The Haunting of Lannister Hall

by Amy Cross

I take a step forward.

  “No!” Havenhand snaps. “Don't come any closer! I'll gut you like a fish!”

  “No, you won't,” I say firmly, still staring at him. “I can see it in your eyes, Mr. Havenhand. If that's even your real name. I don't actually know your name, of course, but that's not important right now. What's important is that I can see that you're a decent man who would never harm another soul.”

  I wait, trying to time my move just right. I need to grab the knife from him.

  “Please,” he whimpers, “don't make me do this.”

  “Nobody's going to make you do anything,” I add, raising my right hand slightly. “We're all going to walk out of here, and we're all going to be fine.”

  He shakes his head.

  I move my hand toward his, as I prepare to take the knife.

  “That's right,” I add. “You're no a killer.”

  “This is for them!” he blurts out, and suddenly he lunges at me. I step aside just in time, as the knife's blade flashes past my face, and then I turn and grab Mr. Havenhand from behind.

  Milly screams and pulls away.

  I struggle with the gentleman for a moment, and then all of a sudden his foot catches mine and he falls. He lands hard on the ground and lets out a startled, pained cry. As I step back and reach out for Milly, I keep my eyes fixed firmly on Mr. Havenhand, ready for him to get up and rush at us again. I'm already trying to work out how to push past him and get to the door. And then, slowly, I become aware of a growing pool of blood that's stretching out from beneath his belly.

  “Mother,” Milly sobs, “what's happening to him?”

  I turn her around, so that she can't see, and then I hug her tight as I see the life fade from the man's eyes. Evidently he landed on his knife, and there is nothing I can do for him.

  “Is he dead?” Milly whimpers.

  “No, darling, of course not,” I say, as I maneuver her over to the door, which I pull open before stepping out onto the landing. “He's just resting, that's all.”

  I pull the door shut again.

  “Everything's going to be alright,” I continue, still holding Milly tight as I try to work out how I can deal with this situation. I don't even fully understand what is happening. “Just give me a moment to think and -”

  Before I can finish, I hear a sound nearby, and I turn to see that Jonathan is watching us from the master bedroom. I instinctively pull Milly closer, but she turns to see her father stepping toward us.

  “My dear Catherine,” he says darkly, “you must understand that I wanted this to end in some other manner. In any other manner. I wanted it to be painless for both of you.”

  “Don't come any closer,” I say as I see him reaching for something in his pocket. “Jonathan, whatever you're planning -”

  “You must understand how this is for me,” he continues, interrupting me. “I need a proper family, Catherine. I need a good wife, and good children. We've tried, you and I, but it just hasn't worked out. I can't bring shame upon the Lannister name, so I'm afraid I had to find some other way to escape this marriage. And given your perilous emotional state in the past, I supposed that it wouldn't be too difficult to engineer a situation in which I might become a widower.”

  “Don't come any closer!” I say again.

  “Mother, I'm scared!” Milly sobs.

  “Don't be,” I tell her, as I relax my grip on her arm, “but be ready to -”

  Jonathan takes another step closer.

  “Run!” I shout, pushing Milly toward the stairs.

  She runs. I try to go after her, but at the last moment Jonathan grabs my arm and holds me back. I struggle to get free, and in the process I knock over a vase that tumbles from a small table and smashes against the bare wooden floor. I try to twist the other way, and then I let out a gasp of pain as I feel my arm being pushed almost to the point of breaking.

  “Mother!” Milly shouts, spinning around to look at me as she reaches the top of the stairs. “What -”

  And then, in an instant, she falls. I see the shock on her face, and she tries to steady herself, but she's too late. I can only watch in horror as she tumbles back and falls from view. For a moment, time itself seems to stand still, and I am barely even aware of Jonathan as he continues to hold my arm. Finally, as I hold my breath, I hear a thudding sound down in the hallway, accompanied by a faint but sickening crunch.

  Silence.

  I stare at the top of the stairs, but there is no sound coming from the hallway at all.

  “Milly,” I whisper, as I feel a cold sense of fear starting to spread up through my body, unclenching its fist and spreading its icy fingers across my chest. “Please...”

  I wait.

  Again, there is only silence.

  “Catherine,” Jonathan says finally, “you must -”

  “No!”

  I pull free from him and hurry to the top of the stairs, and then I look down toward the hallway. In that moment, my heart breaks fully and for the last time, as I see the crumpled shape of my poor dear Milly down at the bottom of the stairs. Her neck is so clearly broken.

  Part Eight

  Katie Sinclair

  I

  She's beautiful. She's spectral and graceful and serene, and so beautiful.

  After a moment, the ghost of Catherine Lannister steps silently toward one of the other doors. This isn't the first time I've seen Catherine Lannister, of course, but somehow the sight of a real, live ghost just seems to get more and more shocking. I feel like a game hunter in the African wilderness who has finally, after hunting for so long, glimpsed his prize in all its glory. I swear, I could just stand and watch this ghost forever, and that's exactly what I do as she makes her way gracefully toward the doorway, at which point she slips silently out of sight.

  I hurry after her, and I reach the door just in time to see her stepping into the next room.

