Blackened Cottage

by A. E. Richards

  He moves closer again and I can smell his stale breath. His eyes search mine. There is almost a pleading look haunting them, but in the same instant, rage emanates from his entire body. The way he clenches his jaw, fists his hands and steels his shoulders, imposing himself upon the room and me, turns my heartbeat to a racing drum, my knees to liquid, my heart to a caged bird. Heat throbs in the air between us.

  “What?” I repeat, leaning away.

  I know he will not speak to me though I half-hope he will. Just one word, one gentle reassuring word would be worth gold. But my hope is in vain. I should not even be hoping that he speak to me; he may be responsible for the terrible scratches upon little Eddie’s body.

  The thought splinters my nerves and I step back. I almost forgot! If Father is the one who hurt my Eddie, I should run back to my bedroom and barricade the door. If he is capable of brutalising an innocent eight year old, who is to say what he may do to me?

  Edging back, I find myself trapped between the kitchen counter and Father’s huge body. My only escape would be to turn and exit by the back door.

  Suddenly, he raises his hand. I flinch, tensed upon the tips of my soles. But he simply drags his fingers down his face, groaning in anguish. Red nail marks appear on his cheek and I am instantly reminded of Eddie’s injuries. Fear conflicts with anger making me brave.

  I meet his scorching gaze and say, “Did you hurt Eddie?”

  His face turns red upon the instant and I wish I had not spoke. His eyes glaze over with fury and pain and he casts his eyes upwards and lets out a terrifyingly guttural groan through gritted teeth.

  I gasp but cannot tear my eyes away from him.

  He glares down at me once more, his chest rising and falling slowly, his breathing loud and violent.

  I glance over my shoulder; the back door is closed. He is but one stride from me. I look back up into his eyes and see their expression changed from purest, darkest rage to pitiful despair. A lump rises in my throat. I feel so small, so helpless, so confused.

  At last he lowers his gaze, turns sharply and leaves the room, slamming the study door.

  The echo of his violent departure quakes through the cottage and I am left in ringing silence.

  I exhale shakily. No longer hungry, sickness swells in my throat. I feel empty, and retire to bed hoping that this night will not be plagued by its usual daemons.

  *

  My Dear Sweet Lisbeth,

  I understand that you feel the need to express yourself in your letters and I am extremely glad of this.

  Though learning of these events worries me extensively, I want you to confide in me, because, Lisbeth, I cannot be with you, but I will always be here to guide you.

  So now I will try to offer my advice. Firstly, you must let Eddie alone for a little while, but watch him closely. Follow his every movement, action and inclination from a distance. Note what he eats, where he goes, how he spends his time, why he does the things he does. Record his habits, his moods and his motives. He may only be eight years old, but he is a complex character and, as you and I well know, he has been through a lot for his tender years.

  As for your Father, I beg you to continue to avoid him at all costs. He is not a well man. He is not the man I married nineteen years ago. He has turned into something neither one of us recognises. His heart has crumbled. His soul has slipped.

  I know this truth is difficult to digest, but digest it you must. His troubles go deeper than you realise so there is nothing you can do to bring him back. All you can do is protect yourself and Eddie. Keep Charles at a distance - I am not saying he will hurt you, but the possibility must not be ignored.

  Now onto happier things! When I close my eyes, I can see your beautiful smile. Your long black hair shines like rippling silk. You are happy.

  Of course, this is a memory of you at ten years old. I would give anything to see you smile like that again. Please try to smile Lisbeth. Do it for me if not for yourself.

  Thinking of you always.

  Mama

  *

  Daemons. Dark shadows with manic grins and eyeless faces. Always masked. Always hidden. Always prowling and spying. Hunting me.

  When I wake I am drenched. A pool of water lies between my breasts. I dab it with my finger, surprised. I cannot remember the last time I sweated so profusely. My head feels cloudy, my heart heavy. Moving seems too immense an effort.

