by Amy Cross
No.
No, I still cannot believe that I am a monster, that I would hurt my child.
I cannot believe that.
“I imagine that it will take some time for him to arrive,” Jonathan continues coldly. “Until then, I mean it when I say that you must stay away from Millicent. It's not fair on the girl, Catherine, to be subjected to such horrors. You are her mother, she should see you as a source of comfort, yet she fears you. Can you imagine what that must do to a child? When she talks to me, she tells me of the terrible things you have done and -”
“It is not me!” I blurt out.
“Are you calling her a liar?”
“No,” I sob, “of course not, I would never say that about her. She must just be confused, that is all. She is a child and she does not understand the world around her. Perhaps this spirit is able to place images in her mind, to fool her into thinking things that are not real. Oh, I know how wretched it all sounds, but it's the only explanation that makes sense. She must be terrified, and she is not thinking straight.”
I wipe more tears from my eyes, but my hands are shaking and I feel as if I am on the verge of breaking down entirely.
“Pathetic,” Jonathan says suddenly.
I look up at him.
“After everything you've done to her,” he continues, “still you try to blame the child for your actions.”
I shake my head.
“And it is truly pathetic,” he adds, stepping around the desk. “May God have mercy on your soul, Catherine, for I shall have none. When Doctor Havenhand arrives, I shall ensure that you are dealt with forever. And I shall make absolutely certain, Catherine, that you never see dear Milly ever again!”
With that, he marches out of the room, leaving me hunched and weeping in the chair. I should go after him and beseech him to listen to me some more, but I know I would only cut a frail and desperate figure. Besides, what Jonathan thinks about me is not the primary issue here. What matters is making sure that Milly is safe, and that she suffers no more harm. If it turns out that I am indeed the threat she faces, I shall remove myself without haste, but I still cannot believe that I would hurt a hair on that precious girl's head.
It cannot be me.
It simply cannot.
There is a monster in this house, something that is tormenting Milly, but it is not me. Somehow I shall prove this to Jonathan before he sends me away to an asylum. And then eventually Milly will learn to love me again. For now, however, all I can think about is the threat Jonathan made, and I can hear his awful words ringing over and over in my mind:
“And I shall make absolutely certain, Catherine, that you never see dear Millicent ever again!”
Part Two
Katie Sinclair
I
Several months ago
“I hate ghosts,” I mutter under my breath, as I sit alone in the library and stare at my laptop screen. “I hate ghost stories. I hate haunted houses. I hate things that go bump in the night, and I especially hate blurry photos of lens distortions.”
Sighing, I click through to the next picture in the slideshow, which shows yet another supposed photo of a ghost. This time, the image shows an empty doorway bathed in the static-filled green of a night-vision camera. There's nobody in the frame, of course, except a faint blurry mess just to the inside left of the door. According to some over-excited ghost-hunter from a place called Mason City in Iowa, USA, this is a photo of a ghost that haunts an abandoned house. According to anyone with any experience in these things at all, however, it's a lens distortion caused by light catching on a nearby window.
In other words, like all the other pictures in this slideshow, it's a fake.
Orbs, my ass.
Well, maybe fake is a strong word. Maybe the person who publicized this photo believes that it's genuine, but that doesn't really matter. The result is the same: I've spent all evening going through these useless images, and now it's almost midnight and I still have a couple hundred left to go.
To be honest, I'm still a little freaked out from the nightmare I had last night. I've had dreams about my mother before, of course, but this one felt so real. I guess that's how they get you.
Minimizing the window for a moment, I type a couple comments into my spreadsheet. As I do so, I hear my phone buzzing in my pocket, but I don't bother to check; after all, it's probably just my father texting to make sure I got my laundry done this week. Even when the phone buzzes again a moment later, I still don't check, although a third buzz piques my interest. Apparently I'm popular tonight, but I don't quite have time to take a look at any messages just yet. I need to get as much work done as possible before the campus library closes at midnight.
Get a university degree, they said.
Study something interesting, they said.
Psychology would suit you, they said. You're interested in what makes people tick.
I'd also be interested in not having a mid-five-figure student debt. I'd be interested in having actual job prospects. I'd be interested in -
Suddenly I hear a door creaking open at the far end of the library. I glance along the aisle, but I don't see anyone. Still, I know what this is going to be about. It's going to be the librarian – the bossy librarian, the bald guy who always looks miserable – coming to tell me I've got five minutes to pack my stuff together. I guess I'm not going to get to the end of this selection of images, not here anyway, which means I'll need to look at them when I get home. I'll pick up something at the takeaway place – hopefully before all the drunks get chucked out of Remedies – and then I'll go to my room and work through 'til morning if necessary.
And hopefully I'll manage a couple of hours' sleep before my shift starts at the supermarket.
“Hey!” an excited voice yells suddenly, disturbing the silence of the library. “Katie! Are you watching it?”
