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

by Shani Struthers

“No, it’s okay, I’m just seeing if my husband’s in here.” She hadn’t a clue if she’d be understood or not, but rather than stare at the elderly assistant, she looked around her. Like the window display it was crammed with masks, hundreds and hundreds of them, thousands even – on walls, on tables, hanging from the ceiling. There were more plague masks too, not so apologetically on display, almost proudly presented, a centrepiece.

  The man was standing behind a desk so big it swamped him. For some reason he agitated her as much as the masks did, with his wrinkled skin and eager eyes, black rimmed like the mask in the window. His nose was long and hooked too, but more than that it was his manner that disturbed her. He seemed greedy for her custom.

  “Come in, come in,” he repeated, bending his finger to entice her.

  “I—”

  “Masks, pretty masks, come in and choose one.”

  Did his eyes dart towards the plague masks as he said that? What on earth would she want with one of them? They weren’t pretty, they were hideous, and not the kind of souvenir you’d want to proudly display on your return home – the damned thing would cause nightmares. The entire shop she found hideous as well as the concept of masks full stop, hiding what you really were – your true nature – fooling you.

  She wouldn’t go any further in. Rob wasn’t here anyway.

  “Sorry, excuse me.”

  Before he could answer her, try and persuade her to stay, to lure her in, she backed out, closed the door on his peculiar world and stepped into the rain once again.

  “Rob!” she continued calling but he was nowhere.

  Although it was cold and damp she began to feel hot and sweaty as the realisation hit that she was a stranger in a strange place.

  Where the fuck are you?

  Anger emerged – anger at life, and the unfairness of it. It was always there, simmering, waiting to boil over, but even she was surprised at how quickly it struck this time. Rather than fight it, she indulged it. She seemed to need to feel this way. She had everything, except what she wanted most. And Rob’s solution was to travel, he thought that would appease that ‘want’, so much stronger in her than him, or at least it seemed that way, it would plaster over an otherwise suppurating wound. It was a pitiful solution, a weak solution; the solution that she’d come up with not even countenanced. Whose fault was it anyway, their failure to conceive? The blame had to lie somewhere. Was it hers or was it his? It couldn’t be hers, it couldn’t. There was that time, just before she’d met Rob, when she’d been with someone else, a time when her period was late – and she was never late, she ran like clockwork – when she’d thought, as young as she was, eighteen, that she was pregnant, and if she was, that she’d keep it, cherish it, she’d find a way. But then the blood had come, much heavier than usual and much more painful, her stomach cramping in protest. A miscarriage? She suspected it. If so, she was definitely not the one to blame. He was. It was his fault, all of it – this whole sorry mess.

  “Scusa!”

  A man rushing by bumped into her, unbalancing her slightly. Straightening, she glared after him. Bloody rude lot!

  Moving forward, she continued scanning the crowds, one half wanting Rob to disappear forever, the other half willing him to materialise. Her anger was beginning to scare her.

  Rob, where are you?

  He couldn’t have gone far. Why would he have done? He wouldn’t leave her. And these people, they were all dark shapes, all anonymous, and there were so many of them, such a contrast to the area they’d been in earlier. They seemed to meld into one, unmasked but still indefinable – a mass of people, rather than separate beings. And then there was one that was entirely separate – a flash of white. Her head jerked towards it. In amongst the crowd, perfectly still, was a woman, a veil covering her head and a dress to match, long and full. A strange vision but, as the rain continued to fall, what was strangest of all were her eyes – sightless eyes – staring at her, stealing her breath, holding her captive again.

  Chapter Seven

  “What are you staring at?”

  Louise spun round, aware she was still holding her breath and that her chest felt like it was going to burst. It was Rob. The air rushing from her lungs, she fell against him.

  “What is it, Lou? What’s the matter?”

