by Amy Cross
Chapter Three
1925.
"Catherine!" I shout as I get up from my chair. Swaying slightly, I knock the little table over, sending the empty whiskey bottle smashing to the ground. One more thing for the dirty little bitch to clean up once I'm finished reminding her of her duties. "Catherine!" I roar, and moments later I hear her scurrying back through. It has been several hours since I started drinking, and now that it's close to midnight I feel that I'm ready to mete out my daughter's punishment.
"Yes, father?" she says as she enters the room.
"Do you see what I have done?" I ask, looking down at the broken whiskey bottle. "Do you see what you have made me do?"
"I shall clean it up, father," she says, grabbing a dustpan from the kitchen and hurrying to the hearth. She kneels and starts sweeping the broken glass up.
"Use your hands," I say, leaning against the wall in order to steady myself. I have only drunk a third of a bottle of whiskey, but I already feel quite light-headed.
"Yes, father," she says, gathering up the pieces of glass in her hands.
"Stand up," I tell her once she's finished.
Timidly, she stands and faces me, keeping her head bowed. I reach out and take her hands in mine. She has the pieces of broken glass clasped in her palms, so I slowly start to squeeze her hands together.
"Father..." she says, clearly in pain, but she realizes that it would be futile, and rather rude, to argue with me. Instead, she manages to remain quiet as I tightly push her hands together. Pieces of broken glass cut into her skin, and blood dribbles down onto the floor.
"You must clean up the blood later," I say calmly, maintaining pressure on her hands.
"Yes, father," she says, her voice filled with tension. To her credit, she has shown almost no indication of pain, even though the shards of glass are deeply embedded in her flesh. Finally, I let go and she stands before me, her hands bleeding, not daring to let go of the glass.
"We shall go to the pantry," I say. "Throw the glass into the trash in the kitchen".
Turning, she leads me through to the next room. It's hard to walk straight, and I have to hold tightly to the door as we pass into the kitchen. Thanks to the surfeit of whiskey in my belly, the whole room seems to be spinning a little. Catherine drops the glass into a bucket, although some of the pieces of stuck in her palms and she has to carefully pick them out. There is a lot of blood, more perhaps than I had expected.
"Enough," I say, grabbing her arm and dragging her toward the pantry. "I hope you don't feel too sorry for yourself," I add as I lead her into the small room and push the door shut. "I am doing nothing to you that I did not already do to your dear, late mother on the rare occasions when she required punishment". I look over at the table and see that, as ordered, Catherine has set out three of my finest leather belts. "In the early years, shortly after we were married, your mother made quite a number of mistakes," I continue, my speech slurring a little. "By the time you were born, though, she had learned her lesson. God rest her soul".
"Yes, father," Catherine says quietly.
"Your mother would be ashamed of you," I continue, picking up my thickest belt. "She thought you were a good girl. She told me, on her death-bed, that you would take care of me. How wrong she was. Tell me, where were you this afternoon? Why were you out of the house, when you should have been preparing my dinner?"
"I was running errands," Catherine says, but I can tell she is lying.
"Tell me the truth," I say, "and while you are at it, turn around and hitch down your dress".
She pauses for a moment, before turning and starting to unbutton the top of her clothing. "I was visiting the Parkinson family," she says, lowering her dress to reveal her bare back. There are still a few faint scars from the last time I had to discipline her in this way.
"And why were you doing that?" I ask. "What business do you have with Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson?" I take a deep breath. "Or did you merely wish to spend time with their son, Thomas?" I wait for her to answer, but she says nothing. "I suppose you think that one day you might marry that dirty little bastard," I continue. "I suppose you think I would agree to such a union, and you might get away from me. Well the truth, my dear, is that while Thomas Parkinson is a lowly, worthless piece of scum, he still has better prospects than you. He will marry a maid, or a scullion. He will not marry a slut. No-one will marry you. You will spend your days looking after me, and then when I am gone, do you know what you will become?"
"What will I become, father?" she asks.
