by Darcy Coates
The last clipping was from four months before the Gillespies left me in charge of their home. It was the four-year anniversary of Hanna’s disappearance, but Mrs Gillespie still hadn’t given up. The reward was still on offer, she said. She implored the police to pull the file out of storage and reassess it, and she pleaded with the public to come forward with information. The article quoted her as saying she couldn’t rest until her child had been found. A photo was included, showing what Hanna might look like at age eleven.
I carefully put the clippings back in the box in the same order I’d found them, then I looked around the room again. My stomach turned leaden as I realised what it was: a shrine to the Gillespies’ lost child. Of course the door had been locked; the room was private, special. They hadn’t wanted intruders poking through their missing daughter’s possessions… which was exactly what I’d done. I stood up, feeling ashamed and a little sick. The room held the Gillespies’ private grief, probably the reason their marriage was failing, and a virtual stranger had beaten down the door and riffled through their daughter’s memorabilia. I intended to back out of the room, close the door and never open it again, but something stopped me.
Did the Gillespies know the room had once belonged to Jonathan Gillespie? Surely not. They would have chosen the room for their daughter because of the beautiful bay window that overlooked the gully. They couldn’t have known their child’s room had once housed such an evil man… no, not a man—a monster.
I looked back at the photo frames, at Hanna’s infectiously free smile, and my skin crawled. She’d been a descendant of Jonathan Gillespie, a cult leader who believed there was power in darkness and death, and she’d lived in his room.
The police seemed to think Hanna had woken up early on the morning of her disappearance, gone for a walk, and become lost in the woods. But I had a horrible, sinking idea that Jonathan had somehow been involved.
“That’s crazy,” I told myself, my eyes darting about the peach-and-white room. “He’s been dead for nearly two hundred years. You’ve lost your marbles, Elle.”
And yet, I couldn’t summon the willpower to leave. Instead, I knelt back in front of the second box, which held a collection of Hanna’s toys. A leather-bound book was hidden just below a pack of horse stickers.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” I said as I gently extracted the diary. “This is so, so wrong.”
The police had probably already been through the room five times over, I reasoned as I opened the diary to the first pages. As much as I felt as though I was violating the Gillespie’s privacy, I certainly wasn’t the first person to do so.
The diary was filled with a child’s scrawl. Hanna had been a reasonable speller, but she hadn’t bothered trying to keep the words within the faint lines scored on the paper. Her sentences rolled across the surface in whichever direction they decided to go. It made reading difficult, but I got the gist of the first entry: she’d been given the diary as a present when they moved into their new house.
New house… this house?
She wrote about choosing the room with the big window and lining her toy horses on the sill so they could look outside while she slept.
I flipped through the pages, picking up on bits of trivia while I looked for anything that could correlate with my suspicions. A few months after moving in, Mr Gillespie had hired contractors to build garden beds out the back. Hanna had helped him plant seeds and had watered them every morning. A few entries after that, she’d stumbled on the cemetery, but her parents wouldn’t let her go in. Her parents had plans to repaint the entire house and buy more comfortable furniture—but it looked as though Hanna’s room was the only one that had been spruced up.
Then I saw something that made me pause. Hanna had written about “little voices” talking to her through the walls. She thought they were fairies that were hiding from her. According to Hanna, they didn’t speak English, but they would sometimes reply when she spoke to them.
I turned the page, eager for more information, and found it was empty. I flipped farther, searching for more of the winding scrawl, but there was nothing else in the diary. Frustrated, I turned back to the last page and checked the date: January 16th, just two days before she was reported missing.
It felt as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over my head. Guilt for looking through the lost girl’s possessions drew over me, and I reverently put the diary back in the box then scooted backwards until I could rest my shoulders against the wall.
I didn’t like the idea of voices talking to the girl. Had she told her parents? Had Mrs Gillespie replied, just as she’d told me, that it was “only the house breathing”?
As I struggled with the new knowledge and fought to put the puzzle pieces together, I barely noticed as my eyelids, weighted down by missed sleep, fell closed.
(THREE)
“I’m going to do it.” Genevieve’s heavy eyes were wide as she crouched beside a bed. I stepped forward to get a better view and saw a sleepy figure stirring in the sheets.
One of the other girls, slightly older than Genevieve but with the same thick black hair, propped herself up and rubbed at squinted eyes. “Wha…?”
“I’m doing it tonight.” Genevieve’s voice was hoarse with excitement and fear. “What we talked about. Remember?”
That got the other girl’s attention. She sat bolt upright, and her face turned pale. “But you… how?”
The room, which I recognised it as the same corner room I slept in, had two beds. The one opposite—Genevieve’s, I guessed—was neatly made and hadn’t been slept in, even though Genevieve was wearing a long white nightdress.
“I’ll follow him to his crypt,” she replied, speaking quickly. “He’s been going there every night for the past week and doesn’t come out for hours, remember? I think he’s trying to get the darkness to convert him. He’ll go there again tonight, I’m sure of it, and I’ll follow and lock him in.”
The other girl looked terrified. “If he catches you, he’ll kill you.”
“He’s killing us anyway,” Genevieve snapped back. “Just far more slowly.”