  He was solid, real, so unlike what she’d just seen. She lifted her head and looked into his amused but concerned eyes, tried to tell him what had happened, opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t. Of course she couldn’t! She’d sound insane if she did. Oh, Rob, there you are. Whilst you were gone, whilst you were hiding from me, I saw her. Yeah, that’s right, the one I was telling you about, the one in the painting in the hotel lobby, in the photographer’s picture on the net, the veiled lady, the woman in white, whatever you want to call her, I saw her, over there, in the distance, standing boldly amongst everyday people, but focused on me, just me. I half expected her to lift her finger, to point at me, like some kind of grim reaper only in white, not black. She was dressed in white.

  She gasped again, pushed herself slightly away from Rob and, with her fist, thumped him on the chest. “Where the bloody hell did you go? I looked for you everywhere!”

  “I was looking at the watches.”

  “What watches? Where?”

  “There,” he said, pointing to a shop close by. “What’s the matter, aren’t I allowed to leave your side for a few seconds?”

  “Seconds?” It had seemed much longer than that. She pursed her lips, still indignant. “You should have told me where you were going.”

  “You were looking at the masks, I was on my way back. I didn’t think you’d notice.”

  Oh she’d noticed all right, much more than she’d wanted to.

  She moved fully away from him, and threw her hands in the air, trying to get her point across. “Just… tell me okay, if you’re going to disappear.”

  “Okay, okay,” he replied, looking just as exasperated. “What’s wrong with you lately? Ever since we’ve got here you’ve been really nervy.”

  “No I haven’t!”

  “Yes, you have, and in other ways you’ve been different too.”

  “In what other ways?” But she didn’t need him to elaborate, not out here, in a busy Venetian street, she knew in what other ways. Instead she shook her head, whispered almost. “I can’t believe you’re complaining. Most men would be delighted.”

  “I am delighted.”

  “It doesn’t sound like it.”

  He moved closer to her, tried to bridge the distance she’d put between them. “Don’t get angry, Lou, don’t spoil things. Let’s go and get another drink.”

  “Me, spoil things? You’ve got a bloody cheek!”

  “Louise!”

  There was a warning in his voice; she was tempted to ignore it, to indulge her anger further. He’d changed too during their marriage – he’d become someone who dismissed her all too readily, who treated her like a child rather than an adult, who happily pointed out her flaws – scaredy-cat. The halcyon days she’d been reminiscing over last night in bed seemed a million miles away, especially now, standing here in the rain, in the gloom, so far from home. They were a dream she’d woken from too soon. Of course she knew when things had changed. She was under no illusion about that. Suddenly their glittering world felt cursed. She felt cursed. That’s when the rot had set in – each one dealing with their disappointment in their own way, not together but alone.

  Looking at him, into the face she’d loved, his features slightly more grizzled with time and stubble with a hint of grey in it covering his chin, defiance still stirred within her. There followed a tense few moments in which she couldn’t judge which way the pendulum was going to swing. It went one way and then the other, the momentum equal. Eventually familiarity tempered the rebel within. As irritating as she found him sometimes, as disappointing, he was her man and she was tired of fighting. More than that, she was exhausted, as if her energy had been leeched from her. She slumped,
not against him this time, but she could feel herself wilt, cave in – give up almost.

  Rob’s expression relaxed – she hadn’t realised until now how hard his gaze had become. Evidently he could see the battle was over and that he’d triumphed.

  “Lou, I know we’re wet, we’re cold, but let’s not bother going back to the hotel. Let’s cross the bridge, go over into San Polo, find a nice wine bar, Al Buso or something, you liked the look of that one didn’t you, and it’s not far. Five minutes if that.”

  Not go back to the hotel? Was he worried she’d try and seduce him again? Jump your bones. Couldn’t he bear the prospect? He’d rather stay here; stay cold.

  LOUISE, STOP IT!