"A whore," I snarl, before snapping the belt across her back. She lets out a whelp of pain and almost falls to the floor, but she manages to steady herself against the table. The strike, though, was a good one, and I have split open a line of flesh running diagonally across her back. Blood begins to ooze down her soft, pink flesh. "But what man would pay for a whore who has a scarred back?" I ask, before striking her again. This time, the belt cuts a line straight down from the base of her neck to the small of her back, and more blood dribbles out. She steadies herself again, still refusing to drop to the floor.
"Yes, father," she says, her voice faltering. She is close to tears, which is only to be expected from such a weak and feeble child. Even for a woman, she is a pitiful specimen of humanity.
"I've always known you'll end up as a whore," I tell her. "It's in your eyes. It's all you're good for". Pausing for a moment, I finally use the belt to whip her for a third time, and now a thick wound opens up across the middle of her back. Not only is blood dribbling down, but I can see the meat under her skin.
"Please, father!" she sobs. "Please have mercy!"
"You forget," I say, "I'm a doctor. I'll make sure you have no infections. This punishment is entirely necessary if I am to ensure that you never, ever disrespect me again. Do you understand?"
"Yes, father!" she weeps, almost breaking down as she shudders with pain. Blood continues to drip down her back from the three large cuts I have inflicted.
"Tell me what you will become once I am dead!" I shout.
"A whore," she says.
"A what?" I shout.
"A whore!" she says again, raising her voice.
"And until then, what will you do?" I ask.
"I shall serve you," she cries.
"And if you neglect your duties again, what will I do to you?"
"You will..." She pauses, as if she can't speak through the tears. "You will punish me," she says.
"Oh, you must be in no doubt about that," I say. I pause for a moment, feeling as if perhaps she has learned her lesson. "Turn to face me," I tell her.
Slowly, she turns and looks at me. Tears are streaming down her face, and her eyes are puffy and red. She looks so pitiful, I am compelled to spit upon her face.
"Please, father," she whispers, barely flinching as my saliva drips down her cheek. Her voice is wavering as her bottom lip quivers, "I'll never do it again".
"I know you won't," I say, before raising the belt and thrashing her across the face. She screams and falls to the floor, clutching her cheek as blood drips down from the wound. She looks so pitiful and weak, and there is a part of me that feels it would be wise to keep punishing her. After all, I don't want to have to do this again, but if she keeps provoking me.
"Please stop," she cries. "Please, father! Please have mercy!"
"What do you know of mercy?" I ask, carefully placing the bloodied belt on the table.
"Please don't hurt me any more," she whimpers, like a wounded animal. "Please, father..."
Finding it hard to stand up straight, I turn and stumble through to the kitchen. Unfortunately, the liquor cabinet is empty and there's not a drop left to drink in the house. Just as I'm contemplating this regrettable turn of events, I hear Catherine weeping and sobbing in the pantry. Disgusted by her weakness, I storm back through, grab her arms and haul her up.
"Stop making that noise!" I shout into her bloodied, torn face. "Stop it immediately!"
"Please!" she
shouts back. "Please, father! Please, stop!"
"Damn you!" I say, horrified by her display of self-pity. Dragging her through to the hallway, I open the door and push her out into the snow, before grabbing my coat and picking up a chain that I usually use to secure my side gate. "This way," I say, pulling her by the arm through the dark, snowy streets. Fortunately, there is no-one about at this late hour to witness the disgusting, degrading state to which my pitiful daughter has sunk, but I feel I must make a spectacle of her. She sobs and weeps as I pull her to the town square, where finally I throw her against the base of Mr. Paternoster's cross. "Perhaps this will cure you of these histrionics," I say, tying the chain around her neck and securing her to the metal.
"Please, father!" she whimpers, shivering in the snow. "I'm so cold!"
