by Amy Cross
Copyright 2015 Amy Cross
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition
Dark Season Books
First published: December 2015
“I felt it last night! I was all alone, and suddenly a hand touched my shoulder!”
The year is 1943. Beacon's Ash is a private, remote school in the North of England, and all its pupils are fallen girls. Pregnant and unmarried, they have been sent away by their families. For Ivy Jones, a young girl who arrived at the school several months earlier, Beacon's Ash is a nightmare, and her fears are strengthened when one of her classmates is killed in mysterious circumstances.
Has the ghost of Abigail Cartwright returned to the school? Who or what is responsible for the hand that touches the girls' shoulders in the dead of night? And is the school's headmaster Jeremiah Kane just a madman who seeks to cause misery, or is he in fact on the trail of the Devil himself? Soon ghosts are stalking the dark corridors, and Ivy realizes she has to face the evil that lurks in the school's shadows.
The Devil's Hand is a horror novel about a girl who seeks the truth about her friend's death, and about a madman who believes the Devil stalks the school's corridors in the run-up to Christmas.
The Devil's Hand
Prologue
“It's almost midnight!” he snarls, pushing the door open and limping into the room, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “What's so important that you couldn't wait until -”
He stops suddenly, and for a moment even he seems shocked by the sight of the dead girl on my table. Or maybe, knowing him, it's not shock at all; maybe it's a sense of fulfillment, a sense that once again the world has proved him right. Maybe he thinks this was supposed to happen all along.
“Abigail Cartwright,” he mutters, making his way over to take a closer look at the girl's corpse. “I can't say I'm surprised.”
I was right.
He sees this as vindication.
“Her heart gave out,” I reply, heading over to the sink so I can wash more blood from my hands. “She came to see me a few times over the past month, complaining of chest pains. One never thinks that a young girl could suffer cardiac arrest, but obviously there was a weakness that had gone undiagnosed. I thought...”
My voice trails off.
I thought what? That the poor girl could take all the punishment she received?
“You mustn't blame yourself,” Kane says firmly, making his way around the table. He can't take his eyes off the corpse. “The Lord in his infinite wisdom simply tired of this wretched whore's ways, and chose to end her miserable life.”
“I'm not sure -”
“There can be no doubt about it,” he adds, his voice filled with the confidence of a man who knows he's right. Self-doubt is not one of Jeremiah Kane's qualities. “This is the Lord's work. We must not be sad, Doctor Ratcliffe. On the contrary, we should rejoice.”
“I'm sure,” I reply, “but...”
I pause for a moment, before turning to look at the naked girl on my mortuary table and, in particular, at her large, swollen dome of a belly. Just a few hours after her death, Abigail's skin is already looking pale and blueish, and the tight skin stretched over her pregnant bump is no different. My eyes briefly linger on the y-shape cut into her chest, and the stitches I finished putting in place just a couple of minutes ago. I don't dare look at her face.
“She was eight months gone,” I point out finally. “Could the Lord not have waited until -”
“The Lord does not wait for mortal men,” Kane spits, as if the idea infuriates him. He makes his way around to join me, and I can't help noting the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “This will serve as a warning to the other girls. I've half a mind to make them line up at your door, Doctor Ratcliffe, and have them file through so they can be shown this terrible sight. They must be made to understand the consequences of rebellion and -”
He stops suddenly, as he sees the girl's belly shudder briefly.
“What is that?” he asks, his eyes widening with shock.
“The child is not quite dead yet,” I reply, making my way back to the table and watching as the dead girl's belly twitches again. “He or she is trapped there, inside a dead mother. I worked around it during the autopsy, I assumed the child would be dead within minutes, but it's hanging in there. I suppose I've been hoping that it'll just...” I pause for a moment, watching as the bump shifts again. “There's been a lot of kicking these past few minutes, I think the poor little thing has started to realize that something's wrong. Like I said, the mother was just a few weeks shy of full term so...” My voice trails off for a moment, and I watch as the baby kicks yet again. “It must be getting a little colder in there now,” I add finally. “I wasn't really sure whether or not to -”
“Would the baby survive if you cut it out?”
I open my mouth to reply, but I have to consider the possibility for a moment. “It's possible,” I tell him cautiously. “Perhaps I've been too cowardly, I was hoping -”
“Then do it, man,” he continues. “You have my permission to deliver the child.”
I stare at the belly for a few seconds, watching as the baby continues to move inside, and then I sigh as I head over to the tray where my scalpels are kept. To be honest, I was hoping I wouldn't have to do something like this; I felt the child could be left to die inside its mother, where it belongs. Sure, such a fate would be horrific in normal circumstances, and if I were working anywhere else in the world I would have already cut the poor little bastard out. But as I the case of scalpels with a trembling hand, I can't help thinking that the baby is better off dying inside its mother's corpse, rather than being brought out and delivered unto the mercy of a man such as Jeremiah Kane.