  She screamed the words out loud – albeit in the confines of her head – unable to believe where her thoughts were taking her. As for what he’d done, it wasn’t so bad; she was blowing it out of all proportion. It wasn’t bad at all in fact – why was she so intent on condemning him? And what she’d seen, the veiled lady, that was her tired mind playing tricks on her, nothing more and nothing less. Perhaps she shouldn’t go to Al Buso, as much as she wanted a drink, perhaps she should go to the hotel room and sleep – how she wanted to sleep, but Rob was nudging her again, waiting for an answer. He looked in need of a drink too.

  Shoving her hands in her jacket pocket she trudged silently towards the bridge.

  Al Buso was packed with so many, like them, seeking shelter from the rain. The atmosphere was jovial enough despite the weather as couples and groups of friends occupied the various seats, talking animatedly, their laughter carrying. Rob spied an empty table in a corner and pointed her in the direction of it. She didn’t need to tell him what she wanted, he knew well enough by now, a cold glass of white wine, anything but Sauvignon Blanc.

  It took a few minutes for him to return, minutes in which she forced her mind to remain as still as a millpond, refusing to let any more thoughts encroach, or any visions. Here at least, surrounded by so many living, breathing people, she felt safe – it was just so alive.

  Finishing the first glass of wine, she asked for another, desperate to benefit from its relaxing effect. Rob didn’t even query it, he simply returned with two more drinks for them to down in record speed too. Not usually one to show his emotions, she sensed he was as tense as she was, her mood rubbing off on him.

  Their conversation warmed up with the second round of drinks, but they still carefully avoided the subject of what had just happened. Graduating from stock phrases such as ‘I can’t believe how busy it is in here’ and ‘It’s only late afternoon, yet the place is packed’ to ‘I know I’ve been a bit jumpy but this place, it takes some getting used to doesn’t it?’ and ‘It does, it really does, like we said before, it’s different to other cities but it’s beautiful, Lou, you can’t deny that.’ No she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. They had a day and a half left – she wouldn’t count Monday as they were leaving Venice early in order to catch the mid-morning plane – so they needed to enjoy what time they had left to the full, to enjoy each other. All too soon they’d return to their busy lives, working late, sometimes only catching up with each other at bedtime, too exhausted to even chat, just kiss each other goodnight. On some days she swore she talked to the postman more than Rob. That’s why this time is precious, she reminded herself. What you have is precious. It wasn’t lacking, not in any way.

  The wine doing its job, she wanted to laugh at how she’d behaved earlier, at the eerie masks and the veiled lady. She’d have to stop watching so many horror films, switch to rom-coms instead, take notes and learn a little – remember what she’d clearly forgotten. One thing was certain; she’d be on her guard for such nonsense from now on. Pleased with her decision, she brightened considerably and they continued chatting, continued drinking, another glass of wine slipping down very nicely.

  “We haven’t had lunch!” Louise said suddenly.

  “No, we haven’t.” Rob seemed surprised too. He looked over his shoulder, towards the bar. “They’ve got cicchetti at the bar, do you fancy some?”

  “Cicchetti, what’s that?”

  “It’s the Italian version of tapas, there’s lots of different dishes. I’ll get us a selection.” He looked at his empty beer glass, “And another round as well.”

  Feasting on more alcohol, and the cicchetti, including marinated olives, calamari with garlic aioli and various cheeses, Louise had to admit it, she was drunk, but happily drunk, the events of earlier tucked away nicely, a door closed on them. You’re taking a leaf out of Rob’s book there, she thought, but not with anger.

  Deciding they needed something more substantial than cicchetti to eat, they left the cosy confines of the bar and returned outside. The rain had stopped but night had really taken hold – the lights around them so dim it was much blacker than it should be.

  “Where to?” she asked.

  “Another bar?”

  “More drinking? I’m not sure I can.”

  “Oh come on, that’s not the Lou I know and love!”

  She groaned. “The spirit is willing, but you know what they say about the flesh.”

  “The flesh is gorgeous,” he said, reaching out to hug her, making her feel hungry again, but not for food.

  “Shall we just go home,” she whispered into his ear, breathing him in.

  “Home? The hotel you mean?”

