by Peppi Hilton
“Are we having a cup of tea?” the frail voice whispered again. It was undeniably her mother.
The words were repeated over and over until finally Beryl got out of bed, the terror etched in her aged face. She hobbled over to the door, pinned her ear to it, and listened. She was afraid to open it, but she knew she must. She flung the door open and was greeted by the mewing of her old and failing cat, which was standing there looking bemused. Beryl shooed it away, angry that it had disturbed her, and angry that she had imagined something as ridiculous as her dead mother calling her as she once used to. She settled back down and it didn’t take long for her to go back to sleep, once the palpitations had stopped. She let the incident steal away from her memory, and it was soon forgotten.
Several weeks later, Beryl awoke from a deep sleep to the sound of a melancholy tune being played on the old piano. She knew that tune well, as it was the one that Billy had first learnt to play as a young child. She recalled the many times he had played it for his mother, and how she had stood at his side marvelling at his musical talents which he had clearly inherited from her. Her senses were in turmoil, what was it, who was it? For a brief moment, albeit irrational, she thought Billy must have returned. He must be playing, he must have come back. She climbed stealthily off the bed, lit the candle, moved over to the door and opened it slowly. The music played louder and louder, until there was no mistaking that someone was down there. She hobbled down the stairs with great difficulty, her old bones creaking and groaning with pain. She crossed the dismal and dreary hall and looked hesitantly into the sitting room, but the music had stopped and no-one was there. She looked around, aided only by the dim light reflected by the candle. For a moment she was convinced that the music sheets had been moved from their normal place on the piano rest. But before she could make sense of it, she heard the sound of the rocking chair creaking as it moved back and forth on its old frame. Her heartbeat rose in volume as it thumped aggressively in her chest and seemed to echo in her ears. She headed apprehensively for the scullery, terrified of what she might see. But as she peered into the room she saw that the chair was empty – but it was rocking to a standstill as if someone had just got out of it. A shiver ran down her spine and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
In the dim light of the flickering candle, everything looked sinister and unnerving. It was a big empty house for one person to be alone in, apart from the cat, and sounds had a tendency to echo in the night through the silence which penetrated the large empty spaces. There was only one answer, it was the cat that had been on the chair and had just jumped off. Probably the cat had been walking along the keys of the piano as well, and that was the sound she’d heard, not the familiar tune she remembered. Content with that explanation and convinced there was no-one else in the room apart from herself and the cat, she made her way back upstairs and into bed. She buried her head under the bedclothes and tried to settle, but once again she heard the eerie sound of the piano playing. This time she knew for certain that it was that same haunting tune which Billy had first learnt to play, and the sound seemed to magnify in the hollowness of the building. She began to tremble with fear, and shiver with cold at the same time, and her whole body began to shake from the aftermath, her bones aching with the strain. She buried herself more and more under the bedding in order to shut out the noise. But when the floorboards began to creak and stop right outside her door, she began to shake uncontrollably. Silence followed for one arduous minute after another. And then the horror began again.
“Are we having a cup of tea?” echoed the eerie voice; the sound gaining momentum as Beryl’s heart-rate gained speed.
Convinced she was having a heart attack when a sharp pain tugged at her chest, she clutched at it in desperation. Her breathing was becoming difficult and she began to gasp for air. She rolled out of the makeshift bed and onto the floor, the cold penetrating her arthritic bones and causing unimaginable pain as she lay there in the darkness paralysed with fear and unable to move.
“Are we having a cup of tea?”
“Go away!” Beryl managed to call out, the pain in her chest becoming more severe and her breathing becoming more intolerable.
The cat screeched alarmingly from somewhere in the empty rooms on the top floor. She heard a door open and close, followed by a loud thud and then the creaking of the floorboards.
She was mortified!
