by Amy Cross
“Oh, I think they understand,” he replies with a smile, heading to the door. “It's the weekend. Nothing wrong with taking things easy. Come down when you're ready.”
“It was a dream,” I whisper once I'm alone. Still, I can't help looking at the soles of my feet again. Sure enough, there are several blades of grass still stuck to my skin. Clearly I was outside during the night.
***
Climbing over the stile at the bottom of the garden, I step down into the slushy mud and then head along the path that runs between the trees. There's no sign of that strange shimmering light now, of course. Instead, the mid-morning sun is bright and strong, forcing its way through the canopy and dappling the grass with a glittering dance of dazzling beauty. I can't help glancing over my shoulder, looking back toward Auercliff, but finally I reach the riverbank and hear the sound of a baby crying nearby.
A few minutes later I find Barbara sitting on the rocks near the river's bend, balancing poor screaming Rebecca on her knees.
“There you bloody are,” my sister snaps as soon as she spots me. “It was nice to feel wanted at breakfast this morning. Our husbands don't exactly provide sparkling conversation.” She sighs. “Although I suppose Martin manages sometimes, in his own rather fuddy-duddy way. Believe it or not, he managed to burn the eggs. They were crispy.”
“That's not so -”
“Boiled eggs,” she adds, before allowing herself a faint, rare smile. “It's a good job he's better at business deals than he is in the kitchen.”
“I'm sorry,” I reply, stopping next to her and looking along the river, watching as the light ripples on the surface. “I'm afraid I had rather a bad night.”
“Dreaming of things that go bump, were you?”
“We shouldn't talk about it,” I reply.
“Why not? Because Martin doesn't like it?”
“It's complicated.”
“Got into trouble with the husband, did you?” She chuckles. “I'd never let Daniel tell me what to do. Bloody hell, I'd clip him around the ear if he even tried. You have to keep men in their place, Em, otherwise they start thinking they're entitled to an opinion.”
“Surely you don't mean that,” I reply.
“Of course I fucking do,” she continues. “Every fucking word. Can you imagine if Daniel told me what he thought all the time? I'd never get anything done!”
Turning to her, I briefly contemplate telling her about the girl I've been spotting around the grounds, but I quickly realize that she'd only make fun of me.
“I heard you coming back inside during the night,” she continues, with a faint smile. “What was it, half five?”
“I was out that long?” I ask, feeling a shiver of fear. I know I lost some time during the night, but I had no idea I was out in the rain for several hours.
“Well, I assume it was you,” she replies, eying me with a hint of concern. “Maybe it was a ghost, though. Maybe one of Martin's dead ancestors came trudging up the stairs and headed to your bedroom. Then again, Martin said he spotted grass on your feet this morning when he got up. Wasn't it raining during the night? What the hell were you doing out in such bad weather?” She smiles. “Let me guess. Chasing fairies?”
“No, I was just -”
Stopping suddenly, I realize I remember something else from last night. I think I might have come all the way down here, all the way to the river. Looking along at the bend, I realize that, yes, I stood in almost exactly this spot, albeit surrounded by darkness. Did the girl lead me down here, or did I somehow wander all alone, looking for her? I wish I could remember, but I feel as if there's somehow a block in my mind.
“Martin's worried about you, you know,” Barbara says finally.
I turn to her. “Why?”
She stares at me for a moment, almost as if she's searching for something in my eyes. “It's your head, dummy,” she says after a few seconds. “He thinks maybe you've got...”
Her voice trails off.
“Got what?” I ask, trying to stay calm. I think I know what's coming.
“Well, remember how he made you get a scan last year, to check for a brain tumor?”
“And there was nothing!”
“Exactly.” She pauses, before taking a drag on her cigarette. “Martin's worried you might be going cuckoo. You know, dementia or Alzheimer's, something like that.”
“Rubbish!” I snap.
“That's what I told him,” she continues airily, as Rebecca continues to cry. “I told him thirty-nine-year-olds don't go around getting bloody dementia, but I could tell he wasn't entirely convinced. He wouldn't give me any specific examples of crazy things you've done, although clearly something must have tipped him off. You haven't been going all doolally on him, have you?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” I reply, feeling as if everyone's starting to gang up on me.
“He wants you to see a doctor.”
“I saw a doctor last time!”
“But he wants -”
“I can't go running to Doctor Fraser every time Martin gets some silly idea,” I continue, interrupting her. “I'd be there all the time, I'd look like an absolute imbecile!” Sighing, I realize that the more I protest, the more defensive I sound. “I'm fine. I'm just getting used to being a mother, that's all. Martin's being protective, and that's wonderful, but he does rather overdo it from time to time.” Sighing, I wait for her to back me up, to tell me I'm right and that Martin's been imagining things.
Instead, she's eying me with concern.
“Not you too,” I mutter, as a wave of exhaustion rushes through my chest.
“You've seemed a little off lately,” she replies.
“I'm tired. I have a one-year-old baby girl, remember?”
“So do I. Doesn't mean I put eggs in the fruit bowl.”
“What?”
She nods.
