“For God’s sake!” Alistair cried. “What is it! I can’t see it! Is she here?”
Cold breath on my neck, the low gurgle. Right behind me. My head pounded. There was no mistaking it. “She’s here,” I managed. Maddy, playing games.
Alistair was staring wild-eyed, his gaze darting everywhere, trying to catch what we were seeing. Matthew was still staring upward, transfixed in horror. I heard the footsteps again, flap-flap-flap, this time running past me, toward Alistair himself.
Matthew looked away from the ceiling, followed something across the room. “Alistair, look out!”
“I don’t—” Alistair stopped, and a queer look came across his face, distracted, unfocused. He cocked his head. “Wait…. Do you hear that?”
Despite the sweat running down my skin, I felt a chill in my spine. For the footsteps had stopped, and so had the creaking. The barn was silent.
I exchanged a glance with Matthew, shook my head. I heard nothing. I could tell from his expression that he did not either.
“Alistair?” he said.
Alistair raised an impatient hand, as when telling someone to be quiet for a moment. “There,” he said, his voice trailing and vague. “There. Do you hear it? Music. Where— Matthew, start the recorder.”
Matthew turned to the recorder and twisted the dials. “Damn it.” He plugged in his headphones and put them on, reluctantly. “I don’t know, Alistair. All I hear is—” He ripped the headphones off again, pain on his face. “Feedback.”
“Feedback? No. No, not at all.” A strange look was settling over Alistair, as if he were hearing something far away, an expression that frightened me. “It’s music,” he said.
Something broke through my terror, through the difficulty I felt moving, thinking. I ran to Alistair and grabbed his arm. “Alistair, come with me. Let’s go.”
He tried to shake me off. “No, no. Sarah, don’t you hear it?”
“No!” I cried. “And neither does Matthew! She’s somehow haunting us separately—don’t you see?” Sounds for me that the others did not hear, visions for Matthew that we could not see—Maddy somehow had the power to do it.
But it was what she was doing to Alistair, only to Alistair, that made me sick with fear. Because it was Alistair she wanted.
Alistair looked at me, and his eyes were growing vague, as if he remembered me from long ago. “Separately? That’s unheard of. What a find. I should document it.”
“No!” I pulled at him, willing to drag him bodily to the door. “Please!”
But he shook me off, though I gripped as hard as I could. I staggered back and nearly lost my balance. Matthew came forward, but he stopped, a grimace on his face, and clapped his hands to his ears. He swore furiously. “Feedback!” he shouted, as if trying to be heard over a deafening noise. He turned to see his headphones, dropped on the old crate next to the recorder, several feet away. He gripped his head harder, ground his palms into his ears. “It isn’t bloody possible!”
I stepped back, and then I was watching all of this as from a distance. The room was swirling away from me, as if it were a play, and I was lost in a susurrous, scratching sound, nearly physical in the air; I realized with the slow stupidity of terror that it was the sound of the crows on the roof overhead, moving.
Time seemed to telescope. Sounds came eerily loud or from far away. I have always wondered since, what was real in what followed and what was not; how long, exactly, passed between the moment when Matthew put his hands to his ears and the moment when Mrs. Clare came into the barn, screaming. It felt like hours upon hours, eerily still hours, as if I were in the eye of the storm, in the strange silence and red-yellow light as the destruction went on all about me.
And yet it could not have lasted more than a few moments. Despite the madness of all that was going on, Matthew would not have lagged for long.
I saw him put his hands to his ears, and then I closed my eyes. Because Maddy had come into my head; she was speaking in that sickening way of hers, somewhere inside my mind.
Well-done, little girl, she said.
I groaned, helpless. I knew what she meant. She had set me to bring Alistair to her, and somehow, against my will, I had.
“No,” I tried to say, not knowing if I was saying it aloud or only in the terrified confines of my mind.
Yes, said Maddy. There was a long pause, a sickening sound of dead breath, almost like a sigh. Then she said something else, though it was lost in the gurgle of her voice—something that sounded like Beautiful, beautiful. And something else that sounded like Mine.
“No!” I said.
You smell like the other one now, Maddy said. This one I will take.
