The Ghost of Emily Tapper

by Nita Round

  Even though Weasel wore gloves, he grabbed antibacterial wipes from his backpack. He didn’t go for any particular type as a rule, but these were branded and on special offer. After all, a bargain was a bargain and Weasel never could resist saving a penny or two. He cleaned down everything he had touched, including the seats, the gear stick, the steering wheel, the dashboard and even the doors. By the time he’d finished, the car was cleaner than it was when he’d pinched it. The last thing he needed was to be arrested for stealing a car, but with luck it would be waiting for him when he finished. He slung his old kit bag over his shoulder, and strode off down a trail heading, at least at first, in the wrong direction. Weasel was many things, but he was not incautious.

  Contrary to expectations, Magwood Hall was a hive of activity. Cleaners and housekeepers were everywhere, and when they started to disappear, burly men with maintenance overalls appeared. A team of window cleaners climbed all over the place and Weasel saw so many others he wondered if anyone would notice if he drove right up to one of the garages. But if he did, it would be pushing his luck, and a thief, a careful thief, never pushed his luck. Not unless he wanted a nice long holiday at the taxpayer’s expense, and Weasel didn’t. Besides, he wasn’t going to hike all the way back to get the car. Instead, he hid behind one of the outbuildings – an old ramshackle barn – and watched the comings and goings of the tradespeople and, he assumed, people who worked there.

  Weasel despaired at the number of people going in and out of the place. There were so many Weasel couldn’t count them all. Charles said it would be quiet, but it wasn’t. “You fool, Charles, you know squat about your own home.” Then he concerned himself with looking about for the sister. He watched for a while, but he soon got bored.

  He found a nice comfortable place in the long grass behind the barn, laid down an old tarpaulin from his backpack, and settled in to wait. The sun was warm for a change and it was quiet enough to lay back, clean his nails with the tip of a small pocketknife, and listen to the cars come and go. His mind wandered, his thoughts filled with the valuables he would find. Gold, silver, maybe some jewellery and then he could not forget his other promise.

  Waiting was hard work, but thinking of her, the Lady Lord, kept his mind busy. He imagined what she was like, not too tall, he thought, slim, and elegant, a bit like her brother Charles. He didn’t care too much what she looked like, fair hair and female was enough detail, and, according to Charles, all she needed was a good man. Weasel reckoned he was such a man, and with such a thought filling his mind, a quickening inside his trousers agreed with him. She deserved it. After all, she was the one who stopped him from getting the money he was due from her brother. If Charles had paid up on time then Weasel would no longer be in trouble with the boss, who wanted his balls on a plate for slow collection of money owed. He was getting too soft, and at this rate, someone was going to make him suffer. Or take his job, or both.

  Weasel sneered and hissed with irritation. Anger did not make the bulge diminish, it never did, but this time there was the chance of reparation, and he liked that, he liked the sheer expansiveness of unlimited reparation quite a lot. She would pay, without doubt. All he had to do was to decide what ways she would pay and how often. He decided she would be soft, lording it over everyone, including her brother. It was not right a woman should have control. She would be pliable, ready, and he relished the thought of her softness underneath him, enveloping him. Afterward she would beg for more, as any woman would.

  He slipped his hand inside his jeans, and as he thought of all the things he would do, he massaged himself to a swift end, and wiped himself off with an old rag from his pocket. He lay back, and stared up at the blue sky. He was a contented man and his broad grin split his face so wide even the gulls overhead could see the stained stubs he called his teeth. Life was good, he thought, and it was going to get better.

  HE WOKE UP hours later. The westering sun cast the side of the out building into gloom, and the loss of the sun chilled him to wakefulness. He stretched, and yawned. When he looked around the barn, most of the cars and vans had disappeared, as he’d expected, except for a small red car which was the last remaining vehicle. That confused him for moment. He didn’t know anyone who had such an inappropriate vehicle, and he was sure it hadn’t been there when he first arrived. Weasel shook his head and almost laughed. He’d fixed the Land Rover good and proper after all. Perhaps it was even a total wreck, and this pathetic little shopping cart sized thing was the only rental she could get. The idea of some fancy lord diminished with a tiny city car amused him no end. The day got better and better.

  Weasel checked his watch. He looked at the sky too. It was time to make a move then. He put everything into his bag and slung it over his shoulders. He covered his head and face with a ski mask, and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He looked at the main building. His eyes darted from window to window, but there was no sign of activity. Weasel knew a thing or two about stealth and when he crossed the gravel path to the nearest wall of the house, he didn’t make a sound. Adrenalin surged and his heart pounded, Weasel couldn’t wait.

  He inched around the building to the back door and stopped. He took his time, and listened. It was quiet, very quiet. The handle to the kitchen door turned in his grip, and he opened the door a fraction. He paused again, and it was still quiet. There was a clicking clock, the gentle humming of electrical appliances, and nothing else to cause alarm. The door swung open with the barest squeak, and led into a short passage. Boots lined the wall, and Weasel noted, with some satisfaction, all of the spaces on the rack were filled with clean and dry footwear. With no signs of dirt under the rack, he was sure no one had come in from the farm whilst he’d been sleeping. The floor, all clean quarry tiles, also showed no sign of recent muddy passage, and so he stepped through the passageway into the kitchen.

