He tore a dressing gown off the floor and strode out of the room.
Karen closed her eyes and took a drag on her cigarette. With the cigarette stuck in her mouth, she rubbed her face with both hands. She opened them slowly, fingers on her temples.
Karen stubbed the butt out in the ashtray on her lap. She had already smoked two right down to the filter; her vice was getting worse.
She pouted, turned, set the ashtray on the bedside table, and felt for the switch under the lamp shade.
Flick.
57
The nightmares continued. They always continued. Karen’s took on lives of their own. Her sleep-depravation caused her to micronap; she dreamt she was awake and then day-dreamt she was asleep.
That evening she hallucinated waking. The old dream of waking at a sound reoccurred. She got out of bed to investigate.
As Karen went downstairs to check, the air seemed thick with foul dread. She felt eyes on her as she descended the staircase. She looked around her, feeling stares from the darkness.
Karen reached the bottom and tip-toed into the hallway. She spied around the corners and into the living rooms; nothing. She glared back into the long walk to the kitchen. She couldn’t see anything in the dark and she didn't dare attempt to resolve it.
The door creaked open behind her. She tripped as she turned around, fearing the monstrous figure that would surely greet her.
The doorway was empty. Karen moved outside. The street had a fine mist settling over its quaint paths and roads. There was no sound; no birds, no wind. Nothing.
Karen walked right and let her hand follow the smooth exterior of the house. The air was dead and lifeless. There was no breeze or cold air to nip at her bare ankles and shoulders. The lake came into view.
The rear of the house was an abyss of darkness but light was streaming from beneath the lake.
Karen stopped short. She looked at her hands. She felt the dream coming apart. She could tell this wasn’t real but she could not bring herself out of it. Karen pinched herself and yet the fabric of this reality wouldn’t break.
Karen felt drawn to the lake side by an unknown supernatural impellent. She didn't want to look into the glowing waters but she couldn’t slow her pace. Her feet marched regardless.
In the depths were bodies. Hundreds of faces stared unblinking at the night sky. Karen followed their unreeling gaze. There were no stars visible, even in this pitch blackness. She looked back and the countless faces had turned. They examined her with unfeeling eyes. She felt her soul shrink and her heart freeze.
That was when she awoke, like always, in a cold sweat with assurance it was only a dream. This time however, her feet were dirty.
58
Karen stared into the gathered darkness. She struggled to pull her conscious back into reality. She was still fighting the demons that invaded her mind every night.
Karen breathed in relief and let herself fall back on the soaked pillow. A stain on the ceiling transfixed her for hours. She saw it morph into various shapes. She saw the face of her mother, she saw the cowling Henry Clark. Karen imagined the stain detaching from its place on the ceiling and generating itself into three-dimensional terror, stalking towards the immobilized woman. She shut her eyes and forced the images from her mind. When she reopened them, the stain had returned to its rightful position and mere resembled a growing water mark.
Leak in the roof? Karen thought. Just another fucking thing they had to fix now.
Karen coughed. Rattling ball bearings ricocheted in her lungs.
Shit, now I’ve got the cold.
As she tried to stave off the encroaching shivers with the fluffy quilt, she thought of her soil dusted feet.
Why were her feet dirty? Had they been like that before bed? She was certain they were normal, and now with this cough. Had she, in fact, been dreaming of waking and leaving the house at all? Or had she been indeed outside; sleepwalking?
She dreaded to think of the idea she could not control her body during the few hours a day she actually managed to rest.
Her chest ratcheted again.
There goes those tinkling marbles again.
Head or chest, her mind asked.
The steam rose from the scalding bath. A mist had now replaced the room’s clear visage. It covered everything in a gray hue. The humid air felt good on Karen’s cold-infested lungs; a sauna in her own bathroom to help clear the mucus and phlegm. She made her way to the deep, inviting tub. She passed her hand through the water.
Boiling - perfect!
She laid the kitchen knife upon the small table next to the tub. In the cupboard beneath, various creams and bathing products resided. She removed bubble bath and let a long stream of green dye the water. She poured it from a great height, enjoying the vibrant color and smell that permeated the water and air. Karen had a terrible vision of blood, staining water with its offensive swirling and dispersion. She felt queasy. Karen looked back at the knife. She passed a hand over the shining blade and turned the handle to face the bath.
Karen let her dressing gown fall. It caressed her supple skin as it fell. It felt good.
She placed a tiptoe into the attractive water. It stung, just for a second.
Letting her body slip into the bathtub, she closed her eyes. She could feel the tension leaving her body, all fear and confusion gone, for however brief.
She let her back slip under, then her arms and legs. Her chest became enveloped by the waves of soothing water. A calm settled over her.
Finally she let her head become engulfed. She kept her eyes closed for a while, savoring the wonderful feeling of her complete immersion. When she felt she had stayed under, in the darkness long enough, she opened her eyes.
A gray face was nose to nose with her.
She screamed.