“Lord forgive me,” I whisper, keeping my voice low so I can't be heard. I deliberately take my time selecting a scalpel, hoping that the child will die before I can get started.
“Quick,” Kane says, his voice filled with an urgent appetite. “What are you waiting for?”
Heading back over to the table, I say a little prayer in my head, pleading with God to kill the baby before I get it out. Surely the Lord knows that such an innocent young life should never be brought into this wretched corner of the world. I reach down and place the scalpel's blade against the lower portion of the swollen belly, and I wait a moment in case Kane wants to leave the room. Realizing that he intends to stay and watch, however, I take a deep breath before pressing the scalpel's tip through the dead girl's flesh, cutting deep into her body. There's not much blood, of course; just a small trickle leaks from the wound as I start to slice carefully and slowly around the edge of the mound. Part of me wants to fake an accident, to slip and try to kill the child so that it never has to fall into Kane's hands, but somehow I can't bring myself to do such a thing.
God damn it, why am I such a coward?
“Keep going,” Kane whispers, his eyes fixed on the horrific sight as I move around the table to get a better angle. I continue to cut the edge of the bump until I've completed a fill circumference, and then I turn the scalpel and start cutting up toward the navel.
“Not long now,” I mutter, filled with dread.
“Your hands are shaking,” Kane snaps. “Why?”
“I'm sure -”
“What's wrong with you, man?” he continues. “Are you on the alcohol again?”
I turn to him. “No!”
“Keep at your task,” he sneers, his eyes fixed on the dead girl's belly as if he can't bear to lo
ok away. “You've already taken too long. One is tempted to think you perhaps lack the stomach for this line of work.”
I continue to cut, but my hands shake more than ever now that I know he's noticed.
“Can you not just tear the top open,” he asks, “and pull the child out?”
“I would prefer to do it this way,” I reply, even though technically his suggestion is perfectly valid. I make another cut around the navel, but deep down I know I'm just delaying things.
If I were a good man, I'd kill the child before it comes out.
Unfortunately, I learned long ago that I am not a good man.
Finally I set the scalpel aside and feel a cold shiver in my gut as I realize I'm ready. I take hold of the belly's side and then I start to slowly open the cut section. I can feel something wriggling inside, and I reach through until I can feel the child. The flesh all around is cold and freakishly unbloodied, with just a few pale smears on my bare hands as I fumble to get a better hold of the child. I can already feel it trying to get free of my grasp, as if somehow it senses that this new world is going to be hell, but finally I start to gently pull until the baby emerges from the hole I've cut in his mother's belly.
It's a boy.
And a miracle.
As soon as his face is exposed, he starts to let out a series of gurgles, followed by the beginning of a loud, ear-piercing cry. By the time I lift him fully clear, he's screaming at the top of his lungs. I change my grip and hold him with one hand, while reaching over to grab a pair of scissors. Once I've cut the cold, lifeless umbilical cord, I turn and carry the screaming little boy over to the table by the sink, and I set him down so I can clean him a little and then examine him. Amazingly, even though he has emerged a few weeks early, he seems healthy enough. A strong baby boy has somehow been blessed with the chance to survive despite his own mother's death.
I should have killed him, though. The rest of his miserable life in this place is my fault.
“Well?” Kane asks, limping over to join us.
“He seems fine,” I reply, cutting away a little more of the umbilical cord and tidying the child's navel. “I don't see anything wrong with him at all.”
“He's certainly got a pair of lungs,” Kane points out, as the child continues to bawl. “He seems like a fine, strong specimen. Go fix the mother's body. It's unsightly to leave her opened up like that.”
“I'll just -”
“Fix the mother,” he says firmly, pushing past me and reaching out to touch the child with one of his black-gloved hands. “I do so hate the way they cry like this,” he mutters, staring down at the baby's face. “The noise is quite irritating. I'm told that when I came into this world, I was respectful and mute the whole way. Those who cry show weakness from the start.”
Obeying my orders, I turn and head back over to the table and start folding the flaps of skin back into place on the mother's belly. Now that the child is out of her, I'm able to push the belly down, almost flattening the mound so that it collapses in upon itself. I move around the table and continue my work, while glancing over at Kane and seeing that he's now holding the screaming child in his gloved hands. May God have mercy on my soul for delivering that poor little thing into such a monstrous world. I only hope that the Lord might find some way to deliver the boy to safety, even though it would be a miracle for any child to escape this torturous institution.
“I must fetch some wire,” I mutter, turning and heading through to the storeroom. In truth, I cannot bear to see the child in Kane's arms, and I'm deeply relieved when, a moment later, I hear the screaming come to a sudden end. I imagine the poor little thing finally opened its eyes and looked up at the cruel, evil face above, and the sight must have driven fear into his soul. My hands are still trembling as I search for the black wire I'm going to use when I sew Abigail's body shut, and I take a little longer than necessary in the hope that Kane will have taken the child upstairs by the time I go back to the room. As always, I can tolerate the endless cruelties of this school only if they take place away from me, in other rooms.
