Behind Dark Doors (the complete collection): Eighteen suspenseful short stories

by Susan May

  Henry didn’t win. So here both stood under the shady veranda of a small, gray milliner’s store looking out at small town life Australia, 1898.

  Tamara wiped the back of her hand across her damp forehead. Rolling her dry lips between her teeth, she realized her thirst was growing by the minute. She rested a weary arm on Henry’s shoulder.

  The dress of the era Henry certainly suited Henry. A wide-brimmed, brown, floppy hat perched over shoulder-length hair he’d pushed casually behind his ears. A long sleeve, loose-fitting, cream shirt, open at the neck—lucky him—matched with brown brogues and suspenders, completed the look. Although Tamara would never admit it, he looked pretty cute.

  “We’re here. Can you believe it?”

  Henry had a propensity, she’d discovered, to brood. Well, she imagined it was brooding. He didn’t talk much, which simply made her talk more. Empty silences made her uncomfortable.

  He took a long time to answer, continuing to stare toward the end of the street where rows of trees and dense shrubs marked the edge of town.

  “I’ll believe it better with a cold drink. Drowning in this humidity. God-forsaken place. Australia, ha.”

  The derision in his voice was thick. This wasn’t his dream. Tamara knew that. She just hoped he’d remain professional. Henry had a reputation of being condescending to those he thought were less intelligent than him—which, supposedly, was everyone. Discovering he’d been beaten out of the mission leadership must have come as rather a surprise. He’d already made a few sarcastic comments, while they weren’t overt, certainly hinted at sour grapes.

  Tamara pulled a map from her satchel and opened it. After glancing up and down the street and returning to the map several times, she pointed toward a small wooden building across the street.

  “That’s the post office.”

  She swung her still-pointing finger farther down the road and added, “So, the hotel is that way. That’s where we go. We need to get a room and start making plans.”

  They set off down the street. Tamara’s heavy gray skirt and long-sleeved blouse itched as though the material was interwoven with barbs. Her gait felt off, due to the heaviness of the skirt and tight black boots that made her feet ache.

  Would her walk give her away, make her stand out?

  She’d learned the accent to perfection, but it’d never occurred to her to practice their style of movement. Suddenly, she felt uncomfortably conspicuous merely by her gait. Again, she envied Henry and his comfortable garb. He swaggered down the street as though he was born-and-bred of 1898 and not a South Pasadenan from 2123.

  Despite feeling out of place and time, now Tamara was here something extraordinary had begun to happen. The town had already begun to seep beneath her skin. Once in her hotel room, she would spend the next few hours practicing her walk, her accent, and her manners, everything, so there would be no doubt she belonged.

  11.13 pm, 27th December, 1898

  It would happen tonight.

  Three siblings, Norah, twenty-seven, Ellen, eighteen, and their brother, Michael Murphy, twenty-nine, would not see the morning.

  Tamara’s Gatton ancestors had been friends with the Murphy’s. Letters and news-clippings chronicling the murders came to her via an unassuming time capsule. Several tatty, old shoeboxes courtesy of her great-grandmother Susanna. Thoughtfully, Susanna bundled them with other fascinating memorabilia as though she knew one day one of her descendants would need them.

  Tied with red ribbon, the letters were nestled inside one box, along with a small note in flowing handwriting:

  Where we once were, we must never return.

  This note, though, was not from her great-great grandmother. There were other letters from Susanna inside, and when she compared the handwriting, the scrawl of this note was not that of Susanna’s angular, neat style. Tamara pondered the words often, attempting to fathom exactly what they meant and for whom they were intended. Perhaps they weren’t even a message about the murders. Perhaps it was the travelling music-sheet salesman Percy, mentioned so fondly in the letters?

  He’d captured Susanna’s heart if the long commentary passages on his hair, clothes, and the way he smiled were anything to go by. Something had happened, though, by February of 1898. After that date, mentions of him stopped abruptly. Tamara’s first thought was he’d died. On checking the death notices, though, she’d discovered he’d lived until 1923.