  Instinctively, forgetting everything else that's going on right now, I head over to the door and watch as the ghost makes its way along the next corridor. I realize after a moment that I've been inadvertently holding my breath, so I force myself to breathe slowly and deeply as I start following Catherine Lannister. I know deep down that I should be helping Josh, that there'll be time to study Catherine in depth later, but right now it's almost as if I'm drawn to her. No, it's exactly like that. I can't help myself.

  She stops in the doorway ahead, and I stop as well.

  I watch as she stands with her back to me, and for a moment I'm filled with the sense that she knows I'm here. That shouldn't be possible, of course; all the current research on ghosts suggests that they're barely aware of the presence of the living, but at the same time I saw what happened to Josh's eyes. The thought of Catherine Lannister noticing me, of her acknowledging me in some way, is tantalizing. I can't shake the feeling that I'm the verge of making contact with a woman who has been dead for over a century. Finally, unable to hold back for a moment longer, I can't help myself.

  “Catherine?” I whisper.

  I wait.

  She still has her back to me.

  “Catherine Lannister,” I continue, raising my voice a little. “My name is Katie. Katie Sinclair. I'm a researcher, I want to learn more about you, I want to... help you.”

  Those words feel ridiculous, almost laughable. How can I help a dead woman? Yet as I continue to watch the ghost of Catherine Lannister, I'm filled with the urge to do something to end her suffering.

  “We're not here to hurt you,” I explain. “I'm sorry if it feels like we've invaded your home. I get that. But maybe we can try to figure out why you're still here, why you're in so much pain. And if we can do that, maybe somehow we can free you.”

  I wait, and she slowly starts to turn her head, as if she's turning to look at me. I see the side of her face, and then she stops just short of actually making eye contact.

  She heard me, though.

  I'm sure of that.

  “I want to listen to you,” I continue, as I for
ce myself to take a step forward. The air in this corridor suddenly feels so cold, but I know I can't turn and run. Not now that I'm so close to making a breakthrough. “We've angered you. I'm sorry. To be honest, we're stumbling about in the dark here. We've been trying to use machines to talk to you, and to make contact with you, but I think that's not the best approach. I think the best approach is...”

  I hesitate for a moment, scared of what might happen next.

  “I think the best approach,” I add finally, “is to talk to you. Because you're still in there somewhere, aren't you? You're not just an echo. You're the real Catherine Lannister, with all her thoughts and memories and emotions. And we can talk to one another. Can't we?”

  I wait.

  She turns her head a little more, but she's still not quite looking at me.

  “What's it like to die?” I ask, blurting the question out a little sooner than I'd planned. “Is it painful? No, wait, that's not what I mean. When you die, do you get a choice about whether or not to come back? Like, if you left someone behind, can you choose to stay and watch over them? I just mean, when my mother died, I don't know if she -”

  Before I can finish, the ghost of Catherine Lannister steps away and disappears around the next corner.

  “Wait!” I yell, rushing after her.

  When I look along the next corridor, however, there's no sign of her.

  “Damn it!” I mutter, as I realize that I must have scared her away. I was doing so well, and then I started talking about my mother and I guess that was too much for her.

  I hurry to the next corner, but there's still no sign of her. A moment later, however, I hear a faint shuffling sound in the distance.

  “Catherine!” I call out, rushing along the corridor, desperate to find her again. “Wait, please! I'm sorry if I said the wrong thing, I was just trying to communicate!”

  Stopping in the doorway at the corridor's far end, I look around for any sign of Catherine Lannister's ghost. She's close, I can feel her presence nearby, but I can no longer see her. For a moment I consider the possibility that she's somehow invisible, that she's managed to fade from view and hide herself, but I'm not sure that's entirely how these things work. I can definitely sense her, however, and it's as if she's enticing me to go deeper and deeper into the house.

  “We're not vandals,” I explain, hoping against hope that she can hear me as I make my way toward another door. I can't explain how, but I feel as if Catherine Lannister is on the other side of this particular door.

  I feel as if she's waiting for me.

  “We're just here to help you,” I say as I set my hand on the door's handle. The metal is so cold, I almost pull away. “We've been guessing so far, but if you can tell us...”

  I hesitate, and then I push the door open.

  “I just need a clue,” I continue cautiously as I through the doorway. “I just need -”

  Stopping suddenly, I see a glint of light ahead of me. I tilt my head slightly, and immediately I see more glints. It takes a moment, however, before I realize what I'm seeing. There are scores and scores of mirrors, of all sizes, piled haphazardly onto a series of tables. Some of the mirrors are small, nothing more than personal compacts, while others are much larger. There are even some large mirrors that look to have been removed from walls. A couple are broken, but most of the mirrors seem to be intact.

  Stepping forward, I see my own face reflected in several places at once. And at that moment, I remember my mother's voice speaking to me all those years ago, back when she was on the verge of death.

  “Don't go!” she yelled. “Don't go to the house with all the mirrors!”

  I've relived that moment over and over in dreams, and those words have never really left me. Of course, until this moment I always figured my mother was simply losing her mind. The chemo drugs did that to her a lot, she often babbled incoherently about things. Now, however, I step toward the pile of mirrors and I can't shake a slow, creeping sense of fear that's starting to edge up my back and onto my shoulders.

