by Sarah Dalton
I have to say Ashforth is very dull and the people are not friendly at all. One tavern even refused our custom! They yelled at us in their gruff way of speaking. “We dun’t want yer lot in ’ere. Clear off back te yer devil house. Yer not clean, the lot of yer. Clear off, I say. Go on! Gerr-out-on-it, basterds!” Well, Papa was very angry. I mean, fancy using that kind of language in front of women and children. He wasn’t a gentleman at all.
Lottie found the entire situation hilarious, which goes to show what a terrible person she is. If you’re reading this, Lottie, GO AWAY.
It’s late at night and I cannot sleep. That is why I am writing to you, diary. If I liked Lottie even a little bit I would go into her room, but I know she would spend all night telling me terrifying tales for no purpose other than to frighten me. Yesterday she talked about a little girl stolen from the woods. She is awful.
And yet, I cannot stop thinking about it. I cannot stop picturing the morning fog seeping through the trees, and how easy it must be to hide in that misty air. Lottie says the little girl was eleven, which is my age. She described her as similar to me, too, with the same ringlets of brown, the same hazel eyes and long nose. She is always mentioning my long nose, just because she is blonde with a button nose like Mama’s. I resemble Papa, plain and masculine, or so Mama says when she is being cruel.
I even thought of creeping into bed with Bess. She would be so angry with me. I shouldn’t, but it is so cold and dark in my room. Sometimes it sounds as though someone is thumping against the wall and I don’t like it one bit.
Liza
Chapter Six
For the next week I make the most of Dad being home before he leaves for Germany. We go to see his old University professor, a man so old he has a nurse to push him around in a wheelchair, but he still has a twinkle of mischief and a mind sharper than mine. He regales us with poetry and stories of when Dad was young. Like the time he threw flowers into the audience after a presentation on extrasolar planets.
“What a showman,” I say with an over-exaggerated eye roll.
Mum works during the day, so often we sit around eating strawberry ice cream, or go for a walk in the park. The weather cools as we move into the last weeks of August, and we end the week with my clothing changing to jackets and jeans, instead of shorts and vests.
“I hope you’re okay with this move, Mares,” he says the day before his trip. We’re outside, bracing the wind for one last wander through the park. “I understand that we sprang it on you. It’s not very often that your mother falls in love with anything, but she has really fallen for this house.”
I sigh. “I can tell. Are you aware of how many curtain swatches she’s made me look at? No? Well, neither am I, because I’ve lost count.”
He laughs. “I’m proud of you. Do you know that? You’ve been through the wringer, kid, and not many other teenage girls would handle it so well.” His gaze lingers on the scars at my neck. I’m aware of the fact that they’re still very visible. I never cover them. They’re part of me. Part of my history. Yet when I see others notice them, my hand always goes up to protect them from sight. I guess there’s a tiny self-conscious part of me that will always be embarrassed of them.
“I’ve had a lot of help,” I say. “From you, and from others.”
Dad frowns. “Yes, quite. Boys.”
I laugh at him. “You can’t stop me seeing boys. I am seventeen, you know.”
“Well, we tried wrapping you up in cotton wool, but you had a little difficulty walking.” He imitates a waddling penguin that has me in stitches. “Mary, Mary. So grown up. A woman. Fuck. How did it happen?”
“Time,” I say.
“What a bitch. I hate time. Do not tell your mother I said bitch. Or fuck.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Are you going to be all right moving into the new house when I’m in Germany?” Dad asks. “It should be painted and cleaned by the time you get there. The decorators are sorting it out now.”
I nod. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”
“What about you and your mother? Should I expect to walk into a crime scene when I get home?”
I shake my head. “No murderous intentions from my end. She was pissed at me for visiting Aunt Izzy, but she should understand that I had to. She’s all alone up there since Lila died.”
Dad sighs. “I wish your mother would bury the hatchet on that one. But I think the bad blood runs deep.”
“Does she ever talk about it with you?” I ask.
“No. And Izzy is tight-lipped about it too. Your grandmother once said something that stuck with me. Do not repeat this to your mother, mind. I actually overheard the old bat talking to Izzy. She said, ‘She’s never been the same since, my Susan. The devil tore her open and used her up.’”
“Why would she say that?” I ask, aghast. The words make my stomach roil.
“I don’t know. But it was when she was quite old and a bit batty. She lost her marbles towards the end.”
“Who thinks that their daughter has been used by the devil? That’s… sick.”
“Well, illness does funny things to people. I shouldn’t have said anything. It was nothing, really. I don’t think it means anything. Let’s go get fish and chips for lunch.”
*
Apparently moving house is one of the most stressful events in your life. Well, it’s stressful for those who organise it. One of the perks of being a teenager is the fact that I can sit back and let Mum and Dad do all the work. Usually, going through an event as complicated as buying a new house would lead to bickering and sulks, but strangely enough I’ve never seen Mum as calm. She even sings.
Even Lacey notices the change. As we pack my belongings into cardboard boxes, she remarks on Mum.
“Huh, I never thought that woman had any other gear.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, she’s always been sort of uptight, but real about it, you know? She doesn’t pretend to be anything else. She owns that rigidity.”