“You cannot have him!” I screamed.
I gagged; something cold had been shoved down my throat. A wave of insane, wild rage came over me. My heart bloomed in my chest. It was as overpowering as the blast of heat from a white-hot fire that bends and bubbles the air; I opened my eyes to see the very walls of the barn bowing with it, the force of Maddy’s rage. I tried to weep. This is what a lunatic feels like, I thought. This is what it is like.
I do not take orders, Maddy hissed, her voice a pain and an itch in my head. Not ever again.
I choked, tried to speak. “Yes.”
Do you understand, little girl?
“Yes!”
The icy mass withdrew from my throat and I gasped for breath. I was on my knees now, though I had no recollection of falling.
The rage subsided, but only faintly. I could feel myself breathing it in. It made my blood pound wildly in my veins. I began to truly feel it—anger, outrage. Part of me wanted to growl, to hit something. I wanted to scream, though not in terror this time. I tried to breathe and stay calm. Talk to her, I told myself.
“Please,” I said, and I still had no idea whether I spoke aloud or not. “Please don’t take him. You’ll kill him. Please.”
I like the beautiful one, said Maddy, a note of petulance in her voice.
“Please.”
A long pause. Then her voice again, sly and pleased with herself: You can do something for me, I think. And then we’ll see.
Everything in me revolted against making a promise to Maddy. She was terrifying, childish, and certainly devious. But what choice did I have? “Anything,” I said.
I smelled like man once, too, she said. The rage still pulsed around me. No beautiful ones, not for Maddy. Three of them on me.
“I don’t understand,” I said, my mind whirling. What was she asking me to do?
I screamed, but I tasted their blood, she said, as if I had not spoken. Each of the three. They each tasted different. I took orders, but I knew I would taste it again. Every one of them. I will do it, little girl. I will have my revenge.
I listened, no longer speaking. Horror hit my stomach like a fist.
Poor little dead girl, staring at the sky, Maddy said in my head. She was nearly singing it. A false cheer that pulsed with hatred, that gurgled with rage.
What sky is she looking at, little girl? So dark and so green? You’ve seen it, haven’t you? I showed it to you. You’ll see it in your dreams, like I see it in mine. Poor little dead girl opens her eyes and it’s all gone, all of it, until that day she came from the barn.
Poor little dead girl. Find them. Find her, and I will give you back your beautiful one. Refuse me, and the beautiful one is mine. I can see you, little girl. I can follow you. Refuse me and I will kiss your children. They will taste so sweet.
“Oh, God,” I whispered. I felt wet tears on my face.
No gods here, she gurgled.
There was a loud crash; I turned to see the barn door burst open, and Mrs. Clare came flying in, wild-eyed, an oil lamp held high in one hand. She whirled around, took all of us in. I saw Alistair, limp on the floor, Matthew bent over him. I saw the recorder on the crate, juddering to a start of its own accord. I saw Alistair’s camera, lifeless and broken on the ground.
Mrs. Clare saw the recorder. Her gaze fle
w to the corners of the barn, the ceiling, looking, looking.
“Where are you!” she screamed.
Deep in my head, Maddy moaned.
“Where are you!” Mrs. Clare screamed again, her voice breaking. “Get out! For God’s sake, Maddy. Go!”
Maddy screamed a laugh, but it was faint; the sound flew to the roof of the barn, echoing off the wooden rafters.
Mrs. Clare stumbled forward, and in that brief moment, as my mind became my own again and time came back into focus, I thought she looked utterly out of her wits. I wondered with a chill why she carried an oil lamp in daylight. And then I knew.
“No!” I cried, my voice back now. “Matthew! Alistair! Look out!”
Matthew looked up, saw Mrs. Clare with the lamp, and stood. “Mrs. Clare!”
She took a step back. “I can’t have her here anymore,” she said.
I thought of my first visit to this barn, of the vision of fire Maddy had sent me. I thought of Mrs. Clare’s calm voice as we interviewed her: I do hope Maddy does not plan to burn down the barn.
It seemed Maddy would not burn down the barn after all.
Matthew and I both ran. But before we could reach her, Mrs. Clare smashed the burning oil lamp to the floor.