  “Don't go to the house with all the mirrors!”

  But she couldn't have known. The idea is preposterous. My mother died years ago, and she certainly had no interest in the supernatural. There's no way she could ever have had any idea about Lannister Hall, let alone about a small room at the back of the house.

  This must just be a huge coincidence.

  Reaching out, I touch one of the mirrors. It's so cold, like pretty much everything else in this part of the building. I tell myself to stay calm, to stop letting my mind run riot, but at the same time I'm starting to wonder whether it's sheer chance that led me to this room at this moment.

  Did Catherine Lannister want me to see these mirrors?

  And did she make sure that, until this moment, I never came into this room?

  Suddenly hearing footsteps, I turn just in time to see Catherine's ghost walk past the open doorway. Deep in the back of my mind, I know I should be helping Josh, but instead I'm overcome by a need to follow Catherine Lannister. It's almost as if I'm no longer in control of my own body.

  “Wait!” I shout, hurrying after her. “You have to tell me what this means!”

  II

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Bursting into the next room, I immediately look around for some sign of the ghost. She stepped through this doorway just a few seconds ago, but now there's no sign of her at all. I walk over to the middle of the room and look all around, but I seem to be all alone. At the same time, I'm certain that Catherine was leading me here deliberately, and I desperately don't want to believe that this encounter is over.

  “Catherine?” I say cautiously. “Catherine Lannister, can you hear me? Please, I just want to know how to help you.”

  I turn and look all around, hoping that somehow the ghost will shimmer back into view. And then, just as I'm starting to feel as if the moment has passed, I spot a book on the floor.

  Stepping over, I reach down and pick the book up. The cover almost comes loose, and I take a moment to make sure that all the pages are secure, and then I open the book to find that it seems to be some kind of notebook or diary. The handwriting is very old-fashioned, and it's a struggle to even make out most of the dates, but with a little concentration I'm able to decipher some of the scrawls and scribbles.

  “I do not see her,” I read out loud, “but she must be close. Sometimes at night I think I hear her coming to me, but when I look for her she falls quiet. I do not know why my darling girl would not rush into my arms. She must hear me calling to her, night after night. Yet I cannot profess to understand the nature of this shift she has undergone, and I tell myself over and over that I must be patient. Always patient. Always waiting, with my heart bleeding for her return.”

  I turn to the next page, which appears to be another diary entry. This time, however, the text is illegible. There appears to be water damage, and I'm tempted to think that it looks like tears have fallen onto the paper.

  I keep looking through the pages, until I again come to an entry that I can read.

  “I thought it was her. A signal, knocking for me. I searched for her all night, but eventually I found the culprit. A window had fallen open, I know not how, but the latch appears rotten. It was the window that I heard, not my child, and I am left sitting in silence as I wonder why she stays away. Perhaps it merely takes longer for these things to happen. Or, I am beginning to think, perhaps for some reason she cannot get back to me. In which case, I might have to go and find her. Wherever she is.”

  I turn to the page after that.

  “I spent hours with her tonight, staring at her and talking to her and just weeping for what I have lost. She looked so beautiful in the moonlight, so still, so peaceful. I thought that perhaps, by being close to her, I might somehow summon her spirit. Yet all seems lost. She is somewhere far away, and it is maybe wrong of me to expect her to make such a vast journey. She remains, after all, a child. An intelligent child, but a chi
ld nonetheless. In which case, the longer I wait here for her, the longer I leave her alone in that dark and unpleasant place.”

  What is this diary? Could it possibly be the diary of Catherine Lannister herself?

  I flick through some more pages, and I quickly come to some pages that have been heavily crossed out. I peer closer in an attempt to make out some of the lines, but they have been completely obliterated.

  I continue to check the diary, and finally I come to another section that I can make out.

  “It is decided,” I read. “I have put her away, where she will not be disturbed. Where she can get some dignity, even in death. And now I shall follow her, and search for her in the lands of the dead until we are together again. As the Lord is my witness, I shall find her. And she will never have to be scared again.”

  I pause for a moment as I try to work out what she could have meant.

  “She will never have to be scared again,” I say one more time, before turning the page.

  I've reached the diary's final entry, and it's short. Very short. The writing is still the same, albeit a lot neater, and I feel a shiver run through my chest as I read these six words aloud.

  “It is done,” I whisper. “Now I wait.”

  I check the rest of the pages, but sure enough they're all blank. Coming back to the final entry, I can't escape a feeling of deep unease as I try to imagine what Catherine Lannister could have meant.

  And then, slowly, I realize that something seems to be tugging gently on the book.

  I'm still holding the diary, but I swear I can feel it being very softly pulled from my hands. If I were to let go right now, I'm sure the diary would fly across the room. At the same time, the sensation is still quite weak, and I'm not entirely sure that it's not just a matter of my own imagination. I look at the space directly ahead of me, and there's no sign of anyone, but as I look back down at the diary I feel more than ever as if it's being teased out of my grip. I consider letting go, to see what might happen, but instead I grip the book more tightly.