  I listen to the morning chorus; carefree creatures singing their buoyant, trilling song. The pressure on my chest eases. Light seeps beneath my curtains and everything feels a little less bleak.

  Finally, I pull myself out of the room and cross the landing. Eddie's door is ajar. I peek inside and see him curled up on the floorboards in the foetal position.

  I rush into the room and gently lift him onto his bed. He moans softly as I tuck him in. His hair is damp. His face is too pale and a permanent frown adorns his forehead. Normally I would wake him for his morning lessons, but today I decide to let him rest.

  I leave and hurry downstairs into the living room where I go to the fireplace and stoke the flames with the iron poker. Sizzling, cracking, spitting, making their own music, the yellow flames reach upwards like a multitude of flailing hands.

  Closing my eyes, I breathe in their warmth. A flush rises in my cheeks. My face slackens and I realise I am smiling. I slowly open my eyes and gaze at the fire. It is so alive – so warm and full of energy. The thought that this fire is more alive than me reduces my smile to nothing. The spark of hope flickering inside me dies.

  The creak of a floorboard directly behind me. My body stills and my nerves tingle. Someone looms over me, but I am too frightened to turn around. Is it Father? Has he finally had enough? Cold fear ices my bones. I dare not look around.

  *

  Dear Diary,

  I almost spoke to her yesterday. My lips got so far as to part and form the first sound of the first word and then horror overtook all else and I hurried back into my cave. Even then, I could do nothing but sit at my desk tearing my nails through my hair; a tormented beast.

  I want them gone. Why can they not leave me? At night, I hear my son, screaming, cursing, howling and I long to take the sharpest blade – nay, the log axe – and chop and chop and chop until I hear him no more.

  I see blood. So much blood.

  Oh cursed rage that has possessed my soul and would have me tear them limb from limb! There is not a daemon in all of Hell who suffers more than I. And what is more, I see myself as would an outsider and what I have become. I am a fiendish, despicable sight. In truth, a terrifying sight. No wonder Lisbeth flinches away from me at one blink, for I am a dark, gruesome creature. Angry, strife with daemons. Pitiable. Beyond pathetic. Thus, is it really a wonder my wife has left me? Is it really a wonder that she refuses to partake in my world?

  I cannot forget that look. Eyes so distant, body closed, thoughts unknown. That look haunts me day and night. It creeps into my dreams and twists my waking thoughts. I do not know how much longer I can wait. I know not how much longer I may keep my sanity. As they say, time waits for no man.

  I go.

  C.C

  *

  A hand as light as a feather brushes across my shoulders.

  Inside I begin to scream, but I cannot move and remain kneeling in front of the fire, face burning, stomach tight. My breathing grows rapid yet I continue to stare into the flames; I stare and stare and stare into the vivid yellow flames until the edges of my vision blur black. My eyes sting but I dare not turn and confront the thing behind me.

  Suddenly, I realise I am as convinced of its supernatural essence as I am of its dreadful designs and my hand involuntarily tightens on the black poker. Glancing at the fire iron I note its glowing point and cannot help but think that such a piece would make a fine weapon.

  Footsteps on the stairs. Light, quick, Eddie footsteps. No! Pain flares in my chest; I must protect Eddie.

  Gripping the poker, I swivel on my knees and face...no
thing. There is no dark, evil figure only the jaundiced walls of the living room.

  Eddie runs in holding his puzzle.

  “Can we play? Please? Just for a little while before my lessons?”

  He glances at the poker in my hand. My knuckles are white.

  I was so sure there was something behind me. I could feel it. A shiver trickles down my spinal cord and my arms goose.

  Not wanting to frighten Eddie, I say we can have a go at his puzzle and gently replace the poker in its brass bucket.

  Together we run upstairs and into his bedroom. We never play downstairs just in case Father happens upon us.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE GIRL IN THE GARDEN

  Dear Mama,

  Your wonderful letter has stilled my nerves a little.