  Another mystery she hoped to solve while here.

  From the letters and news articles, Tamara knew the day of the murders but not the exact time. After research, she calculated they’d occurred between ten and one am.

  The murderer would strike as the Murphy’s walked from a town Christmas party back to their farm homestead eight miles from town. For some reason no one could explain, they left the open road to take an unnecessary detour along a dark path through the bush.

  A half-mile down the path, their bodies would be found the afternoon of the next day after an extensive search by most of the townsfolk. Ellen and Norah’s arms were bound with their own silk dress belts, their heads bashed until unrecognizable. They had been propped up, sitting against a towering gum tree as though merely resting in the shade.

  Since forensics and crime scene investigation at the time were rudimentary, the medical examiner had not recorded if either girl was raped. Tamara supposed that could have been one motive, although it didn’t really explain the ferocity of the attack.

  Their brother must have tried to protect them, and met his death before preventing the inevitable. Michael’s body would be found, beaten and mutilated, with a final gunshot wound to the temple.

  The strangest part was a note made at the bottom of one of the report’s pages. Inside each girl’s mouth was found a key. Tamara could find no mention of whether the key belonged to the girls or the killer. Keys weren’t a regular item of the period, locks only being perfected in the 1800s and not widely used. Most people didn’t have enough valuables to warrant protection. The Murphy family was not rich, so it was doubtful the keys belonged to them.

  So there was another mystery. Whose keys were they? Why insert them in the dead girls’ mouths?

  Here heart fluttered at the thought of being here, just over two hundred years later, poised to discover the truth of the worst unsolved crime in the colony’s early history.

  Squatting behind a bush by the roadside, Tamara shifted in the uncomfortable position trying to ease the ache, which had begun to claw at her calves. She looked over at Henry, a few feet away. He leaned against a stocky tree, slowly chewing on a piece of grass—he really had adapted to his role—his face half in shadow.

  His stance was as nonchalant as his attitude had been most of the afternoon. Tamara had barely controlled her annoyance. It didn’t help at all the clothes and styling of the era really suited him. Something about long, unkempt hair on a man wearing a slouch hat and a careless attitude was rather attractive. The Mr. Darcy affect she’d coined it.

  Henry wasn’t even bothering to maintain a pretense of interest. His back was to the road as he stared across the darkened, peaceful, land behind them. In their time, this kind of untouched natural vista only existed in certain carefully maintained and protected reserves. These reserves, so popular as holiday and weekend destinations, were booked out months ahead. In peak summer season, it came down to a lottery, even for a day visit.

  A flare of anger rose in Tamara as she considered had the roles been reversed, she would have remained professional. Words rose in her throat, but she swallowed them down. Instead, keeping her voice calm, she said, “Henry, you do have the camera equipment calibrated correctly, right? One chance is all we have to get this.”

  Henry’s head turned to her. He stared at her for long seconds as though she’d spoken a foreign language, which required time for translation.

  “I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

  “That means what?”

  “It’s done.”

  He leaned to the sid
e and spat the chewed grass onto the ground, then sent her a piercing don’t-ask-me-again stare, before resuming his observation of the land.

  The camera to which she referred, was fixed in a tree branch above the spot the Murphy’s would meet their death. Set to follow voice and movement, the equipment should capture everything. The only issue being, the sensitivity of the sensors.

  If the event happened outside its range, they would have nothing. Tamara had surmised the murders occurred beneath the tree, because that’s where the women’s bodies were found. If the killer had done the deed elsewhere, all they would capture would be him placing the bodies beneath the tree.

  Maybe a good thing thought Tamara, not overly keen on watching three innocent people murdered. At the least, they would get a look at the murderer.

  During the afternoon, while waiting in the hotel room, they’d made a plan to hide themselves near the point where the Murphy’s would leave the road. At the very least, they could witness why the three had left the road.

