by Amy Cross
Copyright 2017 Amy Cross
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition
First published: October 2017
Fresh from the convent, Beryl Seaton accepts a position as governess for the Brooks family. When she arrives at the family's remote house, however, she discovers that a terrible secret is waiting for her in the nursery.
From the author of Asylum and The Farm, Stephen is a horror novel about a young woman who finds herself torn between two worlds. Desperate to help her employers in their hour of need, she nevertheless struggles to look after their son.
What happened to Stephen, to leave him the way he is? What happened to the previous governess at Grangehurst? And what causes the sobbing sound that seem to drift through an empty room?
By the time she uncovers the awful truth about the family, and about little Stephen, it might be too late for Beryl to ever leave.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Stephen
Prologue
Over the past forty years, I have thought not once of Grangehurst. Not of the house, or of its inhabitants, or of what happened to me within those stone walls. Through great effort and diligent will, I have put all such thoughts from my mind, and I have not even -
No.
No, that is not true.
I have thought of Grangehurst every day. Every hour, even. And I have thought just as often of the people I left behind when I fled that great house. In every idle moment, in every daydream, I have allowed memories to flood back into my mind. Doctor Elliot Brooks and his wife Severine, and especially Stephen, have lived on as ghosts in my thoughts. I have never spoken a word of these memories to anyone, I have pretended to be getting on with my life, but in truth Grangehurst has become a part of me. I could not forget what happened, not even if the Lord Himself commanded me.
Yet it has taken all those forty years for me to reach this point, tonight, where I am ready to set down my account of what happened. The paper is ready, the pen is ready. My hand, thought trembling in anticipation, is ready to commit these words so that finally others might learn the truth.
I must be strong now.
I must permit myself no lie, no omission.
I must simply set down the narrative as it happened, with no embellishments or flourishes. It is late now, but by the time the sun comes up I must be finished.
Of course, as I sit here now I am a wise and composed woman in her seventh decade of life. I have had the benefit of many years, and those years have allowed me to see my experiences for what they truly were. I anticipate that it will be difficult to write about my younger self, about that twenty-year-old version of me that set out for Grangehurst and who experienced its horrors. Thinking of that girl now, it is like thinking of someone else entirely. Back then I was weak and naive and foolish, so much so that I shudder now to even accept that she was I and that I am still, in some small way, she.
It will be so difficult to write these words, but write them I must. This will not be an easy tale to tell, nor is it suited to those with weak dispositions or to those who cannot stomach the more awful aspects of life. For to know the truth about about what happened at Grangehurst, and about poor little Stephen, you have to know the whole story with nothing left out. With no horror spared. I shall not over-dramatize events, but nor shall I underplay them. I shall relate them truthfully.
And for that, I am so very sorry. Read on at your own peril, and do not blame me for how you feel by the end.
Chapter One
It was on January the 1st, all the way back in the year 1899, that I first encountered the magisterial Doctor Elliot Brooks. I had read his advertisement several times, of course, in an effort to better understand what type of person he required for the governess position, but I did not meet the man until I stepped into the office of his solicitor on that cold new year's morning.
He was precisely the wrong type of man for me to meet, seeing as I was a young girl fresh out of the convent at St. Winifred's. Every gentleman I have ever met until that point had been devoted to the Lord, and most had been stooped and aged. Doctor Brooks, meanwhile, was undeniably handsome in a rough, angry sort of way, with the blackest hair and eyes of ice blue. He was a gentleman who wore his troubles on his brow, and who spoke only when absolutely necessary, and at first he simply sat and watched me as his solicitor welcomed me into the room. As for his gaze, I would say still today that Doctor Brooks had a very peculiar stare. When he looked at me, I felt as if he could hear every thought in my head, and that he disapproved terribly.
If I could go back now and stop myself, and turn myself away from that room, I would do so. I cannot, of course, so the tragedy is set in stone. It is the tragedy of a terribly foolish young girl who walked willingly into the jaws of a nightmare.
***
It was quite clear from the very start that Doctor Elliot Brooks found me deeply unimpressive, and who could blame him? I was unimpressive.
Indeed, as we sat in the office of his London solicitor, I could not help but notice that the ticking grandfather clock by the window seemed to speak more than any of us there present. And so far, every time I attempted to provide an answer for one of Doctor Brooks' questions, I only made things worse. Even now, after all these years, I recall that first conversation almost word for word.
“The convent prepared me for the world,” I said in response to his latest question, “by equipping me with the necessary skills to navigate modern society. Mother Superior was quite certain that I should be alright. Indeed, it was she herself who arranged for me to come to London in search of work. She suggested that it might be rather good for me.”
