by Amy Cross
She simply continues to grin.
“Maybe we should go back upstairs,” I say finally. “I mean, we need to come up with a plan and -”
Suddenly she screams, so loud that I instinctively clamp my hands over my ears.
Chapter Six
Doctor Charles Grazier
Tuesday October 2nd, 1888
“Are you here?” I ask, standing in the doorway and looking into the bedroom. “Catherine, are you -”
Taking a deep breath, I cannot help but feel utterly foolish. Is this how far I have fallen? Am I really standing here, speaking into an empty room and listening for a response? Just a few days ago, I would have considered such action to be beneath me, to be a sign of deplorable constitutional weakness. Indeed, were I to witness another man acting like this, I would have severe doubts about his sanity. At the same time, desperation drives me to try this, so I take a step forward and keep my eyes fixed on the bed. If there is still a chance, then at least nobody can see me as I try this one final, desperate option.
“Are you here?” I ask again. “Catherine, if you are, you must let me know.”
I wait.
Silence.
“You are not in the basement room,” I continue. “I know that, Catherine. Please, do not fear that I see that monstrous creature and confuse it for you. My darling, something has gone dreadfully wrong but I have already made great advances. I feel you are closer than ever, so you must simply hold your faith in my abilities. It might take a day, or two, but a man has never been so motivated as I am now. And when I have you back with me, all this suffering will fall away.”
Again, silence.
“Catherine? I love you.”
She does not reply.
Perhaps she cannot.
I keep telling myself that when I briefly saw her last night, she was but a vision conjured up by my troubled mind. Indeed, that explanation makes perfect sense, yet I cannot help wondering whether there is a little more to the situation. I know that Catherine's spirit – or soul, or whatever else one might call it – cannot be here, separated in some manner from her body and lingering in the air like a fine mist, yet I cannot help replaying last night's vision over and over. And each time I think back to the sight of her, my belief is strengthened just a little.
What if she is aware of what is happening?
What if she is observing me even now, and bemoaning the fact that I have failed so miserably?
Indeed, in a sense I am committing the same sin that I observed in Jack earlier. I am allowing myself to consider the same superstitious nonsense. I can only console myself with the thought that I am doing this for better, more rational and scientific reasons, rather than regressing to primitive beliefs. I know that Catherine's spirit is not in this room, but I must prove this fact to myself before I go back to my books. I am a strong man and I do not fear the facing of my demons. And the tears in my eyes are due merely to overwork.
I am a strong man. I shall not falter.
“Please,” I whisper, as I turn and slowly look around the room, “show yourself. If you can hear me, Catherine, do not leave me standing lost like this. Have mercy.”
I stare at the bed for a moment longer, remembering the sight of her sobbing yesterday. She cried out to me, her voice filled with the most unimaginable anguish, and I truly cannot bear to contemplate the possibility that my dear wife is suffering in such a way. At the same time, she told me most specifically that the creature in the basement is not her, and I cannot understand how she could say such a thing unless...
Is this how it starts?
Is this how brilliant minds are brought down by primitive fears?
“I am Doctor Charles Grazier,” I whisper, “distinguished member of no less than five London societies. I am respected by my peers and regarded as one of the finest surgeons of my generation. I am...”
My voice trails off.
“I am Doctor Charles Grazier,” I stammer, trying again, but still the words fail me.
Somehow, deep down, I still have doubts.
I am about to turn and leave the room, when my gaze falls upon the mirror. It was the mirror that showed me the image of Catherine, so I make my way over and kneel down so that I can see a little better. Now I am able to make out the reflection of the empty bed, and there are tears in my eyes as I wait in case some figure might appear. My heart is beating so fast, I fear I might faint, and I cannot deny that I am searching the emptiness of the bed for any slight hint that my darling Catherine might materialize. I am torn, simultaneously believing that she will, and that she cannot, appear. In my mind's eye, I am already imagining some lurid puff of smoke that might deliver her, although I quickly remind myself that such things exist only in parlor tricks for the uneducated.
“Please,” I whisper. “Catherine, my darling, if you can show me a sign, you must do so now.”
Yet the silence continues, and mocks me.
She is so plainly, and so clearly, not here.
I have been duped. Indeed, in the course of just a few seconds I feel my body swell with anger as I realize that Jack's infantile prattle has seeped into my ears and turned my brain to mush. I allowed superstition to override my good senses, and I actually considered the possibility that Catherine's ghost might be lingering up here in the bedroom. Filled with an urgent need to express this fury, I look around the room for a moment before spotting a vase on the dresser. Catherine never liked that vase anyway, so I hurry over and seize it with my shaking hands. I examine the pattern for a moment, trying to calm myself, but in fact the opposite happens. My rage burns bright in a fiery flash, and I hesitate for only a moment before turning and throwing the cursed vase at the opposite wall.
As I do so, I let out a cry of rage that is most unlike me.
The vase shatters upon impact, yet I feel no better as the pieces fall to the floor. If anything, I feel more furious, and after a moment I realize that I can rid myself of this sensation in only one way.
