of women modelling luxurious knitwear instead of the intricate carvings of ancient stonework, she was disappointed. Rob was as enthusiastic as ever.

  “Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her upwards.

  They reached the middle plateau before descending to ‘the dark side’, as he described it. She was reminded of Florence’s Ponte Vecchio. Shuttered windows either side of the bridge’s expanse, most with graffiti scrawled over them, indicated that vendors sold goods here too, probably opening until late in the summer months but closing early in the depths of winter. The eastern banks of the Grand Canal’s shores, however, were very different from Florence – rather than open into a wide expanse, she got a sense of being further enclosed. To the right was a market square, an ancient church at its helm, from which flowed a series of curved arches. Wine bars and restaurants nestled beneath them, silhouettes of people framed in the windows eating, drinking and laughing. And Rob was right, it was dark, so dark – the light from windows above the arches cast very little relief. Nonetheless, it was beautiful. She could see Rob thought so too; he was as wide-eyed as her at its antiquity. They steered forwards and gazed into the windows of one establishment – Osteria Al Buso. Louise suggested they go in but Rob was still reluctant.