Looking up, I'm surprised to Evie racing over here. She's running so fast, she actually slams into the side of the table and knocks over my empty coffee cup.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, starting to close my laptop. “I'm just -”
“Are you watching it?” she gabbles, dropping to her knees and pushing the laptop screen back open. “You've heard, right?”
“Heard what?” I reply, just as my phone buzzes again. “What's going on?”
She starts frantically typing something into the web browser, just as my phone lets out yet another buzz.
“It's not a shooter, is it?” I ask, feeling a flash of fear. “Please tell me there's not some nutter with a gun on the campus.”
“I knew you'd be sitting here with your head in the sand,” she replies, clicking through to a website. “This is the most amazing thing ever, Katie. You remember Doctor Alice Reynolds, right? The one from here? The one who basically vanished about ten years ago?”
“She didn't vanish,” I point out. “She quit to work on... something.”
“Yeah, well, she's only gone and resurfaced with a press conference!”
“I heard about that,” I tell her with a sigh. “I'm sure whatever she's announcing is -”
“It's ghosts!”
I open my mouth to tell her I'm not interested, but then my brain catches up to my ears and I realize what she just said.
“What?” I ask, furrowing my brow.
“I knew she was up to something,” she continues, speaking so fast that she almost trips over her words. “Alice Reynolds was a stone-cold genius. People like that don't disappear for ten years unless they're working on something major. On something that'll change the world. Still, I didn't guess it'd be this massive.” She clicks the mouse several times, clearly getting impatient as the webpage struggles to load. “Their servers must be overloaded!”
“Can you slow down and tell me what's going on?” I ask, although at that moment my phone buzzes a couple more times, and this time I'm starting to feel a little curious.
Reaching into my pocket, I take out my phone and see to my surprise that I'v
e been getting messages not from my father but from other people in the faculty.
My supervising professor.
Two of my classmates.
My professor again.
More classmates.
Opening the first message, from Doctor Carter, I see that it's a rather cryptic note about a session tomorrow morning:
MY OFFICE, 8AM.
“This is the biggest thing in the history of the world ever,” Evie continues, still clicking furiously on the webpage. “Come on, open, damn you!”
I check another message, this time from a girl in my class named Sharon:
Do you think this is real? Is there any chance it's a hoax?
Then I check yet another message, this time from Steve, the guy who always sits right behind me in seminars:
Is Reynolds for real? Either she's flushing her career down the toilet or...
“What's going on?” I whisper, before turning to the laptop just as the page finally loads. Seeing a live-feed for an announcement from some university in America, I stare for a moment at the buffering video and see the familiar face of Doctor Alice Reynolds.
Sure, she's grayer than she was last time she was seen in public, and a little more gaunt, but it's definitely her. She's, like, my hero when it comes to academic things, but I'd kind of accepted that she was permanently off the grid. Now it seems she's making a dramatic return to the limelight, and she seems to be announcing something major.
“Turn the volume up,” I whisper.
“How?” Evie asks.
Reaching past her, I tap the button several times, allowing sound to play from the video.
“That's all in the information packs that are being distributed by email as I speak to you now,” Doctor Reynolds is saying. “There's a lot of information, a lot of documentation, but I'm sure you'll understand that extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof. And that's what you'll find in those packs, ladies and gentlemen. Honest proof that everything I've announced today is true. We've even open-sourced all aspects of our findings, and I absolutely encourage skeptical people – of whom there must be many – to do their best to tear this evidence to shreds. If you think I'm wrong, then try to prove it, but you won't succeed. Because I'm not wrong.”
My phone buzzes several more times.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Doctor Reynolds continues, as the video skips slightly, “this is a day that mankind will never forget. This is the day we finally have indisputable scientific proof that ghosts are real.”
“See?” Evie says, nudging my arm. “I told you it was big.”
II
Today
“Run! Stop messing about, just run!”
He shoves me hard in the back, hard enough that I almost stumble as I turn and race away from the van. I splash through deep puddles that have collected in the parking lot, but finally I reach the safety of the pub's front door just as another crack of lightning briefly flashes across the night sky. And that's when I realize that I was right earlier; there is a leak in my right shoe, and now muddy water is leaking through and pooling between my toes.
Gross.
Less than a second later, a heavy rumble of thunder causes the pub's windows to shudder.
“I've never seen a storm like this,” Josh says, already huddled under the porch. “You don't think it's, like, an omen or something, do you?”
“I wouldn't let Doctor Carter hear you say that,” I reply, as I pad myself down to check whether or not any rainwater got through my jacket. “He's not big on superstitions.”
“He used to be,” Josh points out. “Until those superstitions turned out to be science.”
Turning, I see that Doctor Carter is already hurrying this way through the storm. As soon as he reaches us under the porch's meager cover, he pulls back the hood of his jacket. His face looks dry, but his huge beard is soaking wet, and he looks thunderously angry as he leans between us and bangs his fist hard against the pub's front door.
“Did neither of you two geniuses think to wake the landlord?” he mutters.
“I knocked twice,” Josh replies. “No answer.”