The build-up of dread and anxiety in her mind, and the tension in her body made the pain more unbearable, and she had now come to the conclusion that these were her final moments. She was convinced that her mother had come to get her; a meeting she didn’t want to have to face. But within a few seconds the sound of the music stopped, and at the same time her chest pains disappeared as well as the pain from her aching bones. Everything was silent until she heard her cat mewing outside the door. She dragged herself up from the floor and lit the candle. She waited for the flame to light up the room before going to the door and opening it fearfully. The cat was sitting there waiting patiently for her to let it in. Everything felt normal and there was neither sight nor sound of anyone else. She made her way downstairs and rejuvenated the dying embers of the fire so that she could make herself a cup of tea. She didn’t feel like going back to bed, she’d had a terrible fright and one which would be hard to erase from her mind.
Several weeks passed by and there was no further unexplained activity going on in the house, and so Beryl soon settled back into her life of solitude. The incidents of that evening had been completely erased from her memory once more and she carried on as normal as if nothing had ever happened.
But it wasn’t long before further events took over her mind, and her sanity was beginning to be questionable.
Beryl had gone to bed early because the evening had grown cold and her bones ached. She had taken a hot water bottle with her and wrapped her arms around it in bed, and soon she was sound asleep. But before long she was wakened from her slumber by the sound of haunting music. She lay there in the darkness listening to the mournful tune. The floorboards began to creak one by one, and she could hear the sound of doors opening and closing upstairs. Footsteps could be heard walking along the empty corridors, and the noises were amplified in the open spaces of the large and soulless house. Beryl clung onto the hot water bottle and hid under the bedclothes hoping she could blank out the sounds. Moments later the old, familiar voice spoke in a low, frail tone outside her door:
“Are we having a cup of tea?”
Beryl squealed in terror from under the bedclothes, and the noises from the top floor became louder as the voice repeated itself over and over again at her door:
“Are we having a cup of tea?” followed by shrieks of unnerving mirth which bounded along the landings and the hallway, and travelled through the large unoccupied rooms before disappearing into the distance.
Beryl’s entire body became a shaking frame of pain-racked bones. And then, as if the horror wasn’t great enough, she heard the sound of her bedroom door opening slowly. Her heart momentarily stopped, her throat muscles tightened, and her voice was non-existent as she tried to scream. Her breathing had become a series of rasps. She knew such intense fear could cause a heart attack, and so she prepared her mind for death once more as she writhed in pain and terror.
“Are we having a cup of tea?” the frail voice whispered above the bed.
“Go away!” Beryl managed to shriek back in utter desperation, too terrified to move as she gripped the bedding to stop her, or it, from pulling it away and exposing her to whatever purpose the demon had in mind.
“Are we having a cup of tea?” it cackled.
Beryl clutched the hot water bottle and slid further down the mattress, her body now in the foetus position as she sobbed in fright. But life continued to cling on forcing her to witness whatever evil was to be bestowed on her, when immediate and sudden death would have been the desired choice. Her throat muscles, having suffered paralysis, ensured that even her panic-stri
cken gibberish was unable to be uttered. Now she knew how it would feel to be suffocated – or even throttled.
“Are we having a cup of tea?” The sound was relentless.
“Are we having a cup of tea?” followed by a sound of mirth as the voice trailed away out of the bedroom door and along the creaking floorboards. Loud laughter echoed through the building – mocking and taunting. It continued for what seemed to Beryl to be for hours, but in truth it lasted only a few moments. But in Beryl’s mind her life was coming to a close, and she hoped against hope that it would be quick and so put an end to this slow tortuous punishment which she seemed doomed to have to endure.
And then the music stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The sounds from above died down and soon everything was silent. Only the emptiness of the building seemed to echo in her mind, but her fear wouldn’t abate and she remained hidden under the bedding a shivering, shaking wreck. All that could be heard was the cat mewing outside her door. But nothing could entice her out of her place of refuge at the bottom of the bed, where she remained until she finally fell into a troubled sleep.
She awoke the next morning in the same position, with the dim recollection of the night’s experiences slowly returning. She pulled herself to the surface and sat up in bed and could see the wintery sun shining in through the windows. She began to wonder if she’d perhaps had a nightmare. She dragged herself off the bed, walked over to the door, and opened it stealthily. She inspected the empty corridors and glanced down to the main hall. The sun streamed through and everything seemed to be deserted and quiet, but for the faint mewing of the cat. She concluded that she must have had a nightmare after all, as everything in the house seemed normal. She felt confident that it was safe to go downstairs.
