by Amy Cross
"Catherine!" I call out as I leave my bedroom, stumbling to the study. Truth be told, I'm not quite certain that I am sober yet, as I feel that some of the alcohol from last night might still be in my system. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I see that it is almost seven o'clock in the morning, so I must get myself washed and ready for the day ahead. "Catherine!" I call out again, finding that the hearth is cold.
"Damn that girl," I mutter, realizing that she must have overslept. With my head aching and my body almost dragged down by tiredness, I hurry to her room and push the door open, but I'm greeted by an empty bed. It's as if the girl has ignored everything I said to her yesterday, and has instead chosen once again to neglect her duties. What can possibly be going through her mind? Storming through to the kitchen, I find that there's no sign of any food having been prepared. Is it truly the case that, despite everything that happened last night, she has not learned her lesson?
Just as I'm about to turn and go back through to get dressed, I notice that my belts are still set out on the table. I remember coming back to the house last night to fetch one of them, so that I could go and whip Catherine in the town square; I distinctly recall coming back through the front door, but then I went instead to my bedroom and... I pause for a moment, as a cold shiver runs through my body. I came back to the house to fetch my belt, and then... I turn and look over at my bedroom door. It's not possible that I... I couldn't have simply fallen asleep on my bed, could I? If I did, then Catherine must still be out in the town square, awaiting my return.
"Dear God!" I shout, hurrying to the hallway and quickly putting on my coat over the clothes in which I slept. Rushing out into the snow, which is now so thick that one can hardly walk along the street, I hurry as fast as I can to the town square. It's a terrible morning, with snow still falling thickly and an icy wind howling through the streets, so fortunately there will probably not have been too many people leaving their homes yet. Nevertheless, it is still possible that someone might have found Catherine, in which case I might have to endure yet more idle gossip about the methods I use when disciplining my child. I must get to her and bring her home immediately, so that no-one sees the injuries on her back and face. I simply can't have people trying to interfere in our private lives.
As soon as I reach the town square, I see that the whole area is covered in a thick layer of snow. There seem to be no footprints anywhere, which suggests that at this early hour no-one has ventured out into the heavy storm. That, at least, is a blessing, but as I hurry toward the cross at the center, I realize that there's no sign of Catherine. The snow is almost up to my waist as I look around frantically, wondering where she could have gone. Just as I'm about to run over to the hotel and ask if anyone has seen her, however, I spot something sticking up out of the snow, just by the base of the cross. I step closer, and with horror I see that there is a single, frozen hand protruding from the blanket of whiteness. With its skin covered in ice crystals, the hand is instantly recognizable as that of my dear daughter, and for a moment it feels as if my heart stops beating as I stare at the tragic scene.
"Dear God," I mutter under my breath.
For a moment, I'm unable to move, transfixed by the sight of Catherine's hand. Finally, I manage to shake myself out of the stupor. Glancing around to check that I'm still alone, I lean forward and dig out some of the snow, only to be confronted by the sight of Catherine's frozen face, staring up at the sky with her mouth open wide. When I have dug out a little more snow, I find that she died with her arms on the cross, as if she was clinging to it for warmth. Soon I have her completely uncovered, and I realize that she has turned almost pale blue with cold; the only color, apart from her hair, are the slashes of dark red blood from the wounds I made last night with the whip. Reaching out, I touch her icy shoulder and feel that it has become rock hard. There is absolutely no doubt that she is dead, and has been so for many hours, frozen solid while I was teaching her a lesson. How long, I wonder, did she wait for me to return before she realized she was going to die out here in the freezing storm? Did she long for me to come back, to whip her, and then to take her home? Or did she hope that I would drunkenly fall asleep on my bed, only to awaken early in the morning and realize what I had done? Did she and the Devil conspire to torture me in such a heinous manner?