“I warned him we'd be late,” Doctor Carter sighs, already fumbling through his pockets for his phone. “What's wrong with people out here in the sticks, anyway? Don't they have any understanding of basic human courtesy? What I wouldn't give right now for a good old-fashioned chain motel.”
He starts bringing up the pub's number.
“And Katie,” he adds, glancing at me, “next time I tell you to get your ass in gear, don't stand around like an open-mouthed fool, okay?”
“I'm sorry, Doctor Carter,” I reply, “I just thought I could help you with the -”
“If I'd needed your help, I would have asked for it,” he says with another sigh, as he raises the phone to his ear and waits for someone to answer. “I don't want either of you trying to anticipate my requests during this weekend, is that clear? I will tell you what to do, and when to do it. Other than that, please try to think for yourselves as little as possible. You're not here to come up with your own ideas. You're here purely and solely to do what you're told.”
***
“I'd started to think you weren't coming,” the landlord says as he flicks a switch on the wall, bringing several overhead lights to life as well as another light above the pool table. He mutters something under his breath and quickly switches the latter off. “What with it being almost one in the morning, and all.”
“These country roads are not exactly conducive to punctuality,” Doctor Carter mutters angrily, already starting to take off his raincoat. As he does so, drops of water are being sprayed liberally all over the floor and wall. “I did send you several messages, warning you that we'd be a little behind schedule.”
“Well, the kitchen's closed, I'm afraid,” the landlord continues, making his way behind the bar, “but we've got some rolls left over. There's nothing wrong with them, they've just been sitting here all day, that's all. The mayonnaise might be a bit dry on the egg ones.”
He takes a small bowl filled with clingfilm-wrapped bread rolls and slides them across the bar, and then he does the same with a jar of pickled onions.
“A pound each for the rolls,” he explains, “and fifty pence for an onion.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, shivering slightly as I make my way over. I reach into my pockets, trying to find some money, before realizing that all my coins are buried deep under several layers. There's a sign on a nearby pillar, declaring CASH ONLY. “Um...”
“That's alright, young lady,” the landlord says, taking one of the rolls and tossing it toward me, “I'll run you a tab. You can settle up in the morning.”
“Thank you,” I say again, and to be honest I'm so starving right now, I'd even eat one of those onions if they were the only option. I immediately start unwrapping the roll, and a moment later Josh comes over and takes one as well.
“Ham and cheese,” he mutters, fumbling with the wrapper in his haste. “Never in all my life has one of these things been so appealing. It's like being back at school. All I need now is a Manta Force lunch box and a packet of Monster Munch.”
I hold my roll up to take a bite, but suddenly it's snatched straight out of my hand. Startled, I turn to see that Doctor Carter has done the same to Josh's roll too, and that he's now taking them to the far end of the bar, where he sets them down.
“I'm sure I warned both of you,” he says dourly, “that I won't tolerate any risks this weekend. And that includes having my two assistants getting struck down by food poisoning after eating dodgy food that's been left out in a warm pub all day.” He glances at the landlord. “No offense.”
I turn to Josh, and he offers a despondent shrug.
“We'll be leaving at dawn,” Doctor Carter continues, as he turns to the landlord. “We won't be requiring breakfast. Also, as I made clear in my email to you the other day, I insist upon your absolute discretion. If anybody comes this way and asks after us, anybody at all, you
are to deny all knowledge of our work. As far as you are concerned, we were never here.”
“Aye,” the landlord replies, “I remember you saying. But if you don't mind me asking, just between us, you are going out to Lannister Hall, aren't you?”
“That is absolutely none of your concern,” Doctor Carter says firmly.
“Of course not,” the landlord replies, “but... I mean, just speaking strictly confidentially, you know? It's not like there's much else in this neck of the woods.”
“We'll be going to our rooms now,” Doctor Carter adds, clearly in no mood to discuss the matter. “If you would issue the appropriate keys, there is no need for us to trouble you any longer. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and I'm afraid this prohibits us from spending any time socializing in your fine establishment.”
“What he means,” Josh whispers, “is that we haven't got time for a piss-up.”
“I'm starving,” I reply, as I watch the landlord handing Doctor Carter some keys.
“I've got six packets of Wagon Wheels in my bag,” Josh says. “Seriously. Six! Scott made me pack them before I left. If you like, I can slide one under your door once Captain Grumpy's gone to bed.”
I open my mouth to tell him that I'd take anything right now, but then I realize that Doctor Carter is coming over with the keys for our rooms. Turning to him, I force my most professional smile, hoping to make him realize that I'm someone upon whom he can absolutely count. As I hold out my hand for the key, however, I can't help but notice that the doctor has a particularly angry look in his eyes, and sure enough he presses a key into my hand with barely-disguised irritation.
“We're late tonight,” he reminds us, “but that doesn't change our schedule for the morning. We are going to be on the road by 6am.”
“Absolutely,” I reply.
“Sure, boss,” Josh says at the same time.
