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

by Shani Struthers

  “Scared?” Why would he think that? “I am not scared!”

  Releasing her entirely, he stood before her, thoroughly perplexed. “Since we arrived in Venice, you have been different. Not yourself.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “And you blame me for that do you? For the way I was after your mother walked in on us, after you took her side?”

  “I did not take her side.”

  “You failed to stand up for me!”

  “She is my mother.”

  “I am your wife!”

  “I know, I know.” Again there was that sheepish look, “I am sorry. Mamma still thinks I am a little boy, certainly she treats me like one at times.” He smiled, but there was no humour in it, rather she saw a flash of pain, deeply ingrained. “She has never knocked before coming into my bedroom, although I have asked her to so many times. Since… what happened, I have made her promise not to do that again, to respect our privacy.”

  “She will never respect our privacy.”

  Again his hands reached out to hold her. “Then we leave, Charlotte, seize our chance.”

  “To go to this island.” She shook her head. “I can’t even recall its name.”

  “Poveglia.”

  “Poveglia,” she repeated, testing the word on her lips. “Where is it?”

  “In the lagoon, a short boat ride away.”

  They’d entered Venice via the lagoon, a friend transporting them via his motorboat. She remembered seeing several islands in the distance as they’d travelled and had wondered about them. “How big is this… island?”

  “It is not big, but, Charlotte, the waters around it are still.”

  Despite his reassuring words, she found herself shivering. She’d be cut off from civilisation, even more than she was now. Trapped in a world within a world. She blinked hard, asked more questions, tried to think straight, to think like a wife. “On this island, there is just the hospital?” What else could she call it, an asylum – a lunatic asylum? She gulped as he nodded. “And as an auxiliary, what would my duties be?”

  “You would help care for the patients,” after a moment adding, “you wished for a job.”

  “Yes, I did, but not as a skivvy, someone to clean up after others! I wanted to work in an office as I did before.”

  “Tesoro,” – she was sure the desperation on his face matched her own – “please, I ask you one thing, to do this for me, not forever. I do not mean forever. But for a short while and then after I have gained the experience I need, we will move on, go somewhere else.”

  A ray of hope dared to surge. “Where will we go?”

  “Somewhere different.”

  “Leave Venice entirely?”

  “If that is what you want.”

  It was, more than anything, and not to go further into Italy either, as much as she’d loved it whilst they were travelling. She wanted to go home. And she would, she’d go home. She couldn’t bear the thought of not returning. But first… she owed it to her husband to go to Poveglia with him. Looking around her, at the bedroom that they stood in, at the painting on the wall, imagining his mother listening at the door, treating him like a little boy, and her like the enemy, it might even be an improvement. A laugh escaped her, surprising Enrico at first but then delighting him – he dared to look hopeful too.

  “I will come with you, Enrico, but after that, allow me a say in our future.”

  “Si, si, amore, of course.”

  His arms tightened round her as he drew her towards him. She relaxed into his kiss, deepened it, defiantly so and, if ‘Mamma’ burst in, let her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A local boatman ferried them across to the island, his expression solemn as he sat at the wheel flicking ash into the sea whilst steering through deep waters. Sitting away from the boat’s edge, close to Enrico, his arm around her shoulders, Charlotte wished the sun would shine, but it was raining, and it was cold; colder than she thought October would be.

  “Not long,” Enrico whispered, sensing her discomfort. “We will be there soon.”

  One hand reaching up to adjust her hat, she smiled at him, then continued to stare outwards. It was easy to spot where they were heading, the ancient bell tower offering a landmark to guide them.

  Since asking Charlotte to come to Poveglia with him, there’d been strained silence in the suite of rooms over the archway, his mother wanting rid of her but aware she was losing her son again. Certainly she’d been pleased Enrico was advancing in his career, but she also wanted to hold onto him, to be the main woman in his life as she’d been since his conception. Perhaps she might feel the same. Like Stefania, she’d think no woman was good enough for her male offspring. Or maybe they’d only have daughters: reared as she was, to be strong and clever, to be vital, contributing to society in some way and not just an appendage. And what she was doing, going to Poveglia to help those who were unwell, was vital. She’d come to see it that way. Felt happier about it, especially when she’d learnt a small cottage on the island had been prepared for them – the home that she’d longed for, and just the two of them in it – Doctor and Mrs Enrico Sanuto.

  The bell tower loomed closer. Any minute she’d be off the boat and onto dry land. Something she was both grateful for and wary of. For the first time in her life, she had the notion she’d be safer on the water. That she should turn full circle and return to Venice, a city she could have loved if every night had been like their first night there, if they could have explored it together, at their leisure, and admired its sights. But it was growing misty too, white tendrils of vapour solidifying to form a shield wall, one that couldn’t be breached.

  Stop it! The island is full of people, not monsters. People just like you. Just like her? Perhaps. Right now she felt a little mad too.

  “Charlotte, we are here.”

  Pulled from her reverie, she frowned. “Where is your uncle? Isn’t he going to greet us?”

  Enrico held out both his hands and glanced upwards. “The rain,” he said, as if that explained his absence.