  She nodded; he was tempted she could see.

  “Erm… no come on, another bar, and then food, we need pasta, lots of it. Bruschetta too, or whatever they call it, undo the damage we’ve done and are about to do more of.”

  It was later, much later that they stumbled into a restaurant – the same one as last night despite Rob wanting to try somewhere new. It just so happened that the second bar they’d been lingering in, laughing, chatting, leaning into each other, behaving like the couple they’d once been, with no cares, no worries, was close to it. They could literally fall out of one door, walk down one or two alleyways, under the same archway as before, the one in the painting, and fall into another. Initially Rob protested that they should go somewhere else, but he could see the logic of the situation, besides which, the food had been good, really good; they knew they were in for a treat.

  Pushing their way in, it was as packed as the previous night. They had to wait over ten minutes in the cold entrance for a table to become free, Louise enjoying the banter of the waiters as they hurried back and forth, and their good-natured gesticulating. Eventually they were shown to their table – not ideal, it was close to another couple – very close. Louise hated it when that happened, but it was too late to turn back, despite her casting a longing glance towards the door. It’s too late. Even after she sat, those words kept repeating.

  Chapter Eight

  Leaning in towards Rob, Louise realised she was mirroring the woman beside her, as if they were each, in their own way, trying to mark their territory – this man is my man, this boundary is our boundary, don’t overstep it – another fanciful notion that made her laugh.

  “What’s the matter?” Rob’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Nothing,” she replied, feeling coquettish. “I want to be close to you that’s all.”

  “You want to sit on my lap?”

  “I do actually.”

  “I dare you.”

  Louise placed her menu on the table and made to rise, keeping her eyes trained on Rob all the time, loving the amusement in his eyes. When he didn’t falter, she did, collapsing back down again, stifling her giggles, trying not to disturb the other couple – and failing.

  They were looking at her, both of them. Similar in age, she guessed, to her and Rob, around their mid-thirties, both were dark haired, slim and well tailored. The man had aquiline features and dark eyes, his eyelashes so long any woman would envy them. She considered the woman attractive, her features just slightly too sharp to be considered pretty, her skin alabaster, and the nails on her hands manicured.

  It was the man who smiled first.
“Ciao,” he said. “You look like you’re having fun.”

  Although heavily accented, his English was perfect. Immediately Louise apologised, mortified that their drunken behaviour had interrupted their meal. Not interrupted exactly, as there were no plates set before them, just glasses of wine – they’d either finished or hadn’t started yet. It turned out to be the latter, as starters were delivered to their table, a small round plate for each of them with round potato dumplings arranged in the middle. She knew what it was: gnocchi in a crab sauce, she’d been tempted to order the same. As they picked up their cutlery, she’d thought they’d concentrate on each other rather than them – she was wrong. Once they’d broken the ice, they were dead-set on continuing.

  “English, yes?” the man continued, spearing a piece of gnocchi and lifting it to his mouth. “You are on holiday?”

  “We’re here for the weekend,” Rob informed him. “What about you, do you live here?”

  “Si, we live not far away, in the Cannaregio sestiere.” His fork now empty, he gestured around him. “This is a good restaurant, good food. It is mainly the locals who eat here.”

  Rob glanced at Louise, a smug ‘I told you’ expression on his face. “We came here last night, actually,” he informed them. “It was so good we decided to come back.”

  Not strictly true but what the hell, they were only making small talk. The waiter came to take their food and wine order. “We’d like water too, please,” added Louise, “a big jug of it.” She’d better make an attempt at sobering up.

  Leaning forward once again, making small talk with her husband instead, she could feel his knees rub against hers, a smouldering look in his eyes. They’d decided against starters and there’d be no dessert either – they’d race back to the hotel, her yearning for him needing further satisfaction. She’d have been happy to dispense with the meal entirely, cancel their order, get out of there – was about to suggest it, when the man beside her started speaking again. He was holding out his hand and introducing himself.