by Amy Cross
Again, however, my fear seems curiously absent, replaced by curiosity. Perhaps, somehow, I have become braver, although the contrast is striking. This time last night, I was terrified. Now I merely want to see whatever is causing all this commotion. Something is definitely different.
I step out onto the landing as the banging sound continues.
“Hello?” I call out. “Is anybody there?”
The sound stops.
“It's alright,” I continue, making my way past the top of the stairs and over toward the window. “I just want to see you. I want to know who you are, and what you want. I'm a -”
Stopping suddenly, I see a face in the window, although a moment later I realize that the face is my own. Smiling, I realize that I very nearly allowed myself to become startled by my own reflection, and I can't help wondering if that is also what I saw last night. Could I have been so foolish?
Looking toward the far corner, I listen in case the sound returns. I take a couple of steps forward, supposing that I should check past the corner and see if perhaps there's someone hiding, but after a moment I stop. I can't describe the sensation, but all of a sudden I feel quite certain that I'm barking up the wrong tree, so I turn around and head back toward the spare bedroom, where I start once again looking through the old boxes.
Finally, I find a diary from the late 1960s, covering the time when Mummy brought me to the house with my brother. I flick through, and sure enough Aunt Dottie left some entries covering those days.
Twelve
June 15th, 1966.
Well, Liz showed up today with Penny and Stephen, so I suppose the house will be filled with noise for the next few days. It'll be nice to liven the place up for a change. Sometimes, I can feel very alone when I have the whole of Longthorn to myself. The house has been so very quiet since Charlie died.
So far, Penny seems as sweet as ever, albeit rather meek. Stephen, meanwhile, is still a horror. I know I shouldn't think so badly of my own nephew, but I feel that Stephen is being allowed to run riot, and Liz doesn't hold him back much at all. I also think he's a rather bad influence on Penny, and he's destroying her confidence.
I'm going to keep an eye on that young man.
***
June 16th, 1966.
So far, so good. The children have been well-behaved today. Well, Penny at least. Stephen's rather raucous. He gives me a dreadful headache sometimes.
***
June 17th, 1966.
Would I go to jail, I wonder, if I strangled Stephen? After all, I'd be doing a great service to the rest of mankind, ridding the general population of such a rotten child. I'm joking, of course, although I must admit that I'm coming to dislike him more and more. He bullies his sister, and Liz doesn't take the matter very seriously at all. She confided in me that she thinks Penny needs toughening up.
I think Stephen needs softening. Preferably with a clip around the ear until he mends his ways.
***
June 18th, 1966.
I found Penny crying today, all by herself in the study. The poor thing! I comforted her and asked her what was the matter, but I'm not convinced she was entirely honest. She said she'd bumped her head, but I feel certain her brother must have been mean to her. Would he actually hit her? I don't know.
I tried to tell Liz that she must do something, but she brushed me off again. Oh, I know I shouldn't tell her how to raise her children. After all, I have no experience in that department. At the same time, it hurts to see a lovely girl such as Penny being bullied and harried by her big brother. I think he's waging a campaign against her.
And then later, I heard the most frightful shouting from upstairs, and I found that Stephen had trapped his sister in the dumbwaiter and was winching her up and down. The poor girl was shivering and bleeding when I pulled her out. Oh, I could have struck that miserable little boy at the time. I was so angry. At this rate, Penelope is going to end up traumatized, and I worry that her whole life will be affected. She'll end up as a nervous wreck, frightened of her own shadow, and what kind of a life will she have then?
I hope she learns to fight back eventually. She has to, doesn't she? Everyone learns to fight back against their bully eventually. Dear God, please let Penelope grow a backbone. Let her one day, finally, give that rotter Stephen a taste of his own medicine.
Thirteen
Somebody is knocking at the door!
Morning lights streams through the kitchen window as I almost trip over one of the boxes I brought down last night. I can only assume that the man from the auction house has finally arrived to take that wretched painting away, although when I get to the door and pull it open, I find that there's nobody there at all.
“Hello?” I call out, feeling a flash of confusion before suddenly I hear the knocking again, coming from elsewhere in the house.
It takes a moment, but finally I realize my mistake. The visitor is knocking on the front door, yet for some reason I came and opened the door that leads out to the back garden.
Feeling a little flustered, I turn and hurry through to the dining room and then to the library, trying to find the quickest way to the front of the house. I'm afraid I take a couple of wrong turns along the way, and by the time I reach the hallway I can already hear what sounds like a van or a truck driving away.
“Wait!” I call out, as I get to the front door and start fumbling with the lock. “I'm here! Just wait a moment!”
Finally I get the door open, just in time to see a white van disappearing past the gates. I spot the name 'J.A. Hodges, Finnemann Auction House', but it's too late to even wave and hope that the man might see me. The van is gone, and I can't help but feel desperately annoyed by my own failure to do something so simple as answering a knock at the door.
What's wrong with me?
Why have I been so confused lately?