  The boatman tied the boat to a strut with a length of rope, stepped onto the ledge and helped her out first and then Enrico. He then jumped back into the boat and handed them their luggage, frowning as he lifted the suitcase with all her clothes and books in it.

  “Grazie,” she said as it was placed before her.

  Meanwhile, Enrico took his wallet out and withdrew some notes. “Grazie,” he said too. “Grazie mille.”

  Taking the money from Enrico and stuffing it in his jacket pocket, the boatman turned to go, leaving them to stare after him.

  “What a grim man,” Charlotte remarked, pulling her woollen coat tighter.

  “He is just doing his job.”

  “As you are, bringing us to this island?”

  Enrico looked at her. “Scusa?”

  “Nothing,” she dismissed. Instead she pointed to what looked like battlement buildings, a few feet across the water, forming a kind of channel as they came in. “What is that?”

  “The Octagon,” Enrico informed her. “It was built during the fourteenth century to repel Genoese invaders and then in the Napoleonic wars to ambush the French commandos.”

  She was impressed. “This island has a lot of history.”

  “It does. Come and I will introduce you to Fabrizio.”

  The man who wouldn’t brave the rain to greet us? I can hardly wait.

  She turned in the direction of the hospital to get her first real look at it. It was not what she’d expected: something austere and grey, crouching menacingly before them – a version of Dickens’ bedlam. It was actually quite attractive. Divided into three separate buildings, each one was stepped slightly back from the other, the bell tower at the far right end. The main building comprised three storeys and the two either side were on two floors – how deep they were it was impossible to see from this angle. Boasting a natural sandstone façade, there was also an edge of grass, which served to soften the building further. There were
trees too; it was lovely to see a glimpse of nature again, some colour. Intrigued, despite herself, she asked Enrico to tell her more about the island’s history.

  “It dates back to Roman times. So many islands in these waters were used as an initial means of defence. In the eighteenth century it was also a checkpoint for all goods and people going to and from Venice by ship. And the bell tower is what remains of a church.”

  “Why would they have a church on an island this small?”

  Enrico laughed. “This is Italy. Where there are people, there are churches.”

  Whilst they talked they made their way to the main entrance, rows and rows of windows looking down on them – like eyes, she thought, sightless eyes. “And now it is home to an asylum,” she mused, listening out for cries and shrieks from within.

  Enrico was quick to correct her. “It is a hospital and the people inside are our patients.”

  She noted the emphasis on the word ‘our’.

  “Come on then. Do we knock on the door, yank the bell pull or go straight in?”

  Enrico shrugged, tugged at the bell pull and then stood back. He shuffled slightly and cleared his throat. She was about to ask him if he was nervous when the door opened, creaking as it did so – the first sound she’d heard on the island aside from their voices. She looked up, wondered if she might see sea birds circling overhead. There were none.

  It was a woman who answered; petite, like Charlotte, but with dark hair and wearing a white, starched dress and nurse’s cap.

  Enrico extended his hand. “Buon pomeriggio.”

  “Dottore Sanuto, ben arrivata, entra.”

  “Grazie.” Motioning for Charlotte to step forward, he introduced her as his wife. The woman shook Charlotte’s hand too, her grasp limp.

  Without any further exchange they were led along a lengthy, narrow corridor; walls painted cream but peeling in places, particularly around the top where the pipes ran. There were several doors either side, but they were all closed. She guessed they were recreation rooms as the wards would be on the upper levels. There’d be a kitchen too, a dining hall, a laundry room. A world within a world – a thought that kept recurring.

  At the far end, behind another closed door was Enrico’s uncle’s office – his name emblazoned on the door’s glass inset in fancy gold lettering. Finally they’d found him. The nurse knocked confidently and opened it when a voice from within gave the order.

  So, this was Fabrizio Gritti, the eminent surgeon and Stefania’s brother. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d been expecting – a larger-than-life figure, rotund too with eyes that glared. But he wasn’t like his sister. He was tall, slim and, if not handsome, authoritative in his well-pressed suit, his dark hair thick and his features neat. Older than Stefania by a few years, Enrico had already told her he wasn’t married, ‘only to his work’. He had a presence about him, a charisma, so she could understand Stefania’s pride in him. It was only a shame she couldn’t apply that same level of respect to her husband. When she spoke to Luigi – a mere hotelier in comparison – it was almost always with derision.

  “Enrico, Enrico.” Taking the cigarette from his mouth, Dr Gritti came rushing towards him, kissing him on both cheeks. “Sono contenta che tu sia qui.” He then turned to Charlotte and kissed her on both cheeks. “Welcome, I have heard much about you.”

  Charlotte’s smile was tight as she wondered who had told him, Stefania or Enrico? If the former, she dreaded to think what had been said. The doctor held her gaze as if assessing her and then clapped his hands together, the sudden noise making her jump.

  “Your suitcases, where are they?”

  “At the door, Uncle, they are heavy.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, I will send for one of the orderlies to take them to your living quarters.” Looking specifically at Charlotte, he added, “We do not have many auxiliary staff on the island, not many staff at all. It is not easy to persuade people to work here.”

  Convenient you can make good use of me then. It was a thought she didn’t dare voice.