"Of course you're cold," I reply, finding it hard to keep focused on her. "It's snowing!" I take a step back, almost stumbling over. "Damn it," I mutter, realizing I should have brought my belt with me. "Wait here," I say, "and don't make a sound. I shall fetch my belt!" With that, I turn and stumble away, heading back toward my house. It's well past midnight and the town is sleeping, but I am determined to teach my pathetic daughter a lesson that she'll never forget. Before this night is over, she will understand the importance of her responsibilities to me. After all, I'm a respected member of the community and I demand to be treated as such! If I have to beat that girl half to death, she will learn her lesson!
Chapter Four
Today.
Standing in the lobby of the abandoned hotel and smoking one of my last cigarettes, I look out at the town square and see the storm battering Devil's Briar. Snow is howling through the air, as a strong wind shakes the buildings and causes the large metal cross to sway with a worrying groan. The scene is so desolate, it almost feels as if the end of the world has arrived, and it's hard to imagine quite how we're going to get out of here even after the storm is over. There's going to be at least two feet of snow all over the place, and the air is getting colder and colder. I can't help wondering whether, in my haste to stay in this place and keep exploring, I might have doomed Paula and myself. Are we stuck here forever?
Paula doesn't seem too concerned. It's strange, but having been pushing and pushing for us to leave, she seems remarkably sanguine about our current predicament. She keeps making jokes about us being stuck in Devil's Briar for the rest of our lives, and she doesn't even seem mad about the fact that we have no gas. I have no idea what has caused her change of heart, but at least we aren't fighting. Right now, I need her on my side. Things would be far worse if we were fighting all the time, like we used to do in the old days.
"Keeping warm?" Paula asks.
I turn, having not heard her come down from the first floor. "Not very successfully," I reply.
"It's getting worse, isn't it?" she says, walking over to join me at the door.
"By the second," I tell her. "I've never been in a storm like this. It's like the elements are throwing everything they've got at us. I swear, if I was a superstitious man, I'd say the weather's trying to scrub Devil's Briar off the land". Above us, there's an ominous creak as a particularly strong gust of wind catches the building. "I think it'll hold," I continue, as much to convince myself as to reassure Paula. "For all its faults, the place seems to be pretty well built".
"Did you get the batteries?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say, pointing to the bag of batteries I fetched from the van. It was hard battling through the snow, but I figure we might as well at least try to get some heat and light running in the hotel.
"Come with me," Paula says, taking my hand. "I think I've found something that might make you feel a little better".
Sighing, I follow her across the dusty lobby and into the little bar, where she hurries around to the cabinets and pulls out some old bottles.
"What the hell have you got there?" I ask.
"Whiskey, vodka and a little cognac," she replies with a smile, before pulling out a dark bottle, "and what appears to be a bottle of wine. I've got no idea whether it's kept well over the years, but it's worth a try. At least it'll keep us distracted".
I walk over and pick up the bottle of whiskey. "You want to deal with being stranded in a remote town, in the middle of a snowstorm, by getting drunk on hundred-year-old booze?"
"It's an option," she says, "but before you turn your nose up at the idea, I've got something else to show you". She hurries through a side door, into a small room behind the bar, and returns a moment later with a cardboard box full of what appear to be small metal cans. "Voila!" she says proudly. "Meat! Tinned meat! It's nearly a century old, but I opened one earlier and it's still surprisingly good. This kind of stuff lasts forever. Hell, I reckon it'd outlast a nuclear holocaust". She grabs a can-opener from the side and carefully opens one of the cans. "Doesn't even smell too bad, does it?"
I smile as I sniff the can. The meat smells... acceptable. Certainly no worse than the kind of stuff my grandmother used to serve up for lunch when we used to go and visit. I guess this processed meat can last forever, more or less. Still, I'm not exactly enthused about the prospect of being stuck in Devil's Briar and living off ancient canned meat until we can find a way out. I need to work out what happened to the gas I left in the workshop, because right now it's a mystery. It didn't evaporate, it doesn't seem to have leaked out, it just seems to have vanished, and that troubles me for two reasons: not only does it mean that we're stuck in Devil's Briar, but it also makes me wonder what happened. I'm not the kind of person who believes in ghosts, or monsters in the shadows, and I'm sure there's a rational explanation; however, I won't be able to rest until I've come up with an answer. I need to know what's going on in this place.