“That’s a weird way of looking at it.”
“I don’t mean it as a diss or owt. She gets who she is and she’s cool with it. I respect that. Sometimes I wish I’d had her as a role model growing up. My mum never knew what she was. I think that’s why she turned to the drugs. Anyway, your Ma, she’s different. It’s as though someone has flipped a switch.”
“Yeah, I see it too. She keeps wearing these low-cut tops. The other day I saw her take an ancient denim miniskirt out of the wardrobe and hold it up to herself in the mirror. It was crazy weird.”
“Did she wear it?”
“No! Can you imagine how embarrassing that would be?”
“You don’t know embarrassing until you’ve seen your mum walk around town in a bikini top and mucky shorts, a fag in one hand and a can of Special Brew in the other, yelling at whatever bloke she was fucking.”
“Mate. I’m sorry.”
“S’all right.” She shrugs. “Hey, you should hide the Athamé well. Even as relaxed as your mum is, I think a ceremonial dagger might tip her over the edge.”
I nod. “Good thinking.” I take the smooth metal and wrap it up into an old blanket before hiding it under a bunch of underwear. Hopefully neither parent will want to unpack underwear for me. “The weird thing is, she doesn’t check that I’m taking my medication anymore. She used to be militant about it.” When I was staying in the Magdelena ward in hospital I was prescribed with anti-psychotic drugs. The thing is, the drugs turn me into this comatosed zombie, and I still see the Things and ghosts anyway. I stopped taking them a while ago, but Mum thinks it’s the drugs that keep me balanced. If she finds out I don’t take them anymore, she’ll want to know why, and I don’t fancy explaining the “I see dead people” shtick to her.
I’ve done a lot of lying and pretending since Magdelena. The only problem with crazy wards is that if you’re not crazy, you have a hell of a time convincing anyone you’re sane. Getting in is easy, getting
out is much harder.
“Maybe it means she’s trusting you more,” Lacey says. “I mean, as far as I’m concerned it’s a Brucie Bonus not getting an earful from the ’rents.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m paranoid, but this shift in personality seems suspicious to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t really explain, but I think it might be related to Ravenswood. I mean, who knew that moving house would make Mum so happy. A week away has her buzzing around the house resembling a bee trapped in a jar.” Lacey laughs as I demonstrate with flailing arms.
“I know there’s a weird vibe at Ravenswood, but you need to chill,” Lacey says. “I get that you’ve had more than your fair share of supernatural events, but not everything is ghost-related. Even if it is ghost-related, we know now that all you need to do is your mojo with the Athamé and poof, no more ghost.”
I look away. Whenever Lacey mentions the Athamé I see a hint of hostility in her expression. A hard glint of anger. Even though she’s pledged that she’ll help ghosts move on to the “other side” or whatever it may be, she still feels some resentment towards it. I think she’s always aware of how the dagger is capable of sending her to the other side, and that’s something she’s frightened of. Although she tells me the reason she doesn’t move on is because she still has business here, I know that a lot of it is motivated by fear.
The problem is, as a friend, I don’t know how much to help her. I don’t know whether to stand back and allow her to make her own decisions, or whether to intervene in an attempt to persuade her of the right action. And what is the right action for her?
Maybe I’ll never fully appreciate what she’s going through. Or maybe I’ll realise what to do when the time is right.
The day after I say goodbye to Dad at the airport, Mum and I pack up the car and head towards the new house. Beryl has had her things delivered to our house. She’s been living in a hotel, paid for by Dad, apparently, while Mum has supervised the decorators, taking long lunches from work to check on the house during the day. We’ve had most of our things—the large pieces of furniture, many boxes of books, ornaments and so on—taken ahead by a removal van. It’s only the last few things crammed into our car. In one of the boxes is the Athamé, an object I’m keen to keep near me in case Mum decides to unpack for me.
We leave in the pouring rain. It could be the beginning of a bad horror movie, and the irony isn’t lost on me. Especially not when Lacey sits silently behind me, only visible to me in the rear view mirror. At least it isn’t a thunderstorm. Yet, the lack of that loud drama, the crack of thunder and sparkle of lightning, makes the dark country roads even more menacing. There’s an unnerving silence. The rain blocks out any road noise. We don’t turn on the radio because it’s broken again, and Mum is strangely quiet.
Maybe it’s nerves. This house has become so much to her that I worry it will disappoint her now. She’s built it up and up in her mind, that I think she believes it will solve everything. This house will fill the cracks in her life, smooth them over and allow her to start afresh.
But I don’t think it’ll be so easy.
Lacey leans forward until her head is near mine when we pull onto the drive to the house. Her presence leaves my skin tingling with the cold. Above us, the thick canopy of trees provides cover from the pouring rain, so that only a smatter comes down onto the car roof. It’s worse than the relentless torrent. It’s somehow louder.
The car bumps up and down over the uneven drive. When we arrive, the delivery men are leaving. The van hurries past us, churning up stones, speeding in an unnatural hurry. I frown at the sight of the driver. He seems ashen, pale as milk. Frightened.
“I guess they must be on a tight schedule,” I say.