“Well, I...” Pausing, I realize that I do have a vague recollection of doing something like that, although the thought is rather unsettling. “I have so much to do,” I say finally. “Martin's held poor little Esmerelda about three times in total since she was born, he barely spends any time with her at all. He's of the opinion that it's the mother's job to raise the child, you see?”
“Absolutely.”
I can tell she's not convinced, but I don't feel like fighting any fresh battles right now.
“And the ghosts?” she asks.
“You think those are products of my dementia-addled mind, do you?”
She shrugs. “It's worth considering.”
“I saw -”
Sighing, I realize there's no point telling her. In fact, if I were to mention the laughing girl I've encountered several times now, she'd probably just add that to the list of reasons to be worried about my mental state.
“I should get back to the house,” I tell her finally, turning and trudging back along the path. “Esmerelda's in her crib and Martin won't know what to do if she wakes up crying.”
“Just let me know if I can help,” Barbara calls after me. “I mean it, Em. You don't have to fight every battle on your own. I am your sister, remember?”
By the time I get back to the stile, I'm so tired I have to stop and rest for a moment against the fence. At the same time, I can't help thinking back to last night, and remembering a moment when I climbed over this very stile in pitch darkness. What in God's name was I doing out here, wandering about like a fool?
Chapter Twenty-Two
“It's okay, sweetheart,” I whisper, cradling Esmerelda in my arms as I reach out and grab another handful of faded, tattered old postcards from the tin. “Mummy's here. There's no reason to get upset.”
As she continues to feed, I adjust her slightly and start looking through the postcards. Most contain just the usual polite but non-specific messages sent back home by various family-members when they went on their travels, but they provide a useful insight into the relationships between Martin's ancestors. Every so often I'll find a cutting remark that seems t
o hint at some barely-suppressed loathing that one aunt felt for another, and I keep hoping that eventually -
Stopping suddenly as I look at another postcard, I spot the name for which I've been searching.
“Dear Reginald,” I read out loud, “the weekend in Brighton has been much as expected, although the weather has at least given us some cheer. The children have enjoyed the beach, particularly...”
I pause, feeling a faint, tightening sense of apprehension in my chest.
“Particularly Verity and Martin,” I continue, “who play together thick as thieves. Honestly, I lost track of them for a while this morning, although they were only entertaining themselves around the base of the pier. I shall be glad to get back home, and I look forward to seeing you on Sunday evening. Yours with love, Harriet.”
Every time I find some new fragment of Verity's life, I feel as if I might be edging closer to understanding her reason for still being here at the house. No matter what I tell Martin, I am certain that his cousin Verity is the spirit who haunts Auercliff, and I can't help wondering whether she has some unfinished business that keeps her close to the mortal world. All the books I've read on the subject have suggested that spirits often remain behind when they wish to fix some perceived slight, and I'm convinced that I can set the poor girl free if only I can determine the nature of her resentment.
“Don't stress, darling,” I tell Esmerelda as she lets go of my breast. Looking down at her, I see that her eyes are closing. “Are you tired? Is that it?”
I should go and settle her down for a nap, but I can't help reading the postcard one more time. The date is May 1957, which means it was written just a few months before Verity's sudden illness and death. Martin still hasn't told me all the details, most likely because he still doesn't like talking about his dead cousin, so instead I have had to rely upon the scraps of information I can piece together from old books, diaries and postcards. The impression I've gathered is of a carefree, perhaps slightly troublesome girl whose refusal to toe the family line occasionally caused friction.
In fact, Martin seems to have been the only person who never really had any trouble with her.
Hearing a sudden bump over on the far side of the room, I glance toward the door, half-expecting to see my sister coming through for another whinge about her life. Instead, there's no sign of anyone at all, nor is there any indication of what caused the bump.
“Hello?” I call out.
The only reply is the silence of the house.
“Barbara, are you -”
Stopping suddenly, I realize that my sister isn't the kind of person to slink about quietly.
“Verity?” I say after a moment, feeling a shudder pass through my chest. “Are you here?”
I wait, slowly looking around the room, but there's still no sign of anyone. After a moment I hear a faint gurgle from Esmerelda, and I feel rather foolish as I look down at her.
“You must forgive Mummy,” I tell her. “Sometimes I rather let my imagination run away with me. We should probably go and find the others, or they'll -”
Stopping suddenly, I feel a kind of blockage in my thoughts. I know I'm not alone here at Auercliff, I know full well that there are other people in the house, but at the same time I suddenly find that I'm unable to remember their names or faces. Well, that's not quite true. I remember the name of the ghost, and I remember my daughter's name, but the rest elude my memory for a moment.
Getting to my feet, I carry Esmeralda over to the window and look out at the lawn, but there's no sign of anyone. Trying desperately to stir my thoughts, I tell myself that I must be here with my family, but somehow the details are refusing to rise into my conscious mind.
“Just focus,” I whisper, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm my nerves.