  It was huge. Not one great big room, but it was like several rooms pushed together with parts of the walls missing, which explained why there were more corners than he expected. He glanced around and took a tentative step forward. Stone slabs on the floor were perfect for a quiet entry, and this suited Weasel. Even though he was an expert at illicit entries, his heart beat a little faster. Fear played a part in his line of work, and a little fear was a good thing, it kept his mind alert. Anticipation also played a part, and he looked forward to all the wealth he would acquire from this place. The thrill of being some place he should not was as exciting as the fear and the anticipation. It was all good.

  He stole through the empty kitchen, every step placed with quiet purpose and the skill born of much practice. First, he found the ways around the room, he noted potential areas of danger to his ability to sneak, located exits and hiding places and then took note of the kitchen features. It was old, like one of those working museums he’d been to as a kid. The tiled floors clean, wooden shelves and cabinets knocked and marked yet polished to a light reflecting shine. A large range churned out the heat and kept the kitchen warm, and on the far side of the room a doorway opened into a wide corridor with stone-flagged floor. Weasel smirked. It was so easy to sneak when a place had such solid floors. It was almost too easy. He inched around the side of the room, caution always foremost, and with each step he knew his escape route, or his hiding place. He was as prepared as he could be.

  A whisper caught his attention before he reached the doorway on the other side, and he froze. Instinct closed his eyes and his other senses stretched outward. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the air with sound, the solid and mechanical chunking of the clock punctuated the hiss of the fridge, and quietest of all, the gentle blup-blup of something bubbling. His eyes flew open and he turned, without thought, toward the pan of water coming to boil on the range. A teapot and a cup and saucer sat on the on the side table. “Shit,” he breathed. He had not heard the water, nor had he looked for it. She, the Lord high and mighty, would be back for her tea.

  He heard footsteps. Close. Click-clack, clickity-clack. T
he sound of heeled footwear, of solid heels on stone, came closer.

  Whispers echoed, “Do you...”

  The cold fist of panic took hold of his innards and squeezed. The clock ticked, and in his near panic, it seemed far too loud. Everything seemed to stand out. Colours washed out to a stark monotone, even the edges of the table appeared sharper.

  Tick...

  The world slowed. The bubbling in the pan calmed to a gentle blup. All sound seemed to pause then. Blup.

  He turned his head with exaggerated slowness, and although his mind seemed to work at normal speed, the rest of his body did not.

  ...Tock.

  One glance and he measured how long it would take to get to the back door and whether he could do it unseen. He couldn’t do it. Click-clack, clickity-clack, the steps grew closer.

  Tick...

  A door to his side, half opened, caught his attention. A cool draft from the darkness on the other side of the doorway reminded him of outside. It was a way out, and under the threat of discovery, it looked a perfect escape. He raced to the opening but his feet dragged as though he raced through sludge, and then, when he thought he would never make it, he slipped through the door. Just in time.

  ...Tock.

  Cool became dank, and he chilled so fast goose bumps covered his arms. Narrow wooden steps creaked under his weight, and the smell of dampness wafted from below. He took a step down and the cold stone brushed against his arm. He moved his backpack over one shoulder, there was not enough room to turn around with it on his back.

  Tick. Tock.

  He heard the clock as he stepped down onto the next narrow step. The press of the dark surrounded him and he shut the door. He took a deep lungful of cool air. He’d not realised he’d been holding his breath. “Damn it,” he whispered, confident no one could hear him through the door. But what if the door had been open because someone had come down here first? “Shit!”

  He turned around on the narrow step, his pack scraped across the wall. “Fool.” There were no lights on and no one went down steps like this without light. He stood still, the relief almost palpable and then he realised he was standing on steps, on the edge of the black abyss. Fear, a primal fear of the dark, wrenched his insides, and beads of perspiration broke along his brow. He stretched out a hand and leaned on the cool rock.

  “Do you?” he heard from a great distance, and then quiet. Weasel took out a small penlight and shone it on the steps down into the basement. “Much better,” he mumbled, for no other reason than to help settle his nerves. He was in control, except for being so scared. “Jesus,” he hissed to himself, “scared of shadows now.” The fear receded into something he could weave into a funny story for his mates down the pub. He grinned instead.

  “Do you?” a voice screamed into his left ear. “DO. YOU!”

  “What the fuck!” He grunted and swung round. Out of the black a white face appeared, with her mouth open, her lips green, and a swollen black tongue protruding from the side. He almost screamed, but something slithered about his throat and tightened. He struggled for breath, each constricted rasp allowing him less and less air until his lungs turned to fire. The force around his neck snapped him upwards, pulled him onto his toes. Weasel struggled. Struggled for breath, struggled to live, struggled so hard he missed the step and fell face forward down the stairs.

  Thunk. His face hit the first step and went numb.

  Thunk. On the second step, but now his face seemed to bounce, as though made from rubber.

  Thunk. Thunk. After the third or the fourth step, he didn’t feel a thing.

