by Cross, Amy
I wait for him to admit that I'm right, but instead he's fixed me with a determined stare. It's almost as if he thinks that I'm about to change my mind.
“You think they're real,” I say finally. “Don't you?”
“I think anyone would think they're real,” he replies, “if they'd lived next door to that house for long enough.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask. “Have you heard bumps in the night? Strange wailing sounds? Maybe a scream or -”
“I haven't heard a goddamn thing,” he says, interrupting me. “Not so much as a creak.”
Turning, he looks out the kitchen window. Beyond his garden wall, there's nothing but absolute darkness. And in that darkness, 9 Cathmore Road stands waiting. For a few seconds, there's a genuine sense of fear in Jerry's eyes as he continues to look out at the night.
“It's not a horror movie,” he whispers finally. “There aren't cries in the dark, or rattling chains. It goes deeper than that.”
“So have you seen things?” I ask. “Faces at the window?”
“There you go again,” he replies, turning to me. “Always going with the cliche.”
“Then -”
“How would I have even seen anything at the windows?” he adds. “All the windows are boarded up, all except that one at the back that's broken. And that's so high, it's impossible to see inside. The inside of that house has stood undisturbed for a very long time. Unseen, unheard, unregarded in every way. Until you showed up.”
“So why do you say it's haunted?” I ask.
Again, he hesitates. There's fear in his eyes now, and I can tell that he seems to genuinely believe everything he's telling me, even if I think it's clear he's a little too hooked on the idea of ghosts. After a moment he looks back down at the folders and starts sorting through some of the paperwork, as if he needs to anchor his thoughts in the work.
“I told you that Doctor Charles Grazier committed suicide,” he says finally. “I didn't tell you how. Have you seen those railings at the front of the place?”
I nod.
“The big ones,” he continues. “Tall. Pointed.”
“I know the ones you mean.”
“One morning in October 1888,” he adds, “Doctor Charles Grazier opened one of the bedroom windows on the house's top floor and climbed out onto the ledge. He was in the window to the left of the front door. Do you know the one?”
“I think so.”
“There weren't many witnesses, just a few people who saw from the other side of the road. But out he climbed, and they say he stood there for a moment before leaping off.” He pauses for a moment. “He landed on the railings,” he adds after a few seconds, and now his voice is trembling. “They say the spikes went in through his belly and straight up through the whole of his body, splitting him open all the way to the top of his head. Blood and guts splattered everywhere, all across the pavement. All that was left was a mess of skin and meat and bones and clothes impaled on the railings.”
“That's horrible,” I reply. “And... dramatic.”
“There was no note. Nothing to explain why he'd done it.”
“Not everybody leaves a note,” I point out, feeling a shudder pass through my chest.
“When I was a boy,” he replies, “there was an old story that you could still see him out there on dark nights. My friends at school all told different versions of the story, but the common element was the idea that when there was no moon, if you dared go all the way up to the railings, you'd see the ghost of Doctor Charles Grazier hanging there on the threads of his torn skin, with his guts spilled out all over the pavement.”
I can't hold back a faint smile. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
I wait for him to laugh, or to at least admit that the idea is crazy, but instead he keeps his fearful gaze fixed on me. This is a guy who just told me I was resorting to cliches for asking about bumps in the night, yet now here he is telling me about a ghost that appears on dark nights and scares kids.
“So did you ever go and look?” I ask finally.
“Me?” He hesitates. “No. My friends Billy and Johnny did, and they both ran away screaming. They claimed to have seen his eyes staring down at them from the dark railings, and to have heard his gurgled death rattle. Scared me to death, they did, telling that story over and over. It wasn't until they were older that they admitted they'd made it up, but there were plenty of other people who swore they had seen him. If you ask me, some of them were lying and some of them were so freaked out by the idea, they managed to see something that wasn't there. At least, that's the explanation I choose to believe.”
“Okay,” I say cautiously, “so... I still don't get why you believe there are ghosts in the house.”
“While everyone was creeping about at the front,” he continues, “I'd go and play in our back garden here. There's just that path running between the two gardens, and sometimes I'd be out at night. And sometimes, not always, but... Sometimes I'd hear a faint sobbing sound coming from the garden of number nine.”
“That could have been anything,” I point out.
“And one night I actually dared to go all the way over to the gate and peer through.”
I wait for him to continue, but he seems to have paused for effect. I get the feeling that despite his protestations, he actually enjoys telling these stories.
“What did you see?” I ask, figuring that he's been waiting for me to prompt him.
“Ravens,” he replies. “A whole flock of them, bursting up from the dark garden and flying frantically into the sky. But then, as I watched them go, they suddenly disappeared.”
Staring at him, I realize that he's serious.
“Ghost birds?” I ask finally. “You're saying that you saw ghost birds?”
“They disappeared just as they flew across the threshold of number nine,” he tells me, with a hint of urgency in his voice. “Gone, just like that!”
“And this was at night?”
“A moonless night.”
“And ravens are black.”