When I try to pull her away from the cross, I find that she is frozen in place. Unsure of what to do, I turn and hurry over to the small office nearby where Mayor Albert Caster lives and works. The bumbling old fool has not been seen in town for a few days, leading many to gossip about his whereabouts, but I'm quite certain he must be inside at this early hour. Finding the front entrance to be unlocked, I head straight into the building and run up the stairs until I am at the door to his office. The place seems strangely undisturbed, as if no-one has been here for a while. I know that people in town have begun to speculate about Mayor Caster, wondering what has happened to him over the past week. He simply fired his assistant, the young Ms. Paternoster, and disappeared into his office, not to be seen again. There is talk of a delegation coming to demand answers, and to see if he intends to resume his duties as our Mayor. Right now, however, I do not have time to wait. I need the man's help in order to clean up this appalling tragedy with my daughter, and I need to do so with the minimum of fuss and scandal.
"Mayor Caster!" I call out, banging on the door of his office. "It's me, Dr. Collings! I need your help immediately! It's a matter of great importance!"
There is no reply from the office. I try the door handle, but it seems to be locked. Sighing, I'm about to turn and walk away when I hear a sound from inside. It's just a brief, shuffling noise, but it's definitely an indication that someone is alive in there. Pausing, I wait to see if I might finally get an answer, but the noise abates and I'm left standing in silence.
"Open this door!" I shout out, annoyed at his childish game. "Albert, is that you? Open this door immediately!"
"Go away!" a voice hisses from the other side of the door. It's a low, hushed sound, but it's definitely Mayor Caster.
"Open the door!" I insist, banging again. "This is important!"
"Go away!" he replies.
"I need your help!" I say. "What's wrong with you, man?"
"Go away!" he says firmly.
"What are you -" I start to say, before pausing as I realize that his voice is coming from low down, almost by the floor. Crouching slowly, I peer through the crack between the door and the jamb, and I see a hint of movement. "Are you on your hands and knees?" I ask incredulously. "What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing," he replies, keeping his voice low. "I just -" There's a pause. "Yes," he whispers, as if he's talking to someone else, "I know. I'm telling him!"
"I need your help," I say, realizing that my hands are trembling. "Albert, we have known each other all our lives, and I have given you medical assistance on many occasions. It is time for you to repay those favors. Something awful has happened, and I need to keep it quiet."
"He needs my help," Mayor Caster mutters.
"Who's in there with you?" I ask. "Open this door immediately."
"Have you seen her?" he says suddenly.
"Seen who?" I say.
"Victoria," he replies. "Is she well?"
"If you mean Ms. Paternoster," I say, "I must admit that I have not seen her for a few days. But something has happened to my dear Catherine, she..." I pause, wondering how on Earth I am to explain the events of last night. Although I am perfectly sure in my own mind of why I did what I did, and although I am certain that God had his reasons for taking her at such a young age, I feel that the impressionable, hysterical people of Devil's Briar might blanch at the details of my behavior. In particular, I am keen to ensure that my drunkenness does not become public knowledge. Should people learn that I, a respected member of the community, drunkenly left my daughter out in the snow to die, I would be seen in a bad light and it might take quite some time for my reputation to recover.
"Go away,"
Mayor Caster says. "I can't help you. I'm busy. Come back tomorrow."
Sighing, I realize that I'm to get no help from this fool. Getting to my feet, I turn and walk out of the room, down the stairs and back out into the town square. To my shock, I find that a small crowd of half a dozen people has gathered around Catherine's body, and one of them - Andreas Dixon, the butcher - has ventured forward to check for a pulse.
"She's dead," I say, feeling a strange sense of calmness descend upon my body.
"Frozen to death," Dixon replies, turning to me with tears in his eyes. "Dr. Collings, I'm so sorry. We just found her here like this, she..." He pauses, evidently too emotional to continue. "What was she doing out here? Why was she out in the storm?"
I step forward, forcing myself to look once more upon Catherine's blue, frozen face. "Of late," I say, forcing myself to remain strong, "she has been seeking a dalliance with Thomas Parkinson. I forbade her from seeing him, but I'm sad to say that she was resisting my warnings and I believed she had been sneaking out to..." I pause, not because I am emotional but because I want it to appear that I'm overcome with sorrow. "In my mind," I continue after a moment, "there can be only one reason why my daughter was out so late at night. She probably chained herself out here in amorous despair. You know how silly young girls can get when they think they're in love."