  As instructed, I have watched Eddie over the last few days and I am pleased to report that he has been his normal, happy self. He and Jack played chase in the back garden this morning and it was lovely to see his little face light up. I became so involved in watching their game that I almost thought I could see Jack's carrot-orange hair! At one point, I could have sworn I heard two little boy voices giggling, not just one. The scene warmed me and my lips wear a slight smile as I write these words.

  Father keeps to his study. Indeed, I have not glimpsed him for days. Sometimes, on rare occasions when his door is ajar, I hear his quill scribbling away with a ferocious speed that is almost frightening. This morning I dared, for the very first time, to creep up to his door and lean my ear upon the oak. Forever more I shall wish that I had not, because the sound I heard was not a scribbling quill but the wretched curses of a man possessed.

  I turned and fled at once. Your warning resounded in my head and I heeded it. However, I now feel dragged down by guilt. It weighs heavy on my shoulders and I cannot shake the feeling that ignoring Father is wrong. Mama, are you certain that Father is irredeemable? Perhaps if I showed compassion and attempted to understand him he would gradually change back into the man he once was...After all, can a man so cursed be truly dangerous?

  When I go to bed this night I am prepared for the disturbing sound of his anguished suffering to haunt me. Never have I heard such a sound.

  As always, I look to you for guidance Mama. Please do not be angry with me for questioning your previous warning. I hope you can understand my predicament.

  Your loving daughter,

  Lisbeth

  *

  Eddie is sleeping soundly. I creep down the stairs, past Father's locked study and out into the back garden.

  The night is dead. The moon is a faceless coin. A white owl hoots and two bats flutter frantically. My breath mists but I am not cold. For once I have the presence of mind to wear a blanket - Mama's old blanket. Tears threaten as I inhale her inimitable smell. Vanilla sweetness. Citrus. Warm musk. My entire body aches, wrapped with longing; longing for my previous life, longing for the family I once had.

  With heavy heart, I tentatively step further into the dark garden.

  The grass is cold and dewy. I scrunch up the blades between my toes. The bare bones of the trees arc against the blackened sky, fighting for survival in the biting cold.

  I feel brave for leaving the cottage and entering the garden at the dead of night, but as I take three small steps my chest coils and anxiety inflates in my chest like a blood-soaked sponge. I attempt another step, but my right foot will not co-operate. It is paralysed. It will not move. Frowning, I attempt to force it forward but to no avail. Trapped by my own cowardice I glance around, fearful of the shadows and what lies beyond. I am also angry, angry at myself for failing such a trivial task.

  I look into the gloom sourly contemplating my inability to control my emotions, and I am struck by the idea that I am not alone. The bats are gone and the owl is silent. But I am not alone. I can feel it. Something is in the garden with me. Something or someone.

  Unexpectedly, hot, immobilising fear does not come, for this unannounced presence emanates not hatred but something very different. Something possibly good.

  A cool breeze lifts the black tendrils of my hair, and I catch a figure out of the corner of my eye. I turn, gasp.

  A woman of similar age to my own stands only two yards away. Her back faces me and she is naked. In the blackness of night, her alabaster skin is pure, opalescent. Her slim arms hang motionless by her sides. Her hair is as long and inky as my own, but glossy as a panther's pelt. She must be so cold yet she stands perfectly still; not an inch of her body shivers. My own toes are numb as is my nose and the tips of my ears.

  “Hello?” I say quietly.

  Without turning, she says, “Hello Lisbeth!”

  Her voice plays a merry tune.

  I hesitate, shocked and a little nervous, “How do you know my name?”

  Instead of answering she laughs a fairy-light, tinkling sound. It is the sound of daisies in Spring.

  I wonder how long it has been since I last laughed.

  I step towards her, “Are you not cold?”

  “Ha ha! I do not feel the cold any longer. I do not let it touch me!” she says.