Finally, however, I find the wire and force myself to go back through. To my surprise, I see that Kane is still over by the counter, with his back to me.
“At least he stopped crying,” I point out, heading to the table and setting the wire down. Unfortunately, one of my extra tasks around here is getting the bodies ready for burial, but my work in that regard doesn't have to be too neat. After all, no-one ever comes to view the bodies. I hold the flaps of Abigail's belly close together before starting to poke the end of the wire through. “Maybe the Lord eased his fear,” I add, glancing over at Kane. “Maybe the -”
I stop suddenly as I see that Kane seems to be leaning down slightly. A moment later, I realize that he's standing at the sink, and that his black gloves have been removed and left neatly at the side.
“It's quite normal for them to cry, though,” I continue, trying to ignore the fear that's creeping slowly up through my chest. “So long as... Does his breathing seem okay?”
I wait.
Kane doesn't respond. Instead, he seems focused on whatever he's doing at the sink. I hear a very faint, very brief splashing sound.
“Who will name him?” I ask, as a shudder passes through my chest.
No reply.
He can't be doing what I think he's doing.
Even Jeremiah Kane would never...
“I...” My voice trails off, and I start making my way cautiously across the room. With each step, I tell myself that I'm wrong, that I've become accustomed to assuming the worst, that Kane is a cruel man but not an outright monster. When I reach the sink, however, I see to my horror that my darkest fears have been realized.
Kane is holding the newborn boy under the water, with his bare hands around the child's throat. The little boy isn't struggling at all, which means it's too late. The water's surface is already calm again.
“You...” I take a step back. My heart is pounding in my chest. “You drowned him?”
“I performed God's work,” he says calmly, keeping the baby underwater for a moment longer before lifting the poor little corpse up and holding it as it drips cold water back down into the sink. “What use would there have been for the bastard child of a foolish, unrepentant whore?”
“But...” Staring at the dead baby, I feel a rush of nausea in my belly and I have to turn away for a moment, else I might be sick.
A few seconds later, I hear the dull thud of the child being tossed onto the counter, followed by the sound of Kane drying his hands and then the ruffling of his gloves as he slides them back onto his spindly, murderous fingers.
“You will dispose of the child, I trust,” he says, as I hear him making his way back over to the door. The tip of his cane, as always, taps against the cold stone floor. “I wouldn't like to think that you're having second thoughts about our arrangement here. By the way, how is your leg doing? I haven't noticed much of a limp lately.”
“I...” Pausing, I take a deep breath. “Don't worry, I'll clean up here.”
“And lay them both out first,” he adds. “The child next to the mother. I think my earlier idea was a sound one, the other girls should be made to see what happens if they resist the teachings we offer here. I shall have them file through in the morning.”
“But wouldn't that be rather...” I pause, trying to find the right word as I turn and look at the dead girl's face. “Wouldn't it be undignified?”
“Miss Cartwright should have thought of that,” he says sternly, “before she decided to fornicate out of wedlock, and before she gave her good, Christian parents cause to send her to stay with us.” He sighs. “And now I must go to my office and compose a brief letter, informing those parents of their daughter's death. I'm sure these girls never think of those who are left behind to tidy up after their sinful lives are over, but in this case Miss Cartwright will at least serve as a warning to the others. Well, those of them with the sense to heed it, anyway.” Stopping in t
he doorway, he turns to me. “Set the bodies out. I shall have the rest of the schoolgirls brought here at 6am to view these miserable corpses. And do not cover the dead girl's dignity. The shock must be sharp and effective. It will be good for the others.”
As he makes his way out of the room, heading up to the main part of the school with his cane still tapping against the stone floor, I can't help turning to look at the dead child on the counter and feeling a wave of horror but also, perhaps, a hint of relief. No child born into this terrible place could ever hope to live in peace, so at least the poor thing was spared a longer period at the mercy of Jeremiah Kane. For that, at least, I thank God, and I pray that not only is he looking over this place, but that he will eventually find a way to end the misery and suffering of this infernal school. I wish that I were in a position to challenge Kane, but I'm not. Only God can end the horror of Beacon's Ash School.
The devil's hand cannot rest forever upon our shoulders.
Part One
IVY JONES
I
The North of England, 1943
“Meet at midnight,” I whisper in the dark, as I lean down toward Sissy's bed. “In the courtyard next to the rose garden. Got it?”
“What?” she asks sleepily.
“Midnight in the courtyard by the rose garden,” I tell her again. “Come on, concentrate. This is dreadfully important.”
“Okay.”
Making my way around her bed, fumbling in the darkness of the dormitory so I don't bump into anything, I head past the blacked-out window.
“Did you hear?” I ask as I lean down toward Catherine's bed. “We're meeting in the courtyard by the -”
“I heard,” her voice replies from the darkness.
“Good,” I reply. “I knew I could count on you.”
I hurry around her bed and on to the next. This is actually going better than I'd expected. I thought there might be more resistance.