A moment later, I hear my phone ringing somewhere in one of the other rooms. For a moment I feel utterly flustered, and it takes a few seconds before I realize that I must answer and see who's calling. Leaving the front door open, I hurry to the foot of the stairs, only to stop as I notice that the sound seems to be coming from the dining room. Heading to the next doorway, I look through, but all of a sudden the ringing seems to move past me, and now I turn and look through to the library.
Is there where I left my phone?
As soon as I get to the library door, I find that the sound has moved again. I stop and try to get my bearings, but evidently I haven't quite pulled myself together yet this morning. For the next few minutes, the telephone rings incessantly and I hurry from room to room, constantly chasing the sound but never really getting any closer. Finally, just as I return to the hallway, the sound stops and I'm left once again in silence. I wait, just in case the caller tries again, but evidently they must have given up on me.
Lowering myself down, I sit on the bottom step and try to calm my racing heart-rate.
I'm not losing control of my faculties.
No, I can't be.
I'm just stressed. That's all. It's being here again, being back at Longthorn Manor, that's why my thoughts are rather jumbled.
I'm not senile, not at fifty-eight.
Please God, let me not be senile.
Finally, hoping to get my thoughts together, I haul my tired old body up from the step and start going upstairs, heading to the spare bedroom so that I can find some more of Aunt Dottie's boxes. They're the only thing that soothes me at the moment, and I suppose I should try to keep myself occupied while I wait for someone to call my telephone again. I'm sure I shall be able to find the telephone when it rings, so long as I keep a cool head. And then I can either find out from Stephen what's happening, or I can call a taxi and get out of here.
Sure enough, the job of sorting through more boxes is enough to calm my thoughts. In fact, I become rather lost in the task of assembling all Aunt Dottie's diaries in order, and the whole job is rather like a jigsaw puzzle. Finally I have whole stacks of the things, and I
start flicking through them at random. I'm vaguely aware of the light fading outside, of course, and eventually I switch on the bedside lamp. I can't quite tear myself away from these diaries, however, and finally I find a volume that continues Aunt Dottie's recollection of my visit here as a child.
As I read her account of what happened, I feel a cold, tightening sensation in my chest.
Fourteen
June 19th, 1966.
This morning I had a right old row with Liz. Her wretched, spoiled son Stephen has been utterly tormenting Penelope. His latest wheeze, it appears, is to convince the poor girl that there's a ghost here at Longthorn. It seems he's twisted the idea into her head, and now Penny is terrified. I have told Liz that this all has to stop, but I'm afraid my sister would rather just let things play out. It's all heading for trouble, I'm sure of it.
ETA: Just a few hours later, the proverbial has hit the fan. Poor Penny is convinced that she saw another spectral figure, a ghoul of some kind, on the landing upstairs. Stephen has been encouraging such thoughts, and now Penny is a terrible mess. She seems to genuinely believe that she saw a ghost here. The human mind is a powerful thing, and I blame Stephen 100% for putting these ideas in Penny's head. And of course Liz still thinks it's nothing serious, that Stephen is just fooling around.
***
June 20th, 1966.
I was up all night, simmering and stewing about Liz's refusal to step in and deal with Stephen. She's creating a monster in that child, although I suppose I shouldn't use that exact word. After all, the boy is my nephew. I just wish he wouldn't be so mean to poor Penny.
Today, Liz is taking the children into the village, so I shall have some peace for a few hours. I must repair the damage to the borders, the damage caused by Stephen's games. I like having Liz and Penny here. Stephen is a necessary evil.
***
June 21st, 1966.
He's done it again. That boy! He tricked Penny into believing that she had received a letter from the ghost of Longthorn Manor, and I'm afraid the poor girl swallowed the deception hook, line and sinker. She's now a sobbing mess, terrified of her own shadow, convinced that some kind of ghost is coming to get her. She even messed herself at the breakfast table. My heart breaks to see the way she's used as her brother's plaything.
Liz didn't seem to know what to do, so I was the one who took poor Penelope to the loo and cleaned her up. Sometimes, I think Liz is too scatterbrained to do anything at all.
Anyway, I took Stephen aside and told him he was being a rotter. He confessed to making up the ghost stories, and to writing the letter, but he said they were just harmless jokes. I told him to look after his sister instead of tormenting her, and he promised, but I'm not sure I believe him. He's a rather deceptive little bugger.
***
June 22nd, 1966.
Well, it's over for now. Liz took the children home to London today, and I am left once more in isolation at this grand house. Not that I mind. I like having space to myself, but I can't help worrying about poor little Penny. Stephen is such a bullying, obnoxious child, and he seems to have the run of the whole family. I hope he'll simmer down, or that Liz will step in, but I fear Stephen is going to exert a malign influence over his sister for the foreseeable future.
So now it's just me and the dreadful ghost of Longthorn Manor! I shouldn't laugh, but I can't help it. This house is not haunted, that's for sure. I have never heard so much as an out-of-place bump or bang. Longthorn is just bricks and mortar, and nothing more. And that's just how I like it.
I must weed the area around the rhododendrons.