"So," Paula says, scooping out some of the meat onto a little metal plate. "Meat and wine?"
"I'm not really hungry," I tell her, "but you can go ahead".
She pauses for a moment. "Actually," she says finally, "there's something else I want to show you". She walks around the bar and crouches down by the door. "Look at this," she continues, pointing at a little dark patch on the floor. "Tell me that's not a very old, dried blood stain".
I walk over and take a look, and I see that she's right. Although it could be something else, it appears to be a dark patch of blood, and quite a large patch: someone was hurt in this spot, and apparently no-one thought to clean the mess up before the blood had managed to seep into the wood and leave a stain. It seems Devil's Briar was perhaps a dangerous place to live. There was a whole community here once, and we've barely begun to scratch the surface in terms of understanding what kind of lives they led, or what happened to them.
"It's one thing to poke about and see what you can find," Paula says, staring at me, "but it's another to get a proper team together, get some equipment, and come here on an organized expedition to -"
"I know," I reply, standing up and walking back over to the bar. "You're right".
"You'll learn far more if you do things properly".
I nod, opening the bottle of whiskey and taking a sniff. To be fair, it doesn't smell too bad and it might just keep us going through the rest of the storm.
"So?" Paula says, standing behind me as I pour us each a whiskey.
"So what?" I reply.
"Anything on your mind?"
I pause for a moment. "Not really".
"But do you admit you were wrong?"
I smile. "Did I say that?"
"Admit it," she continues, coming over to the bar and picking up her glass. "When I said we should leave on the first day and go get proper help to explore Devil's Briar, I was right. And when you insisted we stay, you were wrong".
"Cheers," I say, clinking our glasses together.
"You still won't admit you made a mistake, will you?"
"It's not as simple as that," I reply. "Besides, it was kinda taken out of our hands when the truck had its problems. If you'll recall, I actually agreed for us to get out of here".
"Whatever
," she says. "In all the years I've known you, Bill Mitchell, I don't think I've ever heard you admit you were wrong about something and apologize. Not once". She takes a sip of her whiskey. "You know what? This doesn't taste too bad". With a smile, she wanders over to the window and looks out at the storm. "Doesn't it make you feel kind of small and humble to realize how powerful the natural world can be? I mean, look at it. The whole damn town could just blow away".
"I'm pretty sure things won't get that bad," I reply, tasting the whiskey. Paula's right. Considering its age and uncertain provenance, it tastes pretty good.
"But isn't it weird?" she continues. "We're out here, in the middle of nowhere, in a little wooden building built more than a century ago, and -" She suddenly stops talking.
"The world's a weird place," I point out.
"Bill," Paula says, a note of caution in her voice, "when you went to the truck and got the batteries, which way did you walk?"
I turn to her. "The usual way," I say. "Why?"
"Did you walk past the cross?" she continues.
"I guess," I reply.
She pauses. "Did you walk around the cross in a kind of circle?"
I stare at her for a moment. "No," I say, walking over to join her at the window. "Why?"
"Look out into the snow," she says. "Around the cross". She turns to me, a look of genuine concern on her face. "If those aren't your footprints, then whose are they?"
Chapter Five
1925.
Opening my eyes slowly, I see that the bright light of morning is flooding through my bedroom window. My head is pounding with a dull, heavy ache, and my stomach feels decidedly bad. It takes a moment before I remember the third of a bottle of whiskey that I drank last night, which came on top of three quarters of a bottle of red wine. Sitting up, I recognize the pain and nausea of a hangover, and I worry for a moment that I might actually vomit. I stay perfectly still for a few minutes, allowing my body to settle, before I get to my feet and walk over to the window. Snow is still falling, and is piled up in the street. It's a cold morning, and I can only hope that Catherine has got a fire burning in the hearth.