But when the evening arrived Beryl couldn’t brave the stairs. Her bones ached more than normal, which made her question if the previous evening’s events had really happened and her aching bones were suffering from the aftermath. The fear of spending another night up there got the better of her, so she decided to keep a low fire in the grate of the range and sleep in the rocking chair. Wrapping her mother’s old blanket around her she settled down for the night, but she had difficulty sleeping so she rocked the chair slowly in an attempt to soothe her bones and dull her senses. And for a while it worked. The burning embers of the fire cast a warm, but eerie glow in the small, cold scullery where no natural light could get in; but she soon felt comfy and warm as the blanket kept the draughts firmly at bay and she began to doze lightly.
But her peace was soon to be shattered. Whilst Beryl was in a semi-conscious state, the rocking chair was turned over abruptly and she fell hard onto the cold stone floor, bringing her harshly to her senses. She could hear the piano playing in the next room, and once again she was riddled with fear as she lay rigid on the floor. But when a warped mind is filled with terror an inner strength takes control, and so she managed to drag herself up. The sound of the music increased until it began to ring in her ears. She groped around in the dark until she found a small stub of a candle which she managed to light from the fire, whilst burning her hands in the process. She held it upright until the flame strengthened, before making her way to the sitting room where the sounds were coming from. But as she reached the doorway someone blew out the candle and Beryl shrieked in alarm. The cat mewed in front of her and she kicked it out of the way; it screeched as it disappeared from the room in a blind panic.
Beryl remained in one spot whilst she waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark, her body shaking in fear. The music sounded louder and the tune was clearly recognisable as the one that Billy had played for mother. She was riddled with horror at the thought of what she was about to witness. But as the darkness became lighter to her eyes, she was pushed to the floor from behind. She began to scream in terror as she struggled to drag her panic-stricken body off the floor; but when she finally got to her feet the music suddenly stopped. But to add to her alarm, doors were flinging themselves open and slamming shut again. Windows rattled and the sound of laughter ripped through the building. But it wasn’t the normal sound of laughter it was a sinister, curdling sound which echoed hollowly throughout the house. But despite the change in tone, she instantly recognised the voice as that of her mother.
Without hesitation Beryl fumbled through the dark and headed for the front door. She slid the bolts open, turned the key in the lock and fled into the black night. Gaining unknown strength from somewhere, she ran into Gallows Lane and shrieked loudly. She headed for the old pub where a small light reflected from one of the windows, her senses to the pain of her arthritic bones numbed as the panic took control.
The barman saw a half-witted woman enter the room, her clothes in disarray and her grey, ragged hair standing on end. Her face was terror-stricken, her eyes wild and her speech garbled and senseless. An old man was standing at the corner of the bar across the room, and as he slowly sipped on his beer his faded blue eyes stared at her curiously.
The barman intuitively drew a whisky and placed it in front of her.
“Here drink that,” he said calmly.
She drank it back and felt the liquid warm the back of her throat. It didn’t take long for the effects of the drink to calm her down a little. Her hands were still shaking and the barman noticed her bent fingers, and instantly recognised the dreaded arthritis to be the culprit. The older man continued to sip at his beer as he stared at her, but he offered no solace.
“It’s my mother,” she managed to utter almost inaudibly. “She’s come back – she’s possessed the cat in order to haunt me. The cat has become a medium for her to communicate through.”
Her voice gained momentum as her demeanour became more feverish. Even in her state of fright, she was sufficiently astute to push the glass towards the barman and motion for him to refill it; which he did whilst she continued with her crazed story.
He listened intently and so did the old man from across the bar. The barman displayed a show of sympathy towards the woman, but the old man felt no compassion, his face remained expressionless and impassive.
“She’s trying to destroy me. She’s paying me back for what I did to her and she’s hell-bent on terrorising me until I drop dead. I know what she’s up to she wants to lure me to where she is.”
She drank the whisky more slowly this time before continuing.