Fifteen
“He confessed to making up the ghost stories,” I read out loud, as I sit on the edge of the bed, “and to writing the letter, but he said they were just harmless jokes.”
Those words fill me with horror. I remember the letter, and the sight of the ghostly figure, yet now the truth is quite plain for me to see. My brother was tormenting me, and he has continued to torment me all these years. He put such fear into my soul, and I have spent fifty years believing that I encountered a ghost here at Longthorn Manor.
Fifty years!
Fifty years of fear, and of Stephen taunting me.
Fifty years of him occasionally bringing up those stories. Why, just last month he told some friends about the time I soiled myself at the breakfast table. When I became upset, he scolded me for being too sensitive and prim, and he told me to lighten up. He told me that the ghost had simply put a proper fright into me, yet now it's clear that the whole ghost story was a tease.
And I fell for it.
For a moment, I feel as if the anger in my chest is about to burst out. Anger at Stephen for treating me this way, and anger at myself for letting it happen. And anger at Mummy, for not stepping in.
Setting the diary aside, I close my eyes, but tears still manage to run down my cheeks.
I have lived my whole life as a fool. As a timid, scared, terrified fool, constantly the butt of my brother's jokes. And all along, he knew there had been no ghost. He just used me for his own entertainment. He put me down in the company of others, so that he could raise himself up in their estimation. He humiliated and embarrassed me at every juncture, treading me down a little further each time.
And I stood for it all, like a pitiful fool.
I sit completely still for quite some time, gripped by a sense of anger, and I only stir when I finally hear the return of that cursed banging sound in the distance.
“Oh, shut up!” I shout, opening my eyes and looking toward the doorway. The landing is dark and unlit, and the banging sound is closer somehow, as if something metallic is rattling furiously. “I know you're not a ghost!” I call out, even though I know there's not much point. “I know none of it was real!”
The banging continues, and finally I get to my feet and storm out to the landing. The other night, I was terrified. Last night, I was merely curious. Now, I'm angry.
“I'm not going to be fooled, you know!” I continue, hurrying past the top of the stairs and trying once more to follow the sound. “I've spent my whole life believing in things that were never real, but all of that must stop today!”
I push open every door I pass, searching for the source of the banging sound. I feel certain that I'm getting closer, and finally I round the next corner.
“I refuse to -”
Stopping suddenly, I let out a gasp as soon as I spot the figure at the far end of the corridor. I take a step back, but in the darkness all I can really make out is a human shape against the farthest white door. After a moment, however, I realize that the shape seems to be sitting on the floor, leaning back against the door and not moving. Moonlight is streaming through the windows, bathing the whole scene in a kind of ethereal blue glow, but all I can really see of the figure is that its eyes and mouth are open.
And it's staring straight at me.
“Who are you?” I stammer, resisting the urge to turn and run. I've turned and run my whole life, and I can't do it now. “What do you want from me?”
There's no reply from the figure.
I hesitate for a moment longer, before starting to make my way cautiously along the corridor. As I get closer to the figure, I see that it appears to be holding its left hand against its own right arm, as if it's clutching itself. I'm starting to notice other things, too. The figure is wearing a skirt, dark and ankle-length, rather like mine, as well as a pale shirt. I think maybe I even recognize the face, although I tell myself that I must be wrong, that it simply can't be my...
Finally I stop right in front of the figure and look down at its features.
I do recognize her.
It's the same face I saw the other night, in the window.
It's me.
I kneel on the carpet and take a closer look. My dead face stares back at me, eyes wide open and mouth agog. The body is in the exact spot where I was standing when I saw the face in the window, and now I'm starting to realize what must have happened. The body is
clutching its left arm, as if it was in pain, and I think I vaguely remember feeling as if something was touching my shoulder. I saw my own reflection in the window, and then my own shadows, and they scared me so much that I suffered a heart attack.
How utterly pathetic is that?
My brother's silly games and stories turned me into such a nervous wreck, such a lifelong bundle of nerves, that I ended up being fooled by my own reflection and my own shadow.
And I died of fright.
Suddenly the silence of the house is broken by the loud banging sound, except that this time it seems to be much closer. I look around, startled, before spotting the hatch the leads into the dumbwaiter. The metal covering looks to be shaking slightly, as if something is hitting it from within, and after a moment I get to my feet and shuffle over. I don't know how I could have missed it before, but now the confusion has lifted from my mind and I'm quite certain that the banging sound is coming from inside the dumbwaiter itself. I quickly grab the handle and give it a turn, and then I open the door and see that the chamber itself must be down on the ground floor.
Turning, I hurry across the landing and down the stairs, moving as fast as I can manage. The banging sound continues, and finally I get to the lower hatch and pull it open. To my shock, a bird immediately comes flying out, having evidently become trapped there at some point over the past few days.
I let out a gasp and fall back, bumping against the wall and then slipping to the floor, and then I look up and watch as the panicked bird flies around and around in the hallway. Just as I'm starting to wonder what I can do to help the poor thing, it swoops low and flies straight out through the open front door, disappearing into the night.