Chapter Eighteen
The fire caught quickly in the dry, dusty barn, spreading through the desiccated remnants of old straw on the floor. As it climbed the walls, Matthew and I hauled Alistair upright—his eyes were rolled back in his head, though he was awake and breathing, as if he was in some sort of trance—and carried him outside onto the grass.
We set him down and Matthew turned toward the barn again. “Where is Mrs. Clare?”
I watched as the flames appeared through the streaked windows, aware that people had started to gather. Mrs. Macready came sprinting down the path. “My lady!”
Matthew ran back to the barn. I followed, but I got only a few steps before my knees buckled under me and I fell to the ground. My legs shook uncontrollably, and the world grayed around me. I found myself shaking, nauseated, short of breath. Matthew disappeared through the door and I watched that small space of burning light for him to reappear.
Mrs. Macready ran as close to the barn as she dared, pacing like a mother cat. “My lady!” she cried again. A woman I didn’t recognize—one of the neighbors, perhaps—approached her and tried to soothe her. A clump of other strangers stood a few feet away from me, watching. I heard murmurs of “fire brigade” and “constable,” but not one of them approached me, even as I sat shaking in the grass.
I turned and crawled back over the damp ground, returning to Alistair. He lay on his back, pale and unmoving. He moaned as I gently took his head and placed it in my lap.
I looked up at the small knot of people who stood staring at me. I recognized none of them. “Will no one send for a doctor?” I cried.
A girl of about sixteen broke away from the group and came forward. “I’m next door, mum. I’ll ring Dr. Cheswick on the telephone. Is he hurt?”
“I don’t know,” I said, truthfully. “He seems swooned. Please—hurry.”
The girl ran away. I brushed Alistair’s fair hair from his forehead and soothed him. He seemed to be struggling to awaken. “Shh,” I said to him, as I turned my eyes to the barn again.
Matthew reappeared at the door, one arm about Mrs. Clare’s waist. She sagged against him as if weak, but she walked on her own powers. In Matthew’s other hand, incredibly, was the suitcase containing the sound recorder. He staggered toward Alistair and me. Mrs. Macready cut him off, taking Mrs. Clare from him, clucking in her employer’s ear. Matthew came the rest of the way to Alistair and me, stumbling, and sat in the grass.
“Someone is phoning a doctor,” I said.
He said nothing and stared down into Alistair’s face. “How is he?”
“I don’t know. Are you all right?”
“Jesus God.” Matthew pulled up his knees and ran his hands through his hair. His face was ashen. I opened my mouth to say something else to him—I knew not what—when the firemen arrived.
The barn was burning brightly now, the walls and eaves on fire. The Waringstoke villagers were all gathered to watch, though it was becoming too hot to venture close. There was a shrill cackling, a loud flurry of wings—and we all watched as the crows on the barn roof rose up as one, in a blue-black cloud arching into the sky. Higher and higher they stretched, like the column of an army, crying their hoarse cries, until they flew away as one toward the dense, green woods.
There was a quiet hush over the small crowd as we watched the eerie sight. I felt Alistair move on my lap. He raised his head. I looked down to see he had opened his eyes and was watching the birds with feverish intensity.
“Do you hear that?” he said softly.
Matthew looked down at him. “Gellis. Are you all right?”
“Do you hear that?” Alistair said again. His eyes were unfocused, like those of a man in the grip of an illness. With uncanny speed he grabbed Matthew’s arm and held it so tight I could see Alistair’s knuckles whiten. “Planes,” he said, his eyes following the birds as they disappeared. “An air strike. We should warn the sergeant.”
A chill went down my spine. I looked at Matthew. He gazed down at Alistair in surprise; his brow lowered, and he opened his mouth as if to say something. He seemed to change his mind, and slowly a sad knowledge came into his eyes.
“I hear it,” said Matthew, softly.
“I knew it,” said Alistair. “It’s been too damned quiet. They always come back sooner or later. We need to raise the alarm.”
Matthew shook his head, and I marveled at the calm in his deep voice. “It’s too dark, Gellis. We’re under cover here. There’s no point. They can’t see a thing.”
