The Good Sisters

by Helen Phifer

  ‘I think that could be wishful thinking. Wouldn’t a house full of innocent children be like a dream come true for a monster?’

  Patrick’s whole body seemed to crumple in front of Crosby’s eyes. It literally looked as if the weight of the whole world was balanced on his shoulders, and his skin had now turned a grey colour.

  ‘Let’s go and visit the builders, Father. You can wait in the car and I’ll go and speak to them – try and find out if anything has happened whilst they’ve been inside. Then we’ll decide what to do.’

  Crosby watched as the priest had to force himself up off the chair. All the fight and anger from when he’d burst into his office had dissipated, leaving him looking much older than he was. He felt the same, as if he’d aged another ten years in ten minutes. His entire body felt sluggish. Crosby had never been a coward. He didn’t mind brawling with the best of them, but the thought of that woman who had turned into the scariest thing he’d ever seen in his entire life terrified him.

  Patrick followed Crosby through into the main office of the police station where two of his constables were sitting pretending to be busy. He thought about making them come with him, but then he’d have to explain to them what was happening and he didn’t want to be a laughing stock. No one was going to believe him. It sounded like one of those stupid horror films they showed down at the picture house once a month – not a real-life situation.

  ‘You two listen out for me. If I shout for help you make sure you get off your lazy backsides and hotfoot it up to the old convent. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’ Both of them nodded.

  ‘Good, because if I have to wait ages for you to come because you are sitting here talking about what you’re eating for your tea or picking your noses, I’ll make sure you work the back shift for the next six months.’

  The blue sky, which hadn’t had a cloud in sight all day, began to grow increasingly dark as huge thunderclouds filled it. A low rumble made Crosby and Patrick look up at the same time. The air was heavy with ozone and fear, which was emanating from both men. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to because it was as if both their minds were in tune with each other. They knew this oppressive atmosphere had something to do with the pair of them returning to the convent.

  A loud crack made them both jump and run for the cover of the one police car that belonged to the station. If he needed help they would have to use the pedal cycles to come and save his backside. It was just as well it was the two youngest recruits, who were a lot fitter than Malcolm and Peter who had gone home an hour ago. They made it into the safety of the car before the first huge drops of rain began to fall, splattering the windscreen. As he turned the engine a flash of lightning illuminated the now black sky. Patrick looked at him, his eyes wide with fear.

  ‘Is this a sign from God, Father, or is it the devil at work? I’m really hoping for the first because I’m not afraid to tell you I’m terrified.’

  Crosby began to drive towards the road, which would lead them to the convent. As he squinted through the windscreen because the wipers didn’t move fast enough to clear the rain, he stole a glance at the priest who was sitting next to him trembling, his hands clasped together in prayer and his eyes shut. The heavy feeling in the pit of Crosby’s stomach had now moved up to his chest and he wondered if the shock of this was going to be the end of him.

  Another loud crack of thunder made the pair of them jump. The storm was going to be bad. There were already rivers of water streaming along the narrow, bumpy roads, making him drive slower than he normally would. He had the cars headlights on, but it was still dark. He hoped he wouldn’t meet any other road users because it was so bad they probably wouldn’t see each other until they’d met each other head to head.

  It took for ever to reach the entrance gates to the convent, but he finally saw them and turned into it. The sickness that filled his insides was so strong he wanted to pull over and vomit. He had to start taking deep breaths in through his nose to try and force down the hot liquid that was threatening to spew from his mouth all over his shiny, new police car. The rain was bouncing off the car now and the sky was so dark that if anyone had taken a guess they would have said it was after midnight, not a quarter to six.

  As the outline of the convent came into view, Patrick let out a loud gasp. They couldn’t see it properly because of the rain; however, they could feel it. They didn’t have to say anything to know that it was as if the house was alive – a living, breathing entity in its own right. Crosby drove as close to the front steps as possible and turned the engine off.

  ‘Father, you stay here and pray for us both because I can feel it. Can you?’

  Patrick looked as if he was about to cry. ‘I can’t for the love of God leave you to go in there on your own. Let’s do this before we change our minds.’

  Patrick threw his door open, got out of the car and ran towards the front steps before Crosby had even opened his door. Crosby followed suit. He had to give it to the man, he’d have bet a week’s wages that he wouldn’t have got out of the car. He was wrong and he would be the first to admit it if asked by anyone. He got out of the car, bracing himself against the torrential rain. As he reached the front door he could see it was open and a light was burning inside. Before he could say anything to Patrick, the priest had stepped inside. He followed suit again. The house looked exactly as it had that fateful night seven years ago. It smelt damp and musty, but it was dry inside. It didn’t look as if it was in such a bad state.

  ‘Hello, is anyone here? It’s the police.’

  Crosby’s voice echoed around the empty hallway. He waited to see if anyone answered. The house didn’t feel as bad as he’d expected; maybe their fear of the place had worsened because of the refusal by both men to go back and face it all this time. Feeling braver Crosby walked further inside, leaving the priest hovering by the front door.

  ‘Hello, it’s the police.’