Mum doesn’t seem to notice. As we pull up, she begins to hum a little tune. It sounds similar to a nursery rhyme, but I can’t think of the words.
I steel myself for the downpour.
The boxes are heavy, and, within a few moments, practically soaking wet. We have to take five trips in total, very nearly slipping on the wet stone steps up to the front door. We leave the boxes in the hallway with a sigh. Mum flips on the light switch.
“Cuppa?” she asks.
“Yes, please,” I reply, wiping water away from my forehead.
Mum goes to the kitchen and I attempt to drag my box through to the living room. The hallway has been painted white and it really brightens up the entrance. A cream carpet completes the look, and necessitates the removal of shoes. That’s when I notice the white envelope on the doormat.
If not for the tread of a workman’s boot, the letter would be the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. The envelope is thick, with italic lettering spelling out our names. I tear it open, careful to rip only at the seam. Inside, there is a thin piece of paper, like tissue, with a few lines written on it in the same italic handwriting.
Come to my dinner party tomorrow night.
Wear formal attire.
Your humble host,
Emmaline Delacroix
May 17th 1847
We have a governess. Papa said we must be nice to her because it was so difficult to get her to work for us. She refuses to stay in our house, so she has found lodgings in Ashforth, and travels here and back in a trap. I’m beginning to think that everyone hates Ravenswood. No one wants to come here. Mama hasn’t been able to get a single one of the ladies from town to visit us.
Miss Stevens, our governess, arrived bright and early this morning. Her dress is very pretty but Mama says that the lace is cheap and too tight around her bosom. I think she is beautiful and Papa said he thought there was nothing wrong with her. She has very big blue eyes and eyelashes that flutter frequently.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” she said to me. “Can you fetch your sister? We’re going to be learning French verbs this morning.”
“Can we sit outside in the sunshine?” I asked.
“No, you cannot,” Mama answered. “There is a small section of the parlour partitioned off for them to sit and learn. I’ve put out everything that you need.”
“Very good, Mrs. Blair.”
Lottie came down the stairs and my goodness she gave me a fright. Old Bess took one look at her and crossed herself. She had this strange pallor to her face, and she walked along with her head in the air as though she had never seen the house before.
“This must be Lottie,” said Miss Stevens. “It’s very nice to meet you. I am your new governess.”
Lottie completely ignored Miss Stevens and rolled her head around, staring at the rooms of the house. Then she said, “How very vulgar.”
Mama pushed me aside so she could get a good look at Lottie. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t be so rude. Go and acknowledge Miss Stevens.”
But Lottie hardly seemed to care. She wandered into the parlour holding her skirt like a dancer. We followed her in and Lottie stood in the centre of the room twirling round and round.
“Well, this is very strange. I wonder if she has a fever,” Mama said, moving towards Lottie. She clamped her hand to her forehead and Lottie wriggled around like a mad thing. “No fever. She is quite cold, though.”
“Oh no,” Bess mumbled. “Oh no, no, no.”
Mama ignored Bess and grasped Lottie by the shoulders. “Now do you see here, we don’t have time for your games. You must do everything Miss Stevens says. You must behave yourself.”
“Fine,” Lottie said, her voice raspy.
“Will you be all right with them, Miss Stevens? Lottie is not usually so spirited. She’s a very well-behaved child in general.”
I let out a snort and Mama glared at me.
Miss Stevens held up her hand. “I’ve seen it all, Mrs. Blair. The girls will be fine under my ward.”
I believed her.
I can hear Father’s footsteps checking on the lights in the bedrooms so I must sign off. But I will quickly finish by saying that Lottie continued acting strangely all day. She did behave herself
in the end, but her smile seemed fixed. And, when I got into bed and she didn’t come in to tell me a scary story, I knew that she was different indeed. Very different.
Liza
Chapter Seven
The bright white walls and cream carpets have ripped the soul from the house. They’ve destroyed its mystique. I can’t help it; my stomach drops with disappointment as I walk the clean halls and take my boxes to my bedroom. The sunlight streams in through a large window, brightening the sight of messy boxes and an unmade bed. It hardly resembles the house I saw a week ago, the one filled with character, with the old wallpaper and faded floorboards. We’ve spoilt it.
I wonder why I was so worried about this place. What’s so special about Ravenswood? Perhaps Beryl and Emmaline made it seem more interesting around here, but now that we’ve updated the décor, it seems as mundane as our old terrace. Perhaps I lost myself in the history of the place, became entranced by it. I suppose it could explain my strange behaviour on our visit here. I shake my head. No, there was a real pull, a gathering force reaching to me. I didn’t imagine it. It was real.
After we’ve spent hours unpacking, both Mum and I are exhausted. Neither of us feels like cooking but there aren’t any takeaway places in Ashforth. The nearest place is a KFC in the next town. Fifteen minutes by car, but no delivery.
“I’ll nip out,” Mum says. “I’ll be back in no time. See if you can get the TV on. Dad left instructions somewhere but they may as well be in hieroglyphics.”
She breezes out of the house still humming that nursery rhyme. What is it? I recognise it but I can’t think of the name. The door clicks shut and I hear her key turn in the lock.