  As Tamara watched Henry chewing on yet another piece of grass that waved in the air in time with his mouth movement, she decided to broach the subject of his attitude. Get it out of the way, so they could focus on their work.

  “Henry, we need to talk. I—”

  The sound of voices stopped her. Instantly, she turned back to the road and leaned forward, crouching lower behind the bush. Henry ducked down and moved to join her. She noted his nimbleness. He was as lithe as a cat, when he wanted to be.

  The murmur of female voices down the road. A giggle. Then, the deeper tone of a man.

  Every second, they grew closer.

  Tamara’s heart galloped, the pounding suddenly so loud she imagined if the group passed too close to her, they’d hear her. The Murphys would leave the road to their final destiny across the way from them, so she knew it had to be them.

  As they came into view around the corner, Tamara suddenly realized some of what she knew about this night was wrong.

  There were the Murphy’s, yes, laughing, talking, and weaving along the road without a care in the world, never knowing shortly they’d laugh no more.

  They weren’t alone.

  Alongside them walked two others. A man and a woman. These two seemed as much a part of the group as the siblings. Clearly, they were comfortable in each other’s company.

  Norah and Ellen walked arm-in-arm. On the other side of Ellen the other woman kept pace with them, her arm, also, linked with Ellen’s. The stranger—as Tamara thought of the man—strolled casually beside Thomas, animatedly talking. His was the voice Tamara had heard. Thomas seemed to be attentively listening and nodding.

  Suddenly, the stranger stopped as though he’d seen something unexpected. Tamara lowered herself further down behind the bush. She could still see a little through the foliage if she bent a small branch to the side. The man pointed to the slip rail fence across from Tamara and Henry’s hiding spot. This was where the path began. He leaned in and whispered something to Michael, but Tamara couldn’t hear with the girl’s giggling and gossiping about people at the dance, they’d just left.

  She cursed the fact she had only one camera and it was at the murder site. If she’d been able, she would have brought a second. Then she could have had it here to pick up these unknown unfolding events. However, bringing technology through was kept to a minimum. A, it could be discovered, and that wouldn’t be an easy discussion. B, the transfer of inanimate objects required greater energy and posed unnecessary risk.

  The group was almost alongside their hiding position. From the corner of her eye, Tamara noticed Henry raising his head slightly to get a better look.

  Now he was interested.

  His problem, she realized was he was a S.A.P. Short attention span. Typical of his personality type. A Mr. Darcy SAP, in fact.

  The group was so close Tamara detected the faint scent of sweat mingled with a not unpleasant musk scent. Perfume maybe? The stranger and Michael clambered over the fence. Michael almost cleared it with a single bound. To her surprise, the three women, in a very unladylike move, hitched their skirts and clambered over the fence.

  Thomas and the stranger held out hands to help them over. Two made it over easily, but Ellen slipped as she mounted the post and almost fell. The stranger saved her, catching her in his arms, before lifting her the rest of the way. This elicited another round of giggles from the three girls.

  Without waiting, they set off down the path, casual as can be, quickly disappearing into the bush. The stranger didn’t immediately follow, lingering, slowly turning back, until he faced in Tamara’s direction. He stared back up the road for a moment, as though he were looking for something. Or someone.

  Was he checking if they’d been seen? Waiting for an accomplice? Perhaps he was just checking to ensure nothing had been dropped as they’d clambered over the fence. Or had he felt they were being watched?

  The full moon snuck out from behind a cloud, lighting the surrounds in a white-gold glow. The trees alongside the road took on a human quality as though they were silent witnesses to events that would echo through time.

  All the planets—and moon—are aligning, thought Tamara.

  The moonlight illuminated the stranger clearly, revealing his facial details as though he were spot lit on a stage.

  Tamara couldn’t help herself. She gasped, but immediately shoved the knuckles of both hands into her mouth to stifle the sound.

  She knew the face.