Scalding water rushed into her lungs. She convulsed, coughing boiling water over the side of the now overflowing tub. Water splashed noisily in the silence. The face had gone. Rising from the tub in her panic, she passed through the translucent face.
Karen seized hold of the knife, whipping it back and forth in front of her. She scanned the room for the intruder that wasn’t there. She spilled more water onto the already flooded floor. Karen knew full well that there was no intruder. It was Emma, and she was becoming annoyed. She demanded Karen help her now.
59
Something raised Marcus from his slumber. He flexed his hand. He had the strangest feeling that someone was holding his hand.
Nothing.
He touched his hand to his face. His palm was cold. He felt his other hand. It was warm. Dazed, he sat up. He didn't open his eyes. He listened. Marcus was about to drop off again when he heard the whisper.
It wasn’t clear enough for Marcus to distinguish what it said.
His eyes shuttered. Reflexively opening at the sound and then quickly closing out of need.
He was too scared to open them again.
His breath quickened. He listened for the voice, praying it didn't repeat itself.
“Marcus!”
It was Sophie.
He quickly wiped the sleep from his eyes and threw the duvet back.
“What are you doing out of bed?! Mom’ll kill you if she catches---” He stopped in his doorway. The voice that had clearly come from the door of the attic had no discernible body.
“Sophie?” He whispered. He stepped out onto the landing. His voice was harsh. It broke as he fought his terror. He retreated back into the attic. His heart raced. Cold sweat sheened on his body. The film of fear made him shudder.
His eyes shifted between the door and his peripherals.
Satisfied nothing would encroach from the darkness he turned, ready for the refuge of his bed. His face made contact with a pair of knees. Legs tangled his arms and hands.
He cried out and staggered backwards, looking up at his obstruction.
From the rafters of Marcus’ room, hung a young woman, a noose of frayed clothes and scarves around her
bruised neck. She was not unattractive; her bloated face was still pretty. Marcus reckoned she would have been around sixteen but the discolouration of her mutilated body made it hard to say with any certainty. Something froze the girl in a limbo of age, lacerating her youthful face. She would never age or be as youthful as she had in life
Her eyes bugged down at Marcus. A bloated blue tongue lolled delicately out of one corner, and lank hair clung to her face and neck.
Marcus was still collapsed on his bottom. He pushed himself to his feet and leaned in close to the girl’s face. He felt for any sign of life. She continued to stare at the ground.
Marcus was not upset or scared. He felt odd, as if the situation was not his own. He watched himself from a distance, observing his investigation of the body swinging from the room ceiling.
Marcus turned back to his doorway, checking that he was alone, but when he returned his attention to the body, she was gone.
Marcus traced the air. Nothing else made contact with his flailing hands. Marcus crawled into bed, convinced he had imagined the ordeal.
Upon waking, he pondered upon his nightmare and whether it was real. He tried to assure himself it was just a dream, but something niggled away for the rest of the morning; a voice telling him he was wrong.
60
“What's bothering you, babe?”
“Huh?” Marcus looked up at his mother.
“You're miles away,” she laughed.
“Oh, I didn't sleep much last night...” Marcus said. He was thinking of the body.
“Aw! No!” Karen scuttled over to her son and pushed his head against her chest. “Poor child!” she said in a slightly mocking baby-voice.
Marcus smiled a little.
“Early to bed tonight, then?” Karen suggested, turning Marcus face up to face her.
“Yeah...” he said absentmindedly.
Karen gave his head one last caress and went back to her place at the kitchen island, prepping the children’s lunches.
She kept looking back to her son, ensuring he gave nothing more away.
In the car, Marcus stared absentmindedly out of the window. Sophie held Sandy in front of her, making the doll dance to a softly hummed tune.
Karen looked into the rear view mirror. She had worried about the kids since they were born. She worried about how the degenerating relationship between her and James affected the children. Karen worried about how the move from Jamaica Plain; a town they clearly loved, affected them.
She had thought Blackwater would be the change they needed. She thought they would finally be safe and happy.
Marcus seemed accepting of what had been happening. It was Sophie in whom the house seemed disturbingly interested but something told her that Marcus had also seen or heard something and he was too frightened or proud to say anything.
Karen let her eyes return to the road. She drove through Blackwater, returning waves from the few people who were polite enough to acknowledge the new folks.
The others, Karen thought, were either too set in their ways or too afraid to greet their new neighbors. Blackwater House’s reputation was sufficiently strong even after all these years.
As Otter Creek Bridge emerged into view, Karen prepared for the turn into Otter Creek Elementary. She checked her mirrors, ensuring there were no cars near. She looked to her left side and flicked her indicator.
“Heads up, kids, we’re here,” Karen said and gave another check of her rear view.
A young boy of around five had replaced Marcus. He was pale and had a large gash across his forehead. His eyes met Karen. She was used to these visits now. She remained calm.
The boy had an old fashioned school cap perched atop his bloodied head. A rotten, fraying uniform hung from his frame. His bare arms and legs revealed exposed tendons and sinews.