  A loud bang from somewhere upstairs made them both jump. Crosby turned to look at Patrick, who didn’t look at all well.

  ‘I think I’ll go upstairs and see if there’s anyone up there. Someone must be here because they wouldn’t leave the lights on and the front door open if they’d gone home.’

  Patrick nodded. He couldn’t look Crosby in the eye and he wondered if the priest was too scared of what he might see reflected in the black of his pupils. Forcing his feet to move, he began to climb the stairs with a heavy heart. They’d never found Sister Agnes’s head – much to his distress. The grounds had been searched twice over, inch by inch, by a search team of constables and some volunteers from the village. He’d watched Agnes’s coffin lowered into the ground and sworn to her he would find her head, but he hadn’t.

  Once the second search of the gardens had been conducted he’d given strict orders for the house to be completely sealed up once more and under no circumstances to be opened back up. What if one of the young kids sent here found her skull somewhere? The poor kid would have nightmares for the rest of their lives and he’d never forgive himself, although if he was honest he didn’t know what he could do about it apart from try and scare the builders off – maybe get them to say the house was unsafe to live in. He reached the top landing and paused for a minute. The bloodied images of Edith, Mary and Agnes filled his mind and he couldn’t see anything but the crime scenes he’d been the first to encounter behind their bedroom doors.

  ‘Can I help you, officer?’ a voice shouted from the far end of the landing and the attic stairs. Crosby nearly fell backwards down the stairs and had to grab hold of the banister to stop himself.

  ‘Jesus Christ, I’ve been shouting. Did you not hear me?’

  ‘I did, but I was on a ladder trying to stop the water pouring through the hole in the roof before it soaked the entire attic.’

  ‘Ah, yes sorry. That is some storm. Haven’t seen rain like that for a long time.’

  As if to prove how bad the storm was a huge crack of thunder rumbl
ed around the house.

  ‘Me either, but I’m sure you didn’t come to discuss the weather. How can I help you?’

  ‘Is there just you here?’

  ‘At the moment – I sent my lads to go and get some stuff to fix the leak.’

  ‘Have you had any problems whilst you’ve been working in here at all?’

  ‘None whatsoever – well apart from the leaking roof. Why do you ask?’

  Crosby didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to sound as if he’d escaped from the mental asylum and no matter how he said it he would. ‘I just wondered. There were some very sad, sudden deaths here a few years ago and the house has been empty ever since. I, erm, didn’t know if you were aware of the house’s history.’

  ‘Aye terrible they were by all accounts. I’m not local, but I’ve heard all about it. Have you come to ask me if I’ve seen any ghosts?’

  The man who had stepped out of the attic began to laugh at his own joke and Crosby didn’t know whether he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him or whether he wanted to strangle the man in front of him.

  ‘No, not at all. I was just wondering how you were getting on and if there were any reasons the house wouldn’t be suitable for those evacuees.’

  ‘Well if we fix the leak and get the place warmed through to air it out, then there’s no reason it can’t be used. It’s one hell of a fine house – such a shame it’s been left empty all this time, but at least it’s going to be put to good use. Hitler wouldn’t be able to find this place to drop any bombs I’m sure of it. I couldn’t bloody find it with a map and I’m very good at map reading.’

  ‘It’s true; it is off the beaten track. Oh well I better let you get on with it. I don’t want to hold you up. If you have any problems then don’t hesitate to call the station or get one of your lads to come down. There’s always someone around.’

  With that he turned and walked away, his cheeks redder than the hall carpet. This place was fine. Being empty all these years must have got rid of whatever evil it was that had decided to make its home here. The man shouted after him, ‘Thank you, officer; don’t worry, I will.’ If Crosby had turned around one last time he would have caught the red glow in the man’s eyes and the grin that had spread across his face, but he didn’t.

  He was glad to be leaving and hopefully never coming back. He almost ran down the stairs and out of the front door back to the safety of the brand new black shiny Wolseley motor car that was his pride and joy even though technically it wasn’t his. Father Patrick followed him out and once they were both inside the car Crosby looked at him. ‘It seems fine. The house smelt cold, but it didn’t feel anything other than desolate and damp. What did you think?’

  ‘No sign of…?’

  ‘Nothing. I think that everything is going to be all right. It’s been a long time, Patrick; maybe we’ve been living this nightmare for more years than we should have. It’s time to put it behind us and move on with our lives.’

  Patrick reached out and grabbed his arm. ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘As sure as I can be. I’ve told him to report anything unusual – other than that there’s little I can do. He knows the background of the place and didn’t seem bothered, so I suggest we let them get on with it and hope for the best.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Sergeant Crosby. I really do.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Joe woke up, relieved to see daylight streaming through the blinds he’d forgotten to close last night. His neck was stiff because he must have dozed off whilst sitting up playing his game. His head felt heavy and he looked across at the bedside table to see how many bottles of lager he’d drunk. There were four empties. Normally he’d only have one or two. This was going to be a long day with a banging head and stiff neck.