"I'm so sorry for your loss," says Dixon. "If there is anything I can do to help..."
"There is nothing," I say. "Perhaps someone could help to pry her frozen hands from the cross and bring her to my home, and I'll speak to the undertaker about arranging a simple funeral."
"I'll do it," Dixon says. The poor man is probably just hoping that he can gain free medical care in return for performing this kindness, but I shall grant him no such favor. Still, I will be glad of his help.
"Thank you," I reply, turning and walking away across the town square. I must go home and remove the evidence of my drunkenness. There is glass to be cleared up, and I should purchase some more whiskey so that my liquor cabinet does not appear shamefully empty. I will undoubtedly be receiving visitors throughout the day, keen to offer their condolences for Catherine's death, and I must seem convincingly mournful. I cannot tell the truth: I cannot tell them that it was I who chained Catherine to the cross, nor that I believe she deserved to die. Catherine was doomed by her own impetuosity and by her stubborn streak, and her death - though unintended on my part - was probably a necessary evil. Things are better this way, and I can only hope that she will understand her own sins now that she is burning in Hell.
But then why are my hands still shaking?
Chapter Six
Today.
By early evening, the storm has started to die down and the snowfall has become just a light flurry. The sky above, though still dark and threatening, seems to be clearing just a little, and the wind has dropped away. Stepping out of the hotel, Paula and I find ourselves looking out at a vast snowy landscape, with two or three feet of snow having fallen across the town square. Suddenly Devil's Briar has been transformed from a dusty little town to something out of a Christmas card, and the place looks almost idyllic.
"You coming?" Paula asks, walking down the steps and starting to push through the snow.
"Where?" I reply.
"To look at those footprints," she says.
"Why?" I say. "It must have been me, when I went to get the batteries."
"But you said you didn't walk around the cross," she points out.
"I must have done," I say. "It's the only explanation. I don't really remember, but I guess I must have maybe gone around it." I pause, realizing that my words don't exactly ring true. I remember walking across the town square on my way to the truck, and I remember walking back, and on both occasions I walked to the near side of the cross. I'm damn certain I didn't walk around the base, and yet the footprints would seem to indicate that someone took such a path. "Besides," I call after her, "maybe there aren't any footprints. Maybe it's just a freak of nature."
"Then let's go and take a look," she says. "One way or the other, I want to know." She turns and starts trudging through the snow, battling to push it aside as she makes her way to the center of the square.
"There's a perfectly rational explanation!" I call after her.
"Then why are you so reluctant to come with me?" she replies.
Sighing, I decide to follow her. Since we arrived at Devil's Briar, Paula has exhibited worrying signs of superstition. I know this place is kind of creepy, but I get the feeling that Paula's allowing it to get to her; when we hear the old wooden buildings creak in the night, I recognize that the wood is merely settling and contracting, but I think Paula allows her imagination to run away with her. She lets herself believe that maybe there are ghosts, when what she should be doing is maintaining a rational perspective.
"See?" she says as we reach the base of the cross in the center of the town square. "Footprints, going all the way around. If you didn't make them, who did?"
She's right. There definitely seem to be footprints going around the cross, and I can also see my own footprints from where I walked past to get the battery. It simply doesn't make sense that I could have taken a little detour around the cross without remembering it, but at the same time the alternative doesn't make sense either: there simply can't be anyone else in Devil's Briar.
"Explain it," Paula says defiantly. "Explain these footprints."
I pause, and slowly a sense of suspicion creeps into my thoughts. If Paula wanted to trick me, to fool me into acknowledging the validity of her superstitions, then this would be the perfect way to do it. There's no reason why, while I was getting the batteries, she couldn't have come out here and made the extra footprints, in order to force me to accept the possibility of some kind of supernatural presence. It's sad to think that she has fallen to such a low point, setting up stunts to get my attention, but it's the only logical explanation. I know I didn't make these footprints, so it must have been her.