Still, nothing comes to mind. I try to remember whether I have a husband, or perhaps siblings or parents, but my head seems almost frozen, as if no fresh thoughts can be accessed. Turning away from the window, I stare toward the door and try to stay calm. I have a vague recollection of suffering problems like this before, and I feel sure that the moment usually passes rather quickly. As the seconds tick along, however, my mind feels increasingly empty, no matter how hard I try to focus on the task of remembering the rest of my family.
And then suddenly, as quickly as they left my mind, they're back.
“Martin,” I stammer, “and Barbara, and Daniel and Rebecca.”
Feeling an immense rush of relief, I lean back against the wall and focus on their faces, and sure enough I remember them all with perfect ease. The blockage in my mind, whatever it was and however it was caused, is gone and everything is back to normal. Really, the whole thing was just a silly moment of panic, and I suppose there's no need to even mention it to the others. They'd only over-react and turn it into something it's not.
I'm absolutely fine.
***
“Shut up!” Barbara hisses, pulling Rebecca from her seat and roughly shoving her into Daniel's arms. “For fuck's sake, can you get that child out of my hair for five minutes? I swear, if she doesn't stop crying, I'm going to shake her or...”
She pauses, clearly consumed by anger.
“Or worse,” she adds finally, under her breath.
Clearly a little shocked, Daniel takes Rebecca out of the kitchen. The poor girl is still crying, but when I turn to admonish Barbara for her outburst, I see tears in my sister's eyes.
“Don't say it!” she mutters firmly.
“Barb, I just -”
“Don't say it!” she says again, wiping her eyes. “I don't need to hear another lecture about how I'm a bad mother. You have no idea what it's like, raising a girl like Rebecca. God knows what she's going to be like when she gets older, but right now she's a pain in the ass.” She sighs. “And it's not like I actually hurt her! She's a baby, she won't remember if I get pissed off now and again!”
“But if you let her feel -”
“Don't talk to me about energy!” she snarls. “I swear to God, Em!”
Glancing over at Esmerelda, who's wriggling happily in her pram, I can't help wondering why my girl is so calm and happy, while Barbara's is constantly crying.
Hearing a sudden bump over by the door, I turn and look, but there's no-one there.
“What?” Barbara asks harshly.
I glance at her. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes. Something bumped. Big deal.”
“But what?”
“You don't seriously believe in that bullshit, do you?” she asks. “God, are you really so utterly bored that you have to fill your mind with garbage? I hear bumps every bloody day at home, but I don't have time to go sneaking around, obsessing over them.”
“Last night I saw a -”
I stop myself just in time. Figuring I should just keep quiet, I head to the oven and peer in, to check that the roast is coming along nicely.
“You saw a what?” Barbara asks after a moment, clearly not impressed.
I turn to her. “Never mind.”
“Out with it, Em.”
“I lied before,” I tell her finally. “When I said I hadn't really seen anyone, I just didn't want to appear foolish. The truth is, the girl in the photos, Martin's dead cousin Verity with the harelip...” I pause for a moment, realizing that I've said too much to back down now. “I've seen her, Barbara,” I continue. “A couple of times now. I'm not just talking about flashes of movement, or things that go bump in the night. I've seen the poor girl, as clearly and as close as I see you right now.”
I wait for a reply, but she's staring at me with an expression of scorn.
No, worse than that.
Pity.
“I really think you should see a doctor, Em,” she says finally.
“Not that again,” I sigh. “Barb, I just -”
“I think something's seriously wrong with you,” she continues. “All these strange things you keep seeing... I think maybe they're another symptom of whatever's making you so conf
used all the time.”
“I'm not -”
Hearing another bump, I look toward the doorway, but after a moment I feel a sense of relief as I realize that it's just Martin and Daniel in the dining room.
“See a doctor,” Barbara says firmly.
“I'll think about it.” Forcing a smile, I head over to the door and peer through. “Dinner will be ready in about an hour,” I tell the others, “and then -”
Stopping suddenly, I see to my horror that Martin is setting the Ouija board on the table, having apparently fished it out from the rubbish at some point during the day.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Settling this matter once and for all,” he replies, glancing at me with a trace of concern in his eyes. “I thought about it, Em, and I realized that you were just holding your tongue for my sake, whereas what's needed is a good old-fashioned debunking. You're not going to be happy until we all do this, so let's do it!”
“Darling,” I stammer, “please -”
“You told me that my lack of participation was perhaps the reason you couldn't contact the dead, didn't you?” he continues. “Well, now I'm participating. One time only, so make the most of it.” He places the planchette on the board. “After dinner, we're going to settle this once and for all. If there's a ghost at Auercliff, we're damn well going to prove it. And then, once we've shown that there isn't, we never need mention it again.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Well yes... I mean no, I mean... Well, Auercliff has been in my family for several generations now. Ever since it was built, in fact. Passed down from father to son until, well... Until I inherited it following my father's death some years ago.”
“Lucky for some,” Barbara mutters under her breath, as she tilts the bottle of milk that little Rebecca is drinking.
“I know it's old-fashioned,” Martin continues, sipping from his glass of whiskey, “but I rather like the idea of the place remaining in the family line. That's why it was always so important for me to have an heir. Someone to keep the name alive and maintain Auercliff when we're all gone.”