The sisters were silent. I listened to the house as it creaked and breathed.
“You don’t think Mother will let him out?” the older one asked at last.
“She won’t be able to if I hide the key.”
“Do you want me to come?” Even I could pick out the reluctance in her voice.
“No, I’m doing it alone. I just… I wanted someone to know, in case I don’t come back.”
“Yes.” The older girl stroked Genevieve’s face, brushing her hair out of it. “Good luck.”
As Genevieve stood up and walked towards the door, I finally saw her face properly. I’d thought she wasn’t very pretty before, with her sallow skin, thick jaw, and heavy lids, but in that moment, I thought she was breathtaking. Her cheeks were tinged pink from excitement, and her eyes, though still heavy-lidded, burned with a blistering determination. No matter how meek she appeared in her father’s presence, she had an intensity inside of her that took my breath away.
I jerked awake. Light hit my eyes, making me squint and blink while I tried to collect myself. I was still in Hanna’s room, I realised, surrounded by the missing girl’s toys, clothes, and decorations.
“Jeeze,” I muttered, awkwardly clambering to my feet. I felt disoriented, as though I’d fallen through a portal into a different world.
The rain was a steady drizzle, leaving trails on the window. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed or whether I’d fallen asleep completely or just dozed, but my neck was sore from where my head had lolled.
I suddenly felt very uncomfortable in the room—ashamed, even. I stood, backed out of the door, and closed it behind myself, cringing at the sight of the splintered wood around the lock. That was two doors I’d broken in the Gillespie house, and one of them without good reason. I felt horrible.
To the right was the window at the end of the hall that overlooked the g
ardens. I approached it, leaned on the sill, then gazed over the lawn at the shrubby bushes that hid Jonathan Gillespie’s graveyard. Was this where Genevieve had stood that night to watch her father make his way towards his mausoleum, waiting for her chance to lock him in?
What was he even doing down there? I thought back to the day before, when something had shoved from the locked inside of the mausoleum, bowing the doors out and knocking the wooden plank on top of me. I couldn’t even guess at what sort of force was necessary to do that to solid granite doors. Much more than was human, I suspected.
I realised I’d never put the plank back in place. Was there a reason it was locked on each side? I’d assumed the wooden barricade was there to protect the mausoleum from vandals, but what if it was meant to protect the house from whatever was inside the crypt? I shivered, feeling sick. What should I do? Should I call someone? Who would possibly believe me?
I took the stairs down and checked the kitchen clock. It was nearly midday. I’d been up almost all of the night, except for when I’d nodded off in Hanna’s room, and felt ghastly for it.
As I turned on the kettle and prepared a simple lazy sandwich made from frozen bread, pickles, and cheese, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of Genevieve. I wasn’t sure how I felt about her anymore. She’d been planning to kill her father. That should have made me hate her, but… all of my hatred was already directed at Jonathan Gillespie. If anything, I admired Genevieve for what she’d done… whether she’d succeeded or not.
I desperately wanted her to have won. As I ate my sandwich, I realised there was something I could do to find out the answer: sleep. The last three times I’d closed my eyes, I’d seen a slice of Genevieve’s story, and I had the feeling the same would happen next time I lay down for a nap, too.
The couch looked very appealing at that moment; I felt wrung dry from tiredness, but at the same time, I wasn’t prepared to fall back into Jonathan Gillespie’s world. I was terrified of what I might see if Genevieve had failed.
Instead of sleeping, I took my time washing the plate then climbed the stairs and took a shower.
The bruises looked worse, if anything, but they felt a little less tender. I dressed then stood in the middle of the hallway, scanning the rooms, trying to think of a job that would keep me awake.
Almost without deciding to, I found myself climbing the stairs to the third floor. It had been dim the last time I’d been up there, thanks to the lack of electric lighting, but now, with the storm blocking out almost all natural light, it was nearly impossible to see. I moved slowly and carefully as I walked through the rooms and reverently brushed my hands over the covered furniture.
This furniture hadn’t existed during my dreams, I realised. The Gillespie house in Jonathan’s time had been furnished spartanly, with neat but uncomfortable wooden chairs and basic tables. The ornate furniture and crystal glassware must have come later.
The paintings at the back of the room attracted my attention. I pulled off their cloth and began flipping through them again, admiring the scenery paintings, but paying especially careful attention to the portraits.
If I wasn’t mistaken—and I was certain I wasn’t—the subjects were descendants of the Gillespie line. I saw a few heavy-lidded eyes, pale skin, and a lot of dark hair. They looked healthy, at least, and I felt relieved for it.
I pushed the paintings back into place as my mind went to the little cemetery at the back of the property. Every gravestone had been placed there in the same year.
What does that mean?
I clambered down the two flights of stairs and out the front door. It was still drizzling. I took a deep breath, jumped down the porch’s steps, and jogged around the side of the house. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing up at the bay window as I passed. The curtains really looked grey from the outside, but that was probably thanks to the poor lighting. At least they were still.
I kept up the pace as I ran past the dilapidated shed, the dead vegetable gardens where Hanna had probably nurtured the now-dead tomato plants, and towards the thicket of trees beyond.