  The front door slammed and he flinched. ‘Morning, Father, sorry I’m late.’ Mrs Walker then proceeded to bang around as loudly as she could downstairs. He smiled to himself. At least she was human and he wasn’t going to be on his own for a couple of hours. He swung his legs out of bed and stood up, his head thudding even louder as the blood rushed to it. He didn’t think about not being dressed as he made his way to the bathroom and walked straight into Mrs Walker, who let out a screech and covered her eyes. He looked down and realised that she’d probably never seen a priest in his boxer shorts before and blushed.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot I wasn’t dressed.’ His cheeks burning, he rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. He couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, I’ll make myself busy downstairs until you’re more decent.’

  He heard her footsteps as she hurried down the stairs and he burst out laughing. When he looked into the mirror above the sink to see what the damage was he almost let out a screech himself. He looked as if he was in his forties not early thirties. He stepped closer. Surely not. He’d only drunk four bottles of lager. Why on earth was he looking so rough? There were small lines around his eyes and a couple of deep furrows on his forehead that he’d never noticed before. Turning his head to one side the light caught the wisps of grey hair on his temples that yesterday had been dark brown. He checked the other side and it was the same. Was that possible? Could you age overnight?

  Splashing cold water all over his face, he patted it dry with a towel, wondering what was happening to him. He took the bath sheet off the towel rail and wrapped it around his waist so as not to upset Mrs Walker. He needn’t have worried. When he opened the door he heard the hoover being turned on downstairs as she began her twice-weekly cleaning spree. He went into his bedroom and dressed a bit more casually than he had yesterday; although if he was to pluck up the courage to go and visit Kate he would need to put on his dog collar and crucifix. First though he needed breakfast and some paracetamol.

  He made both himself and Mrs Walker a mug of tea and a huge plate of doorstep slices of toast. He was starving. He hadn’t eaten much yesterday; maybe that was why he was feeling so crap today. As the elderly woman who walked with more spring in her step than he ever would entered the kitchen to get her tea and toast she smiled.

  ‘Glad to see you’re wearing some clothes now. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen an almost naked man.’

  ‘Sorry about that, I forgot. Can I ask you something, Mrs Walker?’

  ‘Dorothy. I wish you’d call me that, or Dottie. You make me feel ancient calling me Mrs all the time.’

  ‘Really, I had no idea. Sorry, Dorothy. How long have you been the housekeeper for the vicarage?’

  ‘Ooh let me see, I started when I was eighteen in 1950. Before that it was my mum who was the housekeeper. She got crippled with arthritis, though, and I used to come and help her out. Until she couldn’t do it anymore and then I took over. The pay wasn’t bad either for the time. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I just wondered if you knew about the history of the place. Have you ever been to the big old house through the woods? It used to be a convent until they shut it down.’

  She shuddered. ‘That place gives me the creeps. It’s a proper scary house. I’ve heard all sorts of tales about that building and the goings-on up there. If I was you I’d stay well clear; it’s a bad place.’

  ‘How can a house be bad? I don’t understand it.’

  ‘It happens. Look at that film they made back in the seventies about that house in America. I can’t remember the name now, but one of the kids killed an entire family and they were okay until they moved into that house.’

  ‘This house was a convent though; nuns lived there.’

  ‘Yes they did and died there in horrific circumstances. Amityville – that was the film. Apparently one of them nuns was found without her head – cut clean off it was and they never found the head. Poor woman had to be buried without it. What sort of person could do that to a woman who was nothing but pure of soul?’

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘They shut it down, boarded it up and didn’t let anyone go in it for years. U
ntil the war started and they had to evacuate all the kids from the cities out to the country. Someone – I don’t know who – decided that the convent was a perfect place to rehome a trainload of young kids with nuns and volunteers to help run the place.’

  Joe felt his blood run cold. The thought of children who had to leave their families being housed there was too horrifying to contemplate. His stomach churned and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what happened.

  ‘Well it would have been a fabulous house and perfect too, out in the sticks away from the cities and that bastard Hitler. The nuns weren’t local and I don’t think they’d been told about what happened to the last lot of nuns that had lived there either, because if they had they wouldn’t have wanted to live there.’

  ‘Did anyone die?’ Joe said this with a heavy heart.

  ‘Another nun and I think a little boy. It was such a long time ago my memory’s not as good as it used to be.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The nun killed herself; I’m not sure about the little boy. He could have died of natural causes.’

  ‘Did you know there’s a woman who has bought the convent and is in the process of renovating it to open it as a bed and breakfast?’

  She crossed herself. ‘Sweet Jesus, why would she want to do that?’

  ‘Because she has no idea about its history. What should I do? What would you do?’

  ‘Get round there as fast as you can and warn her before something bad happens to her. How long has she been there? I can’t believe they would sell it to anyone let alone a woman. Is she on her own?’

  ‘You’re not the first person to have said that. I think she’s living there on her own as well.’

  ‘You need to go and tell her. She needs to go and speak with Beatrice Hayton. She knows everything there is to know about every gossip and scandal that ever happened in this village.’