“Jack,” I mutter, as I start thinking of all the different forms of punishment at my disposal. “This is his fault. Without his interference, I would have succeeded by now. Everything was perfectly alright until Jack appeared. I would be with Catherine in whatever place comes after this world.”
I hesitate for a moment, before opening the dresser draw and rooting through for something I can use as a weapon. Finding nothing, I hurry out of the room and storm downstairs, heading straight for my office. Once I am at my desk, I look through the various drawers until I find my largest letter-opener. All my good knives are down in the basement, which means I cannot get to them at present, but the letter-opener will be more than adequate. I can slice the blade into one side of Jack's throat and cut his carotid artery, and then I shall watch his miserable, weak, poor blood run from his body.
And then, all of a sudden, the rage passes.
I see the truth now.
If it was wrong of me to take on primitive superstitions, it would be equally wrong of me to succumb to primitive rage. There will come a time when I must dispose of Jack, but only after he has outlived all possible usefulness. For while he might be intellectually inferior even to a gnat, he is a large man and I might yet have need of more body parts from the streets. A farmer would not kill a horse simply because he was irritated by its stupidity, not when he still needed its strength to pull a cart. For all his faults, Jack is still a useful brute.
Looking out the window, I see that he is still meditating in the garden.
Fine.
Let him be a fool, if that is what he wants. Let him pretend that he is capable of serious thought, that he can actually help in any way other than as a beast.
For all I care, he can meditate until next I need him. After all, he is nothing more than a tool to be used as and when I see fit. In this regard, he is of no greater value than a scalpel or a saw, although I greatly look forward to the moment when he can be discarded. For a moment, all I can think about is how it will feel to cut the buffoon's throat, and ho
w I shall enjoy seeing the fear and shock in his eyes as the last life slips from his body. Indeed, I run the idea through my mind over and over, almost salivating at the prospect of killing such a disgusting brute. I might even leave his body out for the ravens, in order to add some poetry to his final moments. That, after all, is the final end he claims to see for himself.
I must work. I cannot afford to falter.
Hurrying to the desk, I sit down and get back to work. I am so exhausted, my eyes keep trying to close of their own accord, but I refuse to sleep. My hands are sweaty as I turn from page to page, and I have begun to whisper to myself under my breath. Such things matter not, however, and I must focus solely on the task at hand.
“I am Doctor Charles Grazier,” I whisper, slurring my words slightly but determined to remind myself of my strengths. “I am a distinguished member of no less than five London societies. I am respected by my peers and regarded as one of the finest surgeons of my generation. I am Doctor Charles Grazier, I am a distinguished member of no less than five London societies...”
Chapter Seven
Maddie
Today
“Relax!” she laughs, finally ending her scream and scooching off the slab. She pats my shoulder. “It was just a bit of fun. I was messing with you. Anyway, didn't your pal from next door say he could hear a scream? I was helping out.”
“It was very loud,” I point out, as she saunters over to the far end of the basement and looks at the symbols carved into the stone wall. “And it wasn't really very funny.”
“What are these?” she asks.
“I don't know. I saw them, but they don't make much sense to me.”
“They must've made sense to someone,” she continues, reaching out and running a hand across the wall. “Once, a long time ago, someone must have had a very good reason to put these here. Maybe they're meant to be some kind of message.”
“That's what I thought,” I reply, heading over to join her. “There are some more on the stairs.”
“There are?” She furrows her brow. “Huh. That's weird. I guess I just didn't notice last time.”
I pause for a moment, looking at the symbols and trying to figure out what they could mean. I suppose it's possible that they were carved by some kind of madman, but deep down I feel sure that someone sometime must have had a good reason. Maybe Doctor Charles Grazier carved the symbols, although that also feels wrong somehow. It's almost as if there's someone else, someone who was here many years ago but who was forgotten by history. I stare at the symbols for a moment longer, before turning to Alex.
“You said you came here before,” I remind her.
“Nothing happened.”
“But you were here for at least a few hours, right?”
“Yeah, well, I was kinda high,” she explains. “It wasn't until I sobered up that I realized where I was, and then I bolted as fast as I could. Believe me, I didn't want to stick around.” She pauses for a moment, before turning and looking back across the basement. “I really didn't explore very much. Not like you. I just passed out upstairs and then I woke up in the morning, and I noped right out of here. Frankly, I'm impressed that I came inside at all, even when I was out of my mind. I felt this real sense of dread about the place.”
“We should go,” I tell her.
“You're right. Let's take a look upstairs.”
“I don't mean go upstairs. I mean go, full stop. We should get out of here. I was only waiting around until you showed up anyway.”
“Let's not be hasty,” she replies.
“Hasty?” I can barely believe what I'm hearing. “You're the one who warned me about this house.”
“And do you feel it?” she asks.
“Feel what?” I reply, a little uncomfortably.
“The dread. The fear.” She hesitates. “The overwhelming sense of doom that makes most people keep well away.”
“I don't feel anything like that,” I tell her, thinking back to the things Jerry said to me earlier.