I waited for Doctor Brooks to say something, yet by this point he was merely staring at the window as if he found the passing traffic far more interesting.
The grandfather clock, meanwhile, ticked on remorselessly.
A moment later, hearing a cough from the desk, I turned to see that Mr. Smire, the afore-mentioned solicitor, was watching me with an expression of sympathetic unease.
“Perhaps you could tell us,” the solicitor said duly, “why it is that you chose to leave the confines of the convent at St. Winifred's. It seems to me that one might be quite comfortable there, for the entirety of one's days.”
“It was Mother Superior's idea,” I replied. “I was happy to
stay, but she insisted that I leave. I was at the point where I was beginning to think of joining the order, but Mother Superior felt that I could do more good in the world at large. She said that the Lord intended me for this purpose and, well, I didn't think it was my place to argue with Mother Superior.”
I paused for a moment, waiting for somebody to say something.
“So here I am,” I added finally. “In the world.”
“Yes you are,” Mr. Smire replied with a sympathetic smile. “Yes you are.”
Again I waited, and again Doctor Brooks merely stared at the window. In all honesty, I saw nothing in his countenance to suggest that he was even listening.
Turning to Mr. Smire, I saw that he too was waiting for Doctor Brooks to speak. After a few more seconds, however, the solicitor turned once more to me.
“And have you looked after a child before?” he asked, evidently wanting to move the interview forward. “At the convent, perhaps?”
“I have not.”
“Hmm.” He paused. “But you have cared for others, have you not? In other capacities?”
“Oh yes!” I said keenly. “Indeed, Mother Superior once remarked that I am especially good at -”
“It is a shame,” Doctor Brooks said suddenly, interrupting me as he got to his feet, “that this Mother Superior did not arrange for you to attend more suitable interviews. Ones for roles that are more suited to your capabilities.” Taking his cane, which had been resting against the side of his chair, he stepped past me and approached the desk of the solicitor, to whom he addressed the following comments as if I were quite absent from the room: “When I came to London, Mr. Smire, I did not expect to have my time wasted in this manner. Not one of these girls has seemed remotely capable.”
“I am truly sorry to hear that you feel that way,” Mr. Smire replied, “but -”
“Take this creature, for example,” Doctor Brooks added, pointing at me with his cane yet not turning to look at me himself. “Did you honestly think that I would want to employ a nun?”
“I believe she is not actually a nun,” Mr. Smire said, turning to me. “You were merely raised by the sisters, is that right?”
I nodded, not daring to speak.
All I wanted to do was leave, but I had not been given permission.
“Look at her!” Doctor Brooks continued. “There's barely anything to her at all! She looks like she could barely lift a plate without collapsing of exhaustion. You told me she was possessed of a quiet temperament, but I have encountered corpses that present more vitality about their persons. Do you seriously expect me to hire such a specimen and move her to Grangehurst, at my expense? What has got into you, man? I thought the previous girl must surely be the worst on offer, but this specimen is somehow even less suitable. And for another thing, I stated quite clearly that I would see nobody below the age of nineteen, yet she is clearly younger than that.”
“I believe the young lady is twenty years of age,” Mr. Smire replied, before turning to me. “You are, aren't you?”
I nodded.
“Well she doesn't look it!” Doctor Brooks said dourly.
“Perhaps that is a quality to be admired,” Mr. Smire suggested, although he sounded unconvinced himself. “Youthfulness begets youthfulness, as they say.”
Looking down at my hands, I felt myself blushing, and I wished only to be told that I might leave the room.
“This is a lamentable turn of events,” Doctor Brooks said with a sigh. “What am I supposed to tell Severine when I get home? I promised her that I would return with help. She will be waiting desperately for me to arrive with somebody who can relieve her burden, and instead I shall have to tell her that in all of London I was not presented with one person, not one suitable creature who could come and assist at this difficult time.” He sighed. “I don't even blame these pitiful creatures who have applied for the position, Mr. Smire. I blame you for failing to adequately advertise my requirements.”
“Perhaps we should talk in private,” Mr. Smire said, clearly embarrassed as he got to his feet. Shuffling around the desk, he came over to me, and as I stood I must admit that I shared his embarrassment. “I am so sorry,” he continued, ushering me toward the door at the far end of the room. “I am afraid that Doctor Brooks will be unable to offer you the position at this time, but I'm quite sure you'll find another very soon. You seem very pleasant, very pleasant indeed.” He opened the door and waited as I stepped out into the hallway. “Thank you, Ms. Seaton, for coming today. Please have a safe journey home.”