Karen’s eyes flicked rapidly to the road and back. The last thing she wanted was to crash the car. The long drive to the school was ending and the line of parental cars was nearing. Karen slowed the car, checking the rear view mirror for her visitor.
He was still sitting, silent yet menacing.
Karen pulled the car to a stop and, without removing her gaze from the boy, said involuntarily, “’Kay, guys...see ya later...”
“Thanks, Mom!” Marcus said before shutting the door behind him.
“Bye-bye, Mommy!” Sophie leaned through to the front seat and planted a soft kiss on Karen’s cheek. “Love you!”
“Love you too, honey...” Karen tried to sound as pleasant as possible, her eyes still locked on the boy.
When Sophie had finally exited the car and shut the door, Karen swung the car around. Car horns blared as she cut across the slow moving traffic coming back out from the turning circle in front of the school.
She saw and heard nothing of this. She focused on one thing.
61
“Who are you? What do you want?” Karen asked, staring coldly into the back of her car.
The boy said nothing.
“I want to help! Emma has appeared to me and I'm trying to help her! If you only speak to me or give me some sign I can help you.” Karen looked hopefully at the boy but his expression did not change. “Did Henry Clark hurt you?”
The dead boy then moved. He adjusted his piercing eyes from Karen and stared out the window. Karen followed his gaze. He was looking at the statue of Clark that took center place on Main Street.
“Yea...I know. Don’t worry though, we’ll make things right!” She reassured the backseat. This time, however, when she looked, there was nothing but the seat in which her son had sat.
The house was deathly silent upon Karen’s return. She had investigated the walls from the kitchen to the hallway. She now moved from room to room, tapping on the walls, desperate to find some change in the sound her fingertips made. Karen was desperate for confirmation of a hollow point within the house.
She even tried the walls that ran beside the stairs; again, nothing.
The bedrooms seemed unlikely but still Karen tried.
Deflated, Karen returned downstairs. She flopped down onto the sofa in the living room.
Karen stared at the now aging blank TV. She followed its wooden casing around the curved, reflective screen. She marveled on the internal workings behind; the wires and circuit boards. She knew it involved a vacuum tube and some emitter and then the fluorescent screen gave the picture, but aside from that she was in awe of this tiny box of sound and light.
Just then, an idea occurred to her.
Karen slowly turned in her seat and peered above the sofa to the room’s opening. She gradually pulled herself to her feet. Out in the hall, the basement door winked at her, daring her to open it.
Karen felt herself floating towards the door. She produced the key from her pocket.
How did it end up there? It was on a hook high up in a kitchen cupboard...
The key slipped into the lock and Karen felt it give. The wood creaked as it swung open.
Karen faced off against the intimidating dark that lay beyond the doorway.
She stepped inside.
62
Karen tapped at the walls inside the alcove. She knocked the wall that the right-hand living room back onto. As expected, there was nothing but the sound of solid wall.
Karen dared a glance to her right. The stairs descended into the imposing basement. Karen hoped that she would not have to follow them.
She turned her back to the stairs and rapped the wall. She turned to leave the recess as she did so; not believing the wall would produce a hollow ring.
The echoing void called her back.
She froze with her hand on the handle of the basement door.
Karen stole a look at the source of the noise. She stepped back towards it, stopped, and then continued. She raised her fist and paused.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three long deliberate raps. The wall reverberated again. Karen pushed the wall with her hands, leaning all her weight against her palms. It d
id not give way.
She stepped to the edge of the top step and ran at the wall, throwing her shoulder against the plasterboard.
There was a crack.
Karen stepped back to see the line of splintered plaster running down the wall.
She forced her hand into the crack she had formed. Gripping the other side of the wall, she pulled. It took strength but eventually a chunk came free in her hand.
Karen stared dumbly down at it, then looked at the hole she had made. A foul stench hit her in the face. Karen had to stagger out into the hall and kitchen where she vomited her light breakfast into the sink.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked through blurry, tear-stricken eyes over her shoulder at the open kitchen door.
What was responsible for that smell?!
Karen could guess but she hoped she was wrong.
She opened the cupboard door beneath the sink and retrieved a large search light-like torch. She flipped its switch and its beacon came to life. Karen nodded to herself.
She grabbed the tea towel that lay neatly folded over the handle of the oven. Holding it to her mouth, Karen walked back out into the hallway and towards the open basement door.
Even through the flower scented towel, Karen could still smell the rancid odor behind the wall.
Karen approached the door, torch held in front of her like a weapon, shaking. The light wavered as it hit the ajar basement door. She edged her way around until she could see the opposing wall.
Karen trained the flashlight on the hole. She couldn’t see anything from out in the hall. She would have to get closer.
Shit, she thought.
Karen stepped into the gloom and closer to the ruined wall. She leaned in with the torch. Dust floated through the air, choking Karen through the cloth.
Inside the fissure was a room. It had furniture in the form of a straight-backed wooden chair and a small single bed. Beside this there was a lamp. There was no shade and the bulb was bared to the room.
Blackwater Page 18