  Not even when his backpack split open and his knife, the one still bearing the signs of blood left from his last victim, spilled from the bag, and landed almost within reach of his hand.

  “Mine,” said a distant voice. “All mine.”

  “MAGGIE? ARE YOU there Maggie?” Emma called out as she raced down the stairs.

  There was no response.

  She shrugged. She thought she’d heard footsteps, but decided she must have imagined it. The house was so big there were noises everywhere. Just in time, she took the pan of water from the stove and finished making herself a cup of tea. She listened to the house as the tea infused, but she heard nothing. She wished Maggie would come home. It was all kind of empty without her. Spooky too. She shivered, and the house seemed to sigh with her.

  Upstairs, she settled herself into the huge bathtub, water almost to the top, her mug of tea on a table to the side, along with a book she’d been promising to read for years. “What luxury,” she crooned as she lowered herself into the scented, bubble-covered, hot water. Pity there was no one here to scrub her back. Maggie perhaps. She smiled at the thought and let the water soak away every tight muscle in her body.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MAGGIE PARKED HER Land Rover close to the kitchen door and whistled as she unloaded bags of groceries onto the back step. She checked the door and was fortunate to find it unlocked. She was grateful she didn’t need to go and unlock the front door and go all the through the house back to the kitchen. At the same time, she was disappointed Emma wasn’t in the kitchen, waiting. How arrogant was she! She chided herself and set about taking her shopping in to the kitchen. She grinned as she opened the fridge to put the wine inside, and noted a bottle on the middle shelf. She touched the bottle, already chilled and begging to be opened. She also noticed a bottle of Saint Emillion on the kitchen table, with a note. “Didn’t know what you had planned so I got this red and the white in the fridge.”

  She couldn’t help the smile, but it froze on her face when she spotted the open cellar door. She frowned and wondered why it was open. She looked inside, but the lights were off, “Anyone there?” she called down the stairs, but there was no answer. For a moment, she feared Emma had wandered into the cellar. A cold block of ice washed through her chest and settled like an iceberg in her belly. “Please, no.” She reached around the door frame and pulled a length of string weighed down with a ceramic weight. The light, a small, low wattage bulb swung from the ceiling. “Emma?” No answer, and then the light pinged and went out. “Damn,” Maggie muttered as she heard the bathroom pipework banging and the sounds of water gushing down those same pipes. She grinned with relief. Emma was upstairs. She was safe, and there was nothing to worry about. She closed the door, locked it, and put the key on the hook nearby.

  “Emma,” she smiled, and leaned against the door. Her stomach fluttered and for the first time, Maggie felt something close to happiness, or at least it was a moment of contentment. It would not last, she knew, it never did, but she was more than happy to enjoy what pleased her here and now. She resisted the urge to go and find Emma, and instead she finished putting things away. She had a great many things to do, if she was cooking dinner.

  She whistled the melody to something she’d heard on the radio as she chopped vegetables, and put them in a crockpot. Her hand stopped half way between chopping board and pot as a chill wind blew across the back of her neck. She waited for the clock to mark the lengthening of time. But it sounded pretty normal.

  Tick. Tock.

  Tick. Tock.

  Tick...

  In the distance she heard Click-clack, clickity-clack, shoes on stone and voices echoing from afar.

  ...Tock.

  Maggie paused, her fingers gripped the knife handle, and she readied herself to react.

  Tick...

  The knife was ripped from her grasp, hit the table, and stood on end, with its handle in the air. The knife pirouetted about the tip, and gouged into the wood.

  “Don’t be childish,” Maggie admonished, “and leave the damned clock alone.”

  ...Tock.

  Implements disengaged themselves from their racks around the kitchen and hung, motionless, in the air.

  Tick...

  One by one each item lifted into the air and a procession of knives flew at the cellar door. The sound of the blades embedding into the wood echoed through the kitchen. Oth
er, less pointed objects flew at Maggie and then these objects, including ladles, and a cheese grater, dropped to the table and marched around like something from the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

  ...Tock.

  “Stop it! I’m trying to cook.” Everything stopped and all of the implements on the table stood on end. They waited. For what, Maggie did not know. “Look, I know you hate me, I know you will orchestrate my death.” She grinned, but it was all teeth and no humour. “But not for a while. Anyway. I have a guest, the Tapper girl, and she deserves a good meal at least. So behave and let me feed her in safety.” She smiled. “I like her. Don’t scare her off.”

  Tick...

  “Do you...” The echoing whispers began.

  “I don’t know,” Maggie answered. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Cold silence, thick with the touch of the other world. Maggie waited as the silence grew glacial.

  “Do you?”

  ...Tock.

  The sense of her visitor vanished. One minute she was there and the next it was all very normal.

  Tick. Tock. The clock announced with mechanical precision. All of the implements dancing about her table fell over and clattered on the wood. Once more the normal sounds of the kitchen filled her ears and she was alone again.

  Maggie trembled at this encounter. It was a little more direct than usual, and increasing directness was a concern. She helped herself to a large tot of cooking brandy to settle her nerves. It was hard to prepare dinner when the thump of knife against wood still rang in her ears. She needed a break.