“She’s in hell,” she hissed, her face contorting with venom. “Why can’t she leave me in peace, my time will come soon enough. My punishment is in my bones, I suffer endlessly with the pain. She’s evil and I know she won’t stop until she’s got me in her clutches. She’s the devil, for sure she is.”
She continued to babble uncontrollably, until the landlord finally lost his understanding of what she was saying. But it was clear to him that the woman had lost her mind. He ought to get in touch with the necessary authorities to take care of her, and maybe to-morrow he would do just that. In the meantime, he needed to get her back home and out of his pub. The old man seemed to be reading his mind, as he offered in a gruff voice to walk her back home.
“That’s a good idea,” he said to him with a nod, relieved that he wasn’t going to have her in his bar ranting, and drinking free whisky for the rest of the evening.
The man walked round to her and told her to follow him, which she did. He instinctively led her up Gallows Lane and to Juniper House. He entered the grounds and walked through the open door in the porch. She followed quietly but hesitantly, as she pondered on his soft footsteps down the long hallway which she knew weren’t loud enough to scare off any demons, or warn anyone of his presence. He walked across the main hall and into the sitting room, and stopped awhile as he surveyed the dilapidations which had taken control. His eyes lingered on the piano for a few moments before walking over to it. The dust and grime that clung possessively to the frame, and the keys, showed that no-one had used it for a very long time. He glanced at the mildewed music sheets and ran his fingers lightly across the keys, which
allowed a sprinkling of dust to escape into the dank atmosphere.
“This hasn’t been used for many years,” he assured her quietly. “You must be mistaken when you thought you could hear music playing. It’s plain to see that there’s been no music in this house for a very long time.”
He ventured into the scullery. The rocking chair, positioned in front of the range, was quiet and still. He pushed it lightly with his hand, but it would take much more than a gentle shove to make it rock. A blanket lay strewn upon the stone floor, and he picked it up and placed it carefully on the rocker. He wandered in and out of each room before going upstairs to each floor, inspecting all of the rooms as he went along. He noticed one door on the first floor had been blocked up, he knocked gently on it – it sounded hollow. But there was no sign of a ghost.
Once he had satisfied her that there was no presence in the house, he left her locking and bolting the door behind him. Once outside, he disturbed a cat in the garden which mewed as it disappeared behind the shrubbery. He wandered slowly back to the pub, and nothing more was mentioned about the incident.
The damage to Beryl’s mind was long and calculated. She was beginning to look over her shoulder constantly, always fearing her mother’s presence. But her mother remained silent week after each prolonged and punishing week. And her silence was beginning to affect Beryl, who was now starting to question her own sanity. She had no peace of mind, she was afraid of the dark, and her imagination was rampant. She found herself waiting for the next time.
And that time came soon enough.
As the evening beckoned, Beryl lit a candle and its soft glow cast shadows in the room which flickered in the gloominess of the night. Darkness soon took hold and the temperature began to drop throughout the empty spaces. Beryl took refuge in the small scullery where wood was still smouldering in the grate of the range. The back hall which contained the ancient pot sink was dark and chilled, and Beryl went in to ensure that the back door was bolted securely. Something prompted her to lift the candle up to the cracked mirror which was hanging on a hook above the sink, and as she looked into it she saw, to her horror, her mother’s face grinning jubilantly back at her. She dropped the candle to the floor as she screamed in terror, and hobbled through the house as fast as her old legs would allow. She headed for the front door, stumbling in the dark as she attempted to find her way down the long hallway. She unbolted and unlocked the door and escaped screaming into the blackened night. She ran down Gallows Lane and through the hamlet, carrying on until she saw signs of life from other properties. She hammered on the doors of each house as she ran from one to another. Curtains opened and eyes peered out of the windows of each property, but quickly closed again at the sight of the mad woman tearing down the street. No-one came to her aid. She saw the dim light from the old pub ahead and ran towards it. She dashed in, screaming and ranting. The barman looked at her in trepidation, concerned that his few customers may leave at the daunting sight. He quickly moved towards her and sidled her round to where the old man was standing quietly at the corner of the bar. He looked at him for support, but none was forthcoming.