  Her tone is so light, so abandoned of cares, and though I cannot see her face, I can tell she is smiling.

  “What is your name?” I ask.

  “Bethan. Similar to yours!”

  She laughs again and I wish I could join in.

  “Why are you here?”

  Before she answers, I hear Eddie scream. Alarm takes over all else.

  “Oh what a shame,” she says, “you had better go.”

  I lift my skirts preparing to take flight, but hesitate, “Will you come again?”

  She laughs, “Yes! Of course I will.”

  “Good,” I say before rushing back to the cottage.

  *

  I dash into Eddie's bedroom. For a moment I cannot distinguish his small body in the bed, but as my eyes adjust to the darkness I see his tousled hair and white face. Stumbling forward I take his face in my hands.

  “Are you okay my darling?” I whisper urgently.

  But he lies motionless; a mere statue, a sleeping prince. His only answer is a heavy sigh.

  I feel his forehead. It is slick with perspiration. He frowns, but slumbers deeply. His little chest rises and falls draggingly. The nightmare has passed.

  I leave the room and gingerly pull the door to.

  Suddenly exhausted, crossing the landing and flopping onto the bed takes an immense effort.

  Too tired to undress, I sleep.

  *

  Dear Diary,

  A scream! Piercing and desperate. Wretched, guttural. A scream so chilling it lingers in my ear like the sight of a hanged man in the mind’s eye.

  I tried to move, I really did, but my legs resisted. Deep down I think I knew that any help on my part would be futile, and it was this that locked me in place. So I remained sitting at my desk, hands wringing, leg twitching, mind racing.

  And now I am aggravated. Aggravated by myself and by her. Were it not for her I could sleep peacefully at night, undisturbed by hideous noises! Were it not for my weak mind, perhaps I could resolve things little by little, once and for all!

  My face is reddening. The veins in my neck are throbbing. I am queasy and the head pains are stabbing, brutalising. The temptation to go up to Lisbeth’s room, wrap my hands about her tender white throat, and squeeze, squeeze until she is silent, until her misery is unearthed and sent to the heavens leaving me at last with some kind of peace, is strong, palpable. I feel a stirring deep within; a desire so appalling I cannot name it.

  I must go.

  C.C

  *

  I am trembling with anticipation as I leave a tired little boy to his well-earned afternoon nap and enter the garden. There is only one thing on my mind: the girl in the garden. The girl with the tinkling laugh. Bethan.

  The slated sky weeps and a glacial wind whips my hair into disarray, but I care not because she is here. She is true to her word. Today she wears a black hooded
cloak over a cream dress. She stands with her back to me again, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.

  “You came,” I say.

  She laughs, “Of course I came! I want us to be friends.”

  “You do?”

  I find myself shocked and a little embarrassed. Who would want to be my friend? I am dull and lifeless. I live a sheltered, odd existence. In fact, I barely exist at all.

  “I most certainly do,” she returns, “but I need to know that I can trust you first.”

  I hesitate, picking my words carefully.

  “I can keep a secret, if that is what you mean. Also, I never venture out of the cottage so I never speak to anyone other than my little brother Eddie.”

  She digests my response, lifts her hand to her face and rests it upon her cheek.

  “Alright then!” she exclaims and whirls around.

  Her black hood falls back exposing her whole face.

  I cannot prevent a sharp intake of breath. Her body is a thing of beauty but sadly, her face is not. Her face is a nightmare made real; cruelly distorted, it speaks of destruction, terror and violence.

  Above a savagely aquiline nose her flat grey eyes lie askew like those of an ill-maltreated marionette. Her cheeks, veined with violet and frightfully mottled, haunt one with their gruesomeness. And her eyebrows – perhaps the most sorrowful part of all - are eternally set into frowning sadness.

  I open my mouth to express my sorrow for her plight but before I can speak her fingers are upon my lips.