“They are.”
“So...” I wait for him to see where I'm going with this, but then I realize that maybe he's a little too heavily invested in this whole idea. “I just figure it might be hard to see black ravens on a dark night,” I point out. “So maybe, you know, it wasn't easy to tell whether they disappeared or just flew away.
“They disappeared,” he replies, without a hint of doubt in his voice. “I watched them blink out of the sky.”
“That sounds... odd,” I admit, although deep down I'm starting to think that this Jerry guy might have been smoking something a little stronger than regular tobacco. “I get it,” I continue. “Number nine is the spooky, abandoned house in the street, and it's normal for there to be a load of stories about a place like that. Every street has a house like that, right? Honestly, I don't even think it's that weird for people to talk about it.”
“I'm the only one who ever talks about it,” he replies. “The rest, they all pretend it's not there. They won't even look at it. They feel a sense of great dread, which is why I'm so curious about you.” He leans toward me, as if he's trying to get a closer look at my face. “Everyone feels that sensation,” he continues. “They feel the dread, all of them. Everyone who ever went near that house. Everyone except you.”
I swallow hard.
“So what's different about you?” he continues. “Why do you feel relaxed there?”
“I didn't say I felt relaxed,” I reply. “I just said I don't feel like there are ghosts all around me.”
“And nothing weird has happened to you there?”
For a moment, I think back to the sound of the bell, but I quickly realize that there's no point mentioning that to Jerry. It'd probably just set him off, and then he might get me worried, and I still have to go back to the house and sleep there tonight. I'm not scared at the moment, and I'd like to keep it that way.
“Are you going to call the cops on me?�
� I ask, hoping to change the subject slightly. “Please don't do that. I won't stay for long, I promise, but I just need to wait for a few days until my friend shows up.”
“I'm not going to call anyone,” he replies. “If there's one thing I hate more than ghosts, it's the police. I want you to do something for me, though. A favor, if you like. In return.”
“Sure. I'll do anything you want. If I can, I mean.”
“There's something in that house that I want,” he explains. “Something that will help me with my research into another matter that might or might not be related to Doctor Grazier and his work. I can't go in myself and find it. Even if I could get through that window, I just couldn't bring myself to enter the house. Please, if I described it to you, will you find this thing and bring it out to me?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Doctor Charles Grazier
Tuesday October 2nd, 1888
“These will help,” I whisper, once again looking at the jewellery in Catherine's dresser. “They will make her feel more like herself.”
In truth, this is the fourth or fifth time that I have come up here to fetch jewellery for her, and each time I have ended up changing my mind and going back downstairs empty-handed. This time I am determined to fetch something – a necklace, perhaps, or her favorite earrings – although after a moment I hesitate yet again. It is as if I am locked into a perpetual cycle of actions that seem to bring me no closer to a resolution.
Finally I pick up one particular set of earrings, and I watch as the light catches their edge. No wonder they were among her favorites, although her absolute favorites were the others, the ones I bought her in Cornwall. Those were the ones she always wore whenever she was going to a particularly important evening, so I pick those up instead, and immediately I think back to those happier times. After a moment, I realize that there is a curious, rather fruit-like taste in my mouth, although it is gone after just a few seconds more.
And then, when I look at Catherine's mirror, I see that there are tears in my eyes.
I do not understand how or why, since I am not a man who cries easily, but tears have arrived unbidden and now they will not go away. I keep wiping them, trying to dry my eyes, yet more tears quickly emerge. It is as if once again my body is sabotaging the efforts of my mind. Finally, feeling a tremendous lump in my throat, I lean against the dresser and try to take a moment in which I might regather my thoughts. Until today, I was able to keep myself focused, but now it is as if my mind is failing.
Catherine is coming back.
That is the most important thing, the one thing I must remember.
Everything else is pointless and futile. All that matters is the simple fact that Catherine is coming back to me. Indeed, she is almost back already. There is just a small way still to go.
Whenever the task seems impossible, I have to focus on the fact that I have already achieved so much. She was dead for some time, but already she is sitting up and trying to cry out. That in itself is a sign of life, and a sign that I am on the right track. I just have to come up with some new approach, with some method of drawing her true mind out of the screaming chaos.
The hard part is over.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I focus on slowing my breathing so that this panic might subside. And then, as I wait, I realize that I can feel the hairs starting to stand up on the back of my neck. I tell myself that I am merely imagining things, yet the sensation continues until I have no option but to open my eyes and look over my shoulder.
There is nobody behind me, of course.
All I see is the metal-framed bed.
Yet just as I am about to turn away, I realize that I can feel a gaze coming from that bed. I know the idea is ridiculous, yet I feel very strongly that I am being watched. Earlier, when Inspector Sanderson looked at me through the window, I could feel his eyes fixed upon me, and that is the same sensation that troubles me now. I can only see the bed with its old sheets, yet I am quite certain that somebody is watching me. I wait, convinced that the sensation will pass, yet if anything it seems to be getting stronger and stronger.