  “Please, follow me and I will show you around.”

  Charlotte widened her smile in an attempt to show she was grateful the doctor was speaking in English. The matron, who was standing beside the open door, stepped aside for Dr Gritti to go first and then gestured for Enrico and Charlotte to follow him. In the corridor they turned towards the staircase, holding onto the bannister as they climbed to the second floor. She’d guessed correctly. This was where the wards were. Entering the closest, it was clean and warm if sparse, the smell of disinfectant making her eyes water but masking other, perhaps more offensive, smells. Only a few of the metal-railed beds were occupied and all by women, lying prone, a thin blanket to cover each one.

  As they walked, Dr Gritti talked about the hospital – lapsing into Italian only now and again. He informed them of the types of conditions patients suffered from, including manic-depressive psychosis, anxiety and obsession. At the end of one patient’s bed – an elderly woman, who appeared dead if it were not for the gentle rise and fall of her chest – he declared that ‘delusion’ was at the heart of such illnesses.

  “They imagine so much,” he said, his eyes trained on Charlotte. “They think they hear things, see things, they insist they can touch what is not there. Fantasy and reality blurs, they begin not to realise there is a difference. My treatments could be considered…” he averted his gaze now, looked almost imperiously into the distance, “revolutionary. I believe no matter how entrenched the madness there is a way back. And if not a way back, there is a way to subdue it so that patients are no longer a danger to themselves or society.”

  After delivering his speech he was silent, giving them time to absorb his ethos. Charlotte saw no reason to disagree. She knew very little about mental illness, never having been exposed to anyone with problems of that kind. He was the expert and her husband was to learn from him and become an expert too. Keen to appear as interested, she asked, “Only some beds are occupied, where are the rest of the patients?”

  “They are either at recreation or receiving treatment,” was the reply.

  With one hand, she gestured around her. “Are there only women here?”

  “In this wing yes. The men’s wing is further away. It is wise to keep them separate, you understand? But,” he paused briefly, “I have to say that it is mainly women on the island, because they are the most prone to the conditions I have described.”

  “I see,” replied Charlotte, but in truth she was surprised. Could that really be true?

  They continued on their journey, leaving the wards and venturing deeper into the building. Like Venice, it was a maze. They didn’t travel every corridor; the building would take time to explore fully but, returning to the ground floor, they were shown the recreation rooms, where she noticed significantly more patients milling about and various staff to administer to them. Again the rooms were sparse, tables and chairs in them and little else, certainly nothing that could be considered frivolous such as a vase of flowers or a painting; no homely touches at all. The number of ‘ill’ outnumbered the ‘sane’ but remembering Dr Gritti’s words about subduing them, she felt comforted. Nobody looked particularly menacing and the atmosphere was quiet enough, a few murmurings here and there. Perhaps their time on the island wouldn’t be so bad. It’d be bearable. Despite the institutionalised feel of the place, it was functional and she’d have to function within it.

  Having decided he’d shown them enough, Dr Gritti asked a nurse to fetch an orderly to take the couple to their lodgings. Enrico wasn’t starting work until the next day, and they had been assured that a fire had been lit and some food prepared.

  “You will find it comfortable,” he said, leaving no room for doubt.

  It was dark as they were led across the grounds to their cottage – the only one of its kind it seemed, so perhaps the rest of the staff lived in quarters in the main building – and the mist hadn’t abated. There was a sound in the distance, the toll
ing of bells, not coming from this island but from another, perhaps even Venice itself – St Mark’s Basilica. When at last it came to an end she questioned if she’d really heard it. It truly felt as if there was nothing nearby, that they were cast adrift, to float aimlessly forevermore, she, Enrico and so many mad strangers. She looked at the bell tower. Before the asylum, how many had had to call this place home because of their occupation? Had they formed a successful community or had living together in such close proximity proved trying? Lost in thought, she failed to notice a rock jutting out of the ground. Caught off guard, she stumbled and fell, landing heavily.

  “Tesoro!” Enrico rushed to her side to help her but before he could, her hands sunk further into the rain-drenched soil; she was surprised at how quickly they disappeared, as if the earth was ravenous. Desperate to get a hold, convinced her whole body would be devoured if she didn’t, her hand at last closed around something solid. As Enrico hauled her upwards, what was in her hand came up with her. Before she could examine it, Enrico was hugging her, fussing over her, wiping the mud from her coat.

  “I’m not hurt,” she assured him, keen to see what she’d retrieved.

  Pushing him away slightly with her free hand, she got a good look. The object was long, thin and white. It looks like a bone, a human bone. Could it be? If anyone would know, it would be her husband. She decided to ask him.

  “Enrico—”

  She didn’t get any further; he’d also noticed what was in her hand. Taking it from her, he examined it too, but only briefly, then threw it back into the mud. Surprised by this, she watched as it returned to the depths, helped on its way by his foot stamping on it.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  “It belongs there.”

  “Was it a bone?”

  “It is nothing, it is gone.”

  “But, darling, if it was a bone—”

  Again he interrupted her, “Let’s go to the house. It is not fair to keep the orderly waiting whilst you interrogate me.”