“You’re right.” Alistair stared up at the bright blue midmorning sky. “Hasn’t stopped them before, though. I hear it. I know I do. God, I’d have a cigarette, but you can’t light a match in this damned place—”
“No matter,” said Matthew, his voice rough. “Get some sleep.”
“You’ll wake me for my turn at sentry duty?”
“Yes.”
“You’d better.” Alistair closed his eyes.
Matthew raised his eyes to mine. He looked haggard, as if that little exchange had taken the last ounce of energy he had. “What in God’s name is happening to him?”
I bit my lip. “Maddy…wants him. I told you that. She’s done something to him.”
“That thing.” Matthew’s eyes blazed. “I saw it. Plain as day. But I saw you. You didn’t see her, did you?”
“No.” My stomach turned and I realized I was suffering from some sort of shock. I touched Alistair with my icy hand. “I didn’t see her. I only heard her, when she talked to me.” I took a breath and looked into Matthew’s eyes. “I understand it now. Maddy told me everything.”
As the fire dwindled, the doctor the neighbor girl had phoned for arrived. He was thickset, in his sixties, his breath wheezing from the haste with which he’d traveled. There was still no sign of any police—I heard several people say there was no bobby in Waringstoke, and someone had had to make a call to a nearby village. I wondered if the poor, faraway bobby had a motorcar, or if he would have to ride a bicycle all the way here.
The doctor saw to Mrs. Clare first. She was lying on the grass by the path to the house, in a near swoon, Mrs. Macready tending to her. The doctor examined her, then rounded up a few of the tallest, strongest gawkers to help carry her into the house. With that in motion, he came to us. He took one look at us and bade a few more villagers to help Matthew carry Alistair into the house as well. I followed on shaky legs that would barely obey me.
He had Alistair installed in one of the upstairs rooms, and bade Matthew and me wait in the parlor as he examined his patient. Matthew and I sat in silence for only a few minutes before Matthew excused himself and left the room without another word.
The doctor came down twenty minutes later, as Matthew returned. “We
ll,” the doctor sighed as he sat heavily on one of Mrs. Clare’s fussy flowered sofas, his stout bulk making the wooden frame creak. “He seems healthy enough, in body anyway. I can’t say exactly what’s wrong with him.” He looked from Matthew to me. “It’s possible he’s had some sort of shock to the mind.”
“What should we do?” I asked him.
“I gave him a mild sedative to help him sleep,” said the doctor. “Leave him be for now. He’s comfortable enough, I daresay. I’ll check on him later to see if he’s improved. Maybe a rest will do him some good.” He lowered his gaze on me. “How are you, young lady? Were you hurt?”
I shook my head, but the doctor heaved himself out of his seat and came to me anyway, checking my pulse and pulling up my eyelids to look at my pupils. “Mild shock,” he declared a moment later. He stood straight, pressed his hands into the small of his back. “I’d worry about you, dear, but you’re strong as a horse next to your companion here.” To my surprise, he turned to Matthew. “Are you injured, young man?”
Matthew’s face was ashen, his features slack. “No,” he said, his voice, normally hoarse, made more so by the smoke he had inhaled in the barn.
“No burns? No shortness of breath? They say you went into the barn to bring out Mrs. Clare.”
“I’m fine,” said Matthew.
“Oh, I’m sure you are,” said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders. “And yet, unless I’m much mistaken, you’ve just spent the past half hour throwing up in the privy.”
Matthew turned an angry glare on the man, but the doctor seemed unfazed. “It’s battle fatigue, son,” he said with rough gentleness. “I can always tell. You may as well have a sign about your neck. I’ve been treating it for years. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
I watched, surprised. Matthew did look stricken, like a man who has been dealt a serious blow. And yet his eyes were defiant, as if he were fighting it with everything he had. He glared steadily at the doctor, his gaze never wavering, though he was canted to the side, gripping the edge of his chair with one hand as if he was about to fall over. Had the fire brought back memories of when he had been so badly burned? I remembered him looking up into the rafters of the barn, his expression unreadable. I fucking hate barns, he had said, and Alistair had gone quiet.
The Haunting of Maddy Clare Page 14