“Thank you,” I replied, but the door was already closing. At that moment, I caught a brief glimpse of Doctor Brooks with his back to me, and I had no reason to believe that I would ever see the man again.
With that, the door bumped shut.
For a few minutes, I stood in the hallway and listened to muffled voices coming from the office. As pathetic as it might sound, I was not entirely sure whether I had been given permission to leave entirely, or simply to wait outside the room. I could hear Doctor Brooks shouting in the office, and I must confess that there was a part of me at that moment that wondered whether I had perhaps been fortunate not to obtain the position. After all, it seemed to me that Doctor Brooks possessed something of a bad temper, and that there might be positions where I would be better able to help those in need. Finally, after five minutes or so, I concluded tentatively that I was indeed supposed to leave the building, so that is what I resolved to do.
And then, as I began to make my way toward the front door, I hear the most tremendous crashing sound coming from the street outside, accompanied almost immediately by great cries of horror.
I froze for a moment, horrified by the cacophony, and then in short order I heard shouts for a doctor.
Startled, I hurried forward and opened the door, and then I hurried out to the top of the steps, where I stopped and saw the most terrible scene still unfolding. A horse, evidently upset by some fright, had bolted with its carriage still attached. The animal was almost back under control already, with several men trying to calm its fears, but it had pulled the carriage at speed along the street and several people had been knocked off their feet. Making my way down the steps, I saw that most of the victims were already being helped to their feet, but then I spied one man still on the ground with several people already attending to his pain. He was crying out, and after a moment I spotted blood all over his left side.
I must confess that at this juncture some instinct kicked in, and I rushed out through the gathering crowd and forced my way through until I reached the injured man. There were still calls for a doctor, although evidently nobody had come forward, and I watched in horror as several bystanders tried to lift the injured man. The victim's left side had been utterly smashed, leaving a crown of broken bones protruding in a circular pattern around his waist and navel. The sight was truly shocking, and was made more so by the continued attempts to lift him up. The poor man was crying out, yet still those attending to him seemed to think it requisite to move him.
“Wait!” I called out, stepping forward and gesturing for them to lower the man. “Lower him so that I can look at the injury. You might make it worse if you raise him. And send someone to Charleton Street. I believe there is a doctor's office about halfway along.”
I had seen the office earlier, on my way to my appointment.
The poor victim cried out yet again as I began to examine his injuries. Blood was pouring from his wounds, and it was evident that most of the bones in his left side had been shattered. I saw at once that blood loss alone had the potential to kill the poor fellow, and I was not sure where to start helping. After a moment, however, I saw that his left leg had been snapped just above the knee, and I supposed that this at least would have to be fixed. I had seen the same procedure carried out on others, and I knew that – since time was at a premium – I would now have to take charge.
“This will hurt,” I told the man, although I do not know that he heard me.
Reaching down, I took hold of the broken leg in two places. Blood was gushing over my hands now, and I hesitated for just a fraction of a second before forcing the bone back into place. This of course caused the man to scream more loudly than ever, and his jerking leg pushed me in the chest and sent me falling back. Several men tried to comfort him, but I leaned closer and saw that although there was still plenty of blood coming from the wound, at least it had been somewhat closed and he would have more time.
Next, I resolved to stem the flow of blood from the man's chest. Part of his breastbone had collapsed inward and was blocking his airway, and I intended to force the bone out of the way and then use my shawl as a makeshift tourniquet. To that end, I shuffled around the man and reached toward his chest.
“I'll make it so that you can breath,” I told him as he spluttered and gasped for air. “This will hurt, but it's necessary.”
“A doctor is here!” a voice called out suddenly. “Make way for the doctor!”
I began to turn, but suddenly I was shoved out of the way as a well-dressed gentleman dropped to his knees and began to attend to the victim.
“His breastbone is shattered,” I explained, “and -”
“Clear the area!” the doctor shouted. “I shall examine the wretch!”
“His breastbone,” I continued, “is -”
“Get these people away from me!” the doctor said firmly. “Shoo! Get away!”
I stood obediently and took a few steps back. After all, the doctor was in charge now and he had told me in no uncertain terms to move away. Still, he was making no move to clear the victim's airway, and was instead examining his right arm while the poor soul tried desperately to breathe. I thought for a moment to say something, to point out the urgency of the airway, but at that moment it seemed to me that I had no right to challenge a doctor. So it was that I sank meekly back into the crowd, allowing others to take over even as I still heard the poor man choking on the ground. Now I would take charge, of course, but back then I was far too timid.