“Neither do I,” she replies. “Not anymore. Weird, huh? So given that, we might as well stick around until things have calmed down outside. I mean, in case you hadn't noticed, the city's still kind of in a state of lock-down 'cause of some maniac. If we go back out there, sooner or later we'll get picked up and taken to one of those camps. I really don't want my parents to show up and find me, and I know you're terrified of the same thing.”
“Sure, but -”
“Imagine Mummy and Daddy pointed at you, and telling the people at the shelter that you're their daughter.”
“No,” I reply, feeling a sense of panic in my chest.
“Imagine the look of pure joy on their faces.”
“Alex -”
“Imagine them thinking they've got their little girl back at last. 'Cause they would be happy, wouldn't they? There'd be loads of hugs and kisses, and promises that things would be different this time. Promises that they understand why you ran away, and that they'll fix everything, and that there'll be no more pain or fear. They might even mean it, too, but do you really think they'd be able to follow through? Do you really have that much faith in them?”
I take a deep breath, struggling to hold back tears.
“Imagine them taking you home,” she adds.
“I wouldn't let them.”
“You couldn't stop them, Maddie,” she points out. “You're still not old enough. You'd be taken home, and nothing would have changed. Well, maybe one thing. They'd know to keep an eye on you, so it'd be much harder for you to escape again. Besides, you once told me how hard it was for you to run away, how you spent months trying to summon the courage. I reckon you'd be back to square one, and you'd have to find that courage all over again. It'd be a nightmare, Maddie, and I'm honestly not sure you'd be strong enough. Is that what you want?”
“You know I don't,” I reply. “I can't let that happen.”
“Which is why we have to keep our heads down. Because frankly I'm scared for you.” She places a hand on my shoulder. “I'm worried that if you went home, you'd decide there's only one way to get out permanently.”
“I wouldn't do that!” I say firmly.
“I'm sure everyone thinks the same,” she replies. “Until something changes.”
I want to argue with her, but I guess I know she's right. Going back out onto the streets isn't an option, not while the police are so keen to gather everyone up. It'd only be a matter of time before we got picked up and processed, and the rest would probably go more or less the way Alex described. A shudder passes through my chest, and I'm starting to feel a little nauseous.
“And this place is kind of cool,” she adds, stepping past me and heading over to the center of the basement, before stopping next to the slab and turning to look around. “It's old, and I like old places. Old places have history, and history has soul. I like soul.”
“But -”
“You worry too much,” she continues, interrupting me. “I've told you that, like, a million times. You're always assuming the worst, Maddie, and sooner or later you're going to have to lighten up a little. In fact, right now I think would be a really good chance for you to -”
Suddenly she turns and looks over her shoulder, toward the door that leads back up to the main part of the house.
“What is it?” I ask, feeling a flicker of fear in my chest. I wait for her to answer, but she's still just staring at the door. “Alex? What's wrong?”
“Did you hear that?” she replies, still not looking at me.
“Hear what?”
She mutters something else under her breath, before heading over to the door and bounding up the stairs. I wait for her to come back and tell me she's joking, or that it's just the house settling or something like that, but then I realize I can hear her heading up the main staircase too, going all the way up to the top floor of the house.
“Hey!” I call out. “Alex! Where are you going? What did you hear?”
When she still doesn't answer,
I have no choice but to set off after her.
Chapter Eight
Doctor Charles Grazier
Tuesday October 2nd, 1888
“Have you ever thought what it would be like if there were three of you?”
Blinking, I turn and see that Catherine is standing at the shore. The water is glittering brightly in the late-afternoon sun, turning my wife into merely a dark silhouette. From the general shape of her, however, I can just about tell that she seems to be staring this way. The whole scene seems so beautiful and peaceful, yet at the same time exceedingly familiar. We must have been here before.
“Have I ever thought what?” I ask, playing for time. In truth, I heard the question perfectly, but I always worry when Catherine gets into one of her philosophical moods. It is always so difficult for me to keep up.
“Never mind,” she says, taking a step toward me. “I do not wish to trouble you.”
It is only now that I realize her dress has become almost entirely transparent. The sun-kissed sea is shining through the fabric, leaving only the silhouette of her body. The whole thing strikes me as almost obscene, and I quickly turn and look around. There is no sign of anybody else on this long, remote stretch of beach, but still I worry that Catherine might be spotted by a stranger. After all, with the dress revealing the shape of her naked body, it would be quite improper for any other man to pass this way.
“What are you thinking, Charles?”
I turn back to her. I cannot shake a sense of concern, as if deep down I feel that I should not be here.
“It is getting late,” I point out, “and a little chilly. We should perhaps retire to the...”
To where?
Are we staying at a hotel? We must be, but I don't quite recall. Indeed, I am not even sure that I remember how we ended up here at the beach today. My mind is usually so clear, yet at this moment my thoughts are filled with a kind of fog. I must backtrack and determine my actions today, yet even this seems impossible. It is almost as if I barely remember who I am.