"You can't explain it, can you?" she continues. "You know there aren't your footprints, but you still won't admit that there might be something going on here that you don't understand."
"Like what?" I say. "Ghosts? Seriously, Paula?" I pause for a moment, starting to feel a little annoyed that she could be so foolish. "A good scientist looks for gaps in current knowledge and tries to fill those gaps with rational explanations. Sure, there are things we can't explain here right now, but that doesn't mean you just start running around and claiming there are ghosts in the mix." I look down at the footprints, which have been partially covered by snow and now look like a series of faint depressions. "Maybe I did walk around the cross earlier," I continue, "or maybe you did."
"And neither of us remembers doing it?" she says.
"Or one of us doesn't want to admit it," I reply.
She stares at me. "Is that your best answer?" she says after a moment. "Why would I do that? Do you think I'm trying to set something up on purpose?"
"To piss me off? Maybe." I sigh. "I hope that's not the case, Paula, but it's far more likely than the alternative, which is -" Suddenly I spot something moving in the corner of my eye. Turning, I think - just for a moment - that I see a human figure walking behind the hotel on the far side of the town square. My heart is racing as I stare and wait to see if there'll be anything else.
"What are you looking at?" Paula asks, having apparently not seen anything.
"Nothing," I say, turning back to her. I guess all this talk of ghosts has started to make me feel a little edgy, but this is exactly how such things happen. An impressionable mind can be easily fooled, and in this case I probably just saw a piece of trash blowing through the wind, and my brain filled in a few gaps and presented the image to me as a person in the distance. The human brain is a complex thing, and it can play little tricks at times of heightened sensitivity. There's quite clearly no-one else in Devil's Briar, but I must keep reminding myself of that fact rather than weakening and falling prey to the s
ame superstitious nonsense that seems to be filling Paula's head.
"Why won't you just open up your mind to the possibility that there's something unusual going on here?" she says. "I'm not saying you have to believe it, but as a scientist you have to be aware of the different explanations, rather than being pig-headed and blocking ideas off just because they don't fit with your own personal philosophy."
"Ghosts don't exist," I say firmly. "Everything that happens in the world can be explained rationally. It's too tempting to just start believing in ghosts and fairies and magic and all that garbage. We're scientists, Paula. We look for proper explanations, not fantasies that make us feel all warm and tingly. These footprints are here because someone walked here in the snow. There are only two people in Devil's Briar, so there are only two people who could have done this. It's simple."
"And you think I'm lying to you?" she asks.
I shrug. "I'm just stating the obvious."
She pauses for a moment. "And how do you explain the hands?" she says suddenly, looking down at the snow that covers the base of the cross.
"What hands?" I ask, getting tired of her games.
"Take a look for yourself."
Sighing, I step closer and look down at the black metal base. I quickly see what Paula means: there are two perfect hand-prints on the metal, frozen into place as if someone had their hands pressed against the cross while the frost developed. It's absolutely undeniable that human hands have been touching this cross, and at the same time I'm not sure that there's any way Paula could have done all this behind my back.
"Explain all of this, Bill," Paula says, fixing me with a determined stare. "It wasn't me, and you insist it wasn't you. So who was it?"
Chapter Seven
1925.
As is tradition, I have Catherine's body laid out in a coffin in our home. It's not that I want her here, or that I feel any need to 'make peace' with her before she's buried tomorrow; it's merely that the people of Devil's Briar expect me to act properly, and I would prefer not to draw attention to my actions at this time. After all, it's currently believed by the general population that Catherine died after slipping out of the house in order to go and meet Thomas Parkinson, whose vociferous denials are falling on deaf ears. No-one has yet mentioned the cuts on her back and face, probably because the locals would prefer not to raise the specter of another scandal in the town. With Lawrence Evans so recently dead, there seems to be a general desire to have peace return to our community.