  It was impossible. Yet, as she thought it through, it was probable. There’d been no record of him being with the Murphys that night. That’s what had surprised her.

  She was certain, though, his identity unmistakable. She’d studied his photographs for years, staring at them, adding details on her ePad App to animate him, create an A.I. animation with whom she could converse. She saw now the voice she’d given him was not quite right. This man’s voice was lower with a richer timbre. He could be a singer it was so melodic. His hawk nose, sharp jaw, and that flop of dark hair, so very familiar it took her long moments to assure herself she wasn’t imagining any of this.

  Two hundred years before she was born, here was the face of the man who’d tucked her into bed throughout her childhood. Who’d nicknamed her Tamacious—a marriage of her name and tenacious. A man she hadn’t seen in five years since his death, which she still struggled to believe.

  One difference separated her memory of her father and this man. The eyes. The stranger’s eyes held an emptiness she’d never seen in her father’s. Even the last time she’d seen him, when he looked so defeated. There was no doubt in her mind, though; she was looking at her great-great-grandfather.

  Then he was gone, following the woman, and the Murphys on their way to meet Fate.

  Tamara racked her brain. She couldn’t remember what the articles had said about her great-great grandfather’s whereabouts on the night. If, he was even mentioned. She couldn’t recall. When she got back to her time, she would need to conduct more research. What was he doing there? Surely, surely, it wasn’t him, who—. If it was, did she really want to discover if her ancestor was a brutal murderer? He couldn’t be. No, she didn’t believe that. Something must have happened.

  Tamara turned to Henry beside her. His gaze continued to stare where the stranger, no, her great-great-grandfather had just stood. Slowly, he turned to look at her.

  “That’s unexpected,” he said.

  Henry obviously hadn’t noticed the resemblance to her or, if he did, was pretending otherwise.

  “I’ve suddenly lost my taste for history,” Tamara said, more to herself than to him.

  Henry gave her one of his you’re-a-crazy-woman looks she hated with a passion.

  “Too late girl. History just took its path.”

  A thought suddenly occurred to Tamara.

  Why did history and fate have to take this path? They were here right now, and the thought her ancestor might be involved or maybe be killed or kidnapped suddenly felt
terrifying. What if he hadn’t yet married, if her great-great-grandmother hadn’t given birth yet to their only child? What if somehow Tamara and Henry’s visit had changed everything? She couldn’t imagine what they’d done. There’d been no mention of the Murphy’s leaving the town with anyone. So this could be a time line kink.

  Oh, God, what should she do?

  Tamara stood rather clumsily. Her muscles felt weak after crouching for so long, and she swayed drunkenly until she recovered her balance. Then she was off, running toward the slip rail on the opposite side of the road. She could hear Henry chasing behind her.

  “Wait, what are you doing? Where are you going, Tamara? Tamara?”

  Tamara didn’t stop. She didn’t turn around or answer. One blistering idea consumed her: Tonight, history might be about to take a different path. She couldn’t let that happen.

  © 2013 Susan May

  From the Imagination Vault

  I wrote Where We Once Were in 2012. I’d had this idea in my head around the old time slip trope: If you went back in time and killed one of your grandparents would you simply blink out of existence? The theory goes, you would never be born if your grandparent wasn’t around to give life to one of your parents. Nobody ever addresses the meme, though, why would you kill your own grandparent? I pondered if you were to risk your very existence by killing a grandparent, maybe there would be a very good reason to do so.

  My mother’s ancestors emigrated to Gatton, Queensland Australia from Prussia in the late 1800s. While researching my family tree for another story, I read articles about the terribly difficult and disappointing life they encountered upon arrival. Growing up in Brisbane (about two hours drive away), we occasionally drove past Gatton. Many a time a discussion would ensue about the mysterious, unsolved Gatton murders. I always wondered about the details and would quiz my parents, but they only knew the basics. After all, it had occurred more than seventy plus years before. Even so, the legend lived on and talk of it was as though it had happened only recently.