Mud had splashed up to my knees and my clothes were drenched by the time I pushed the high iron gate open and walked into the cemetery. The gravestones stood like sentinels guarding the mausoleum. I dragged in a deep breath, and began to walk reverently through the family’s final resting places.
The deaths had all occurred between March 1884 and November 1884. Some of the graves housed middle-aged men and women, but many belonged to the children and teenagers.
I went through the graveyard twice, reading each name aloud, before I was satisfied: Genevieve hadn’t been buried there.
What happened to her, then? I shivered against the rain, silently praying there wasn’t an unmarked grave on the property that held her mutilated body. I wanted her to have lived.
The plank still lay at the foot of the mausoleum. I stepped up to it, feeling as though I should put it back in place, but I was reluctant to repeat my experience from the previous day. I walked over the plank instead and pressed my ear to the mausoleum’s doors. The wet stone was icy-cold against my cheek.
This is ridiculous, I thought as I listened to the granite. What are you hoping for?
But my heart gave a horrified flutter when I heard a quiet, muffled shuffling noise—footsteps moving closer, dragging on the floor in a way that set my teeth on edge. Fear flared up in my chest, and I didn’t dare move as whatever was in the tomb came closer to me, close enough to touch if the door hadn’t been in place—
I jerked back as something large pounded on the door. The stone shuddered under the impact, sending vibrations through where my fingers touched it. I stumbled away from it, tripping over the heavy wooden beam as the thing inside the tomb pounded on the door, demanding to be let out…
I ran.
My feet skidded in the mud as I hauled myself through the cemetery, no longer concerned about whether I was stepping on graves. The booming chased me through the gate and across the yard. My stitch flared up, and I couldn’t drag air in fast enough to feed my stressed muscles. My throat felt raw, and I realised I’d been screaming.
My legs were shaking and weak. They slipped out from under me as I tried to run up the front porch’s stairs, and I caught myself on one of the stone pillars. As I hung there, gripping the granite with aching fingers and trying to see through terror-blinded eyes, the booming finally ceased.
I dropped to my knees and fought to keep myself collected. There was something in the mausoleum—something that shouldn’t have been alive. And it wanted out.
I thanked my lucky stars that the doors had been locked, not just barred by the wood. Then I prayed that whatever was inside the tomb had no way of unlocking them.
My legs were shaking less, so I pulled myself up, staggered through the house’s front door, and pressed it closed behind me. The lock was a useless, flimsy thing that a good kick could have probably broken, but I turned it anyway, and it gave me a very small amount of relief. At least if the thing in the tomb got out, it couldn’t enter the house silently.
I sat on the floor for a long time, counting my breaths, waiting for the stitch to subside, and wishing I could call a taxi to take me away from the house that very moment. Instead, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and dialled Mrs Gillespie’s number. The call went to voicemail.
My brain felt empty as I tried to mumble an explanation. “There’s—um—there’s a problem. It’s…well… I… call me back. Please.”
I ended the call with a flick of my thumb then leaned back against the door, resting my head against the cool wood and closing my eyes. Flashing lights danced against the black of my eyelids, as though I’d been staring into a fire, and I was vaguely aware that if I needed to call the police or even an ambulance, it would be over an hour before they reached me. A lot of things could happen in an hour.
Can’t stay here for the rest of your life. I set to the job of collecting my aching legs under myself and stagge
ring up the stairs. Mud was smeared halfway up my legs, and dirt clung underneath my fingernails. Another shower was in order, but between the shower earlier that afternoon and spending so long in the rain, I felt like a drowning rat as I stood under the hot stream of water.
What happened out there?
There was something in the crypt; that much was clear. It was strong enough to bow solid granite doors and aware enough to sense me when I approached it. My mind tried, and failed, to connect those two snippets of fact to any sort of logic. My instincts had their own opinion about what lay sleepless in the stone tomb: Jonathan Gillespie.
It’s been two hundred years since Jonathan walked on earth, Elle.
I was simply too tired to think any further. Whatever was in the tomb hadn’t followed me to the house, so I pushed aside that thought as I cobbled together a dinner. There were hardly any food left; I would need to get into town if I wanted to stay more than another day.
Once I’d finished and washed up, I walked through the house to turn the lights off. It was a little after six in the evening, but it felt much later. The thick rain continued to beat on the house, and the clouds blocked the sunlight as effectively as any blanket could.
As I turned out the lights, I checked the rat traps and poison I’d left. The ones in the kitchen, library, and laundry were untouched. I snorted in frustration and walked past the door that led to the basement. I’d placed traps down there, too, but no way in hell was I going to check them. Mrs Gillespie could do that herself when she got back.
I climbed the stairs, running one hand along the bannister, and walked down the long hallway to my room. The air was colder on the second level, so I pulled more blankets out of the cupboard and threw them over the bed. Then, on an impulse, I grabbed one corner and began dragging the bed until I’d turned it and moved it against the opposite wall, to where I’d seen Genevieve’s bed in my dreams. I crawled under the blankets, lay on my back, and waited for sleep to claim me.