I turn away and look back at my own reflection. I can immediately see the fear in my eyes, and I can feel the hairs still stirring on the nape of my neck.
I look over at the bed again. Still, there is the sense that I am being watched by something that is manifesting its presence with more and more power. I know such things are impossible, of course, and I try to remind myself that the human mind can throw up some very powerful – though patently false – impressions. I should turn away from the bed, indeed I should leave the room and shut the door, yet I cannot help but watch the empty space in case suddenly I find that I am being watched. This fear is totally irrational and completely unbecoming of a man such as myself, and yet...
And yet I cannot banish it from my mind.
“There is nobody there,” I whisper, still staring at the bed as a cold sweat begins to ripple across my brow. “There is... There is nobody on the bed...”
I can hear the desperation in my own voice.
I can also feel a sense of frustration as I realize that I have sunk this low. I am talking to myself!
Deep down, I know now that this fear will last for as long as I allow it. I am a man of medicine and science, and I am a man of great intelligence. I shall once again overcome the fear of the body, and replace it with the calmness of the mind.
To that end, after a moment longer, I force myself to turn away from the bed, and I look into the mirror to check that my tears are gone.
And then I see her.
“It's not me!” Catherine sobs, her reflected image sitting cross-legged on the reflected bed behind me. “Charles, you have to realize, it's not me down there. Oh Charles, it's not me!”
Gasping, I turn and look back at the bed, which is once again empty.
I turn to the mirror, but now I see only the reflection of the bed. There is nobody there, yet just now I saw...
“Catherine?” I whisper, turning and heading over to the bed. “Catherine, where are you?”
I wave my arms across the bed, across the very spot where I saw her, yet now there is nothing. Feeling utterly frantic, I crawl onto the bed and continue my search, even going so far as to pull the pillows away. I know she is not here, but I cannot stop trying to find her and my frantic hunt goes on and on until I even begin to rip the sheets away.
“What did you mean?” I stammer. “Please, Catherine, you must come back! What did you say to me?”
Tugging on the last of the sheets, I tear them from the bed and then – still finding nothing – I take hold of the mattress and start pulling it away from the frame. Insensible in my panic, I cannot help but search everywhere for Catherine, convinced that some devilish trick is being played on me and that I must find her if only I keep hunting.
“Catherine!” I call out as fresh tears stream down my face. “I saw you! Why do you hide from me now? Catherine, come back to me! Catherine, I am right here, all you have to do is come to me and everything will be alright! Catherine!”
“Sir?”
Startled, I turn and see that Jack is standing in the doorway. He is watching me with the most peculiar, surprised expression on his face, as well he might. I look over at the mirror and see myself kneeling here on the bed, then I look down at the sheets and pillows I have disturbed, and then I look back over at the doorway. My heart is beating at double speed, perhaps even faster, and I feel utterly distracted.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, finally clambering off the bed and getting to my feet. I quickly wipe the tears from my cheeks. “What has happened?”
“Are you alright?” he asks. “I thought I heard you saying the name -”
“What has happened?” I ask again, raising my voice this time before looking down at his hands. “Who gave you permission to leave the basement? Why are you not still down there?”
He pauses, before raising his right hand.
“A hand?” I s
tammer. “What about it, man?”
“The girl is dead,” he says after a moment. “Even her heart stopped beating.”
“But Catherine -”
“Sir, your wife...”
He slowly raises his left hand, and he stares as if he is somehow mesmerized.
“Why did you leave your position without permission?” I ask, taking a step toward him. “I did not tell you that you could come up here!”
I wait, but he is simply holding his hands up as if he expects this to have some significance.
“You insolent oaf!” I sneer. “Are you trying to think for yourself? Are you -”
Stopping suddenly, I realize that the house is now silent. Even all the way up here, I would surely be able to hear her screaming in the basement. And Jack's right hand, which is raised before me now, should be the only thing keeping that scream at bay.
“Did you do something to her?” I ask.
“I did not.”
“Then -”
“It was a few minutes ago,” he continues, his voice filled with a hint of wonder. “I realized she was no longer twitching in the same manner, and it occurred to me that perhaps this meant she was calmer. The heart had some moments earlier stopped beating in the other girl's chest. The tubes had fallen from your wife, Sir, spilling the dead girl's blood on the floor, and... I cannot describe it fully, but I could tell that your wife had in some way reacted to this development. Finally I removed my hand very carefully and very slowly, lest it might be needed again, but her scream has indeed ended.”
“And has she spoken?” I ask, feeling a shudder pass through my chest.
“She has not, Sir.”
“She is just sitting there?”
“No, Sir. She...”
I wait for him to continue. After a moment I turn and look back at the deranged bed, at the spot where I thought Catherine was sitting just a few minutes ago, but I honestly cannot make sense of this situation. When I turn back to Jack, indeed, I am none the wiser.
“What, man?” I ask finally. “Speak up! What is she doing?”
Again I wait, but he still seems too shocked to speak.
