Stephen

by Amy Cross

  I would have washed a normal child before bed, so I resolved to wash Stephen.

  Carrying him carefully and silently through to the adjoining bathroom, I took him to the counter and set him down next to the sink. I remember thinking that I should have left him in the crib first, and then taken him to the bathroom only once the water was ready, but I also felt that there was no need to go to quite such extreme measures. I settled him on the side before starting to fill the sink, and I heard a crinkling, scratching sound coming from within his body as I settled him in place. Ignoring that as best I could, I turned and began to fill the sink.

  A few splashes touched his cheek, but of course he did not react in any way whatsoever. I still apologized for each of the splashes, however, as if Stephen were a real boy.

  Or rather, a live boy.

  He was always real.

  Once the sink was full, I began the task of removing Stephen's clothes. At first the task was easy, but eventually I found that the undermost layer was partially stuck to his skin. I had to peel the fabric away, and I felt a shudder of nausea as I saw that patches of the child's body had begun to ooze into the material. I worked extremely carefully and slowly, and finally I managed to strip him down.

  “There,” I said finally. “Are you ready?”

  Reaching over, I dipped my right hand into the water.

  “Just perfect,” I continued, although I understood after a moment that by speaking to him in this manner I was merely seeking to delay the inevitable.

  I hesitated for a moment, before reaching under his cold little body and lifting him up. When I say that he was cold, that is something of an understatement. He was icy. Still, I moved him over to the sink and then I very carefully and very gently lowered him into the lukewarm water, while making sure to keep his head clear. As I did so, my mind was filled with the sound of a baby crying, since I felt certain that any real baby would cry. I imagined his little arms and legs wriggling, but in truth I lowered him so slowly that the surface of the water barely rippled at all.

  And the silence of the room was starting to feel rather oppressive, to the extent that I felt I had to continue speaking. Anything was better than that silence.

  “Well, that's pleasant,” I said out loud, as I gently tilted his chest so that the water reached his neck. “It's nice to get clean right before one's bedtime. That way one can sleep soundly. I know that I like to wash at the end of a long day. In a way, Stephen, we're very -”

  Suddenly a gulp caught my throat, and I felt a rush of tears behind my eyes. It was as if, having held everything back, I was on the verge of breaking down. I hesitated for a moment, forcing myself to get my senses back under control, and finally I felt ready to continue.

  “So pretty,” I whispered, with tears in my eyes. “What a nice little boy.”

  The water made a very slight sound as I splashed the child's body, but as the minutes passed I began to feel more and more certain that I was doing something wrong. I have mentioned that I was naive back then, but I still like to believe that some deep, hidden part of my instinct kicked in, trying desperately and in vain to warn me that what I was doing was wrong. Indeed, handling Stephen on that first evening felt very unnatural, but I allowed my mind to take control and I forced myself to think back to everything Doctor Brooks had told me. I might have been aware of my concerns, you see, but I ignored them as I gently dipped the back of Stephen's head into the water, and as I then took a flannel and wiped his face.

  Again, a keen reader of ghost tales might imagine that as I washed the child's face, his eyes were compelled to turn to me. This did not happen. I suppose that he was long enough dead by that point that his features had become rather firm. The only sound, still, was caused by drops of water that fell into the sink. I felt compelled to speak again, but this time I could not quite bring myself to say a word. I felt that if I did speak, I might break down into streams of tears. Better, I supposed, to work calmly and carefully and to get the task done as quickly as possible.

  And then I saw that a very faint grayish tinge had begun to spread through the water. From somewhere, Stephen was leaking.

  “He likes you.”

  Gasping, I let go of Stephen as I turn and saw Mrs. Brooks standing smiling in the doorway.

  I quickly turned back to the child and saw that his head had slipped beneath the surface. Reaching down, I lifted him half out of the sink and quickly dabbed at his face with the flannel. My heart was racing, and I remember feeling as if I was about to faint with shock.

  “I can tell,” Mrs. Brooks continued calmly, as if she had noticed nothing untoward. “It's funny how one can sense these things, is it not? Perhaps it is something to do with the bond between a mother and her child, but I am absolutely certain that he has taken to you.”

  “I wouldn't claim to know,” I replied, as I set Stephen down on the side. My hands were trembling with fear, and I was desperately trying to work out what I should do next.

  Glancing back at the water, I saw curls of gray clouds drifting through the stillness.

  “Don't worry if he grumbles a little,” Mrs. Brooks continued, stepping into the room and coming over to join us. “He can be like that sometimes, especially in the evenings. I've given up trying to work out exactly what causes his funny moods, but I suppose all babies are the same. And Stephen is like other babies, I know that. All mothers want to think their little snowflakes are individuals, but there are certain commonalities that one cannot ignore.”

  “I'm sure,” I said again, still feeling flustered.

  “Well, he's my first child,” she added, “and I don't think I shall have any more after him. I do not exactly speak as an expert.”

  I tried again to smile.

  “Wrap him gently in a fresh set of blankets,” she added. “I don't like to reuse dirty clothes on him. The ones from today can be placed in the laundry, and I'd be ever so grateful if you could find a chance to wash them at some point. But not now, because after Stephen has been settled you must join Elliot and I for dinner. Believe it or not, Ms. Seaton, I can actually cook!”

  “Of course,” I murmured, fighting the urge to turn and flee the room. “You must merely tell me, and I shall do whatever you ask, and -”

  Just then, I felt a very sudden and unexpected bout of nausea. I retched slightly, although I quickly put a hand to my mouth and turned so that Mrs. Brooks would not be able to see me. Now I can look back and see this reaction as being perfectly normal, but at the time I thought myself terribly weak. Indeed, I retched a couple more times before I managed to get myself under control, and even then I felt utterly horrified by the sight of poor dead little Stephen.

  And then, when I glanced once more at the water, I saw that the dirty swirl had dissipated, leaving the entire bowl with a faint tinge of gray.

  Chapter Eight

  “Stephen was particularly rambunctious today,” Mrs. Brooks explained with evident delight, as we all sat at the dining table. “Why, Elliot, I do hope his cries of happiness did not disturb your work.”

  “They did not,” her husband replied, sipping from his soup spoon.

  “Are you sure?” she asked with a grin. “You can be honest, Elliot. If Stephen's cries were a distraction, I could try to -”

  “They were not,” he said darkly.

  “But if -”

  “Enough of the matter.” He glared at her for a moment with unmistakable displeasure. “I would prefer not to have to tell you the same thing three times in succession.”

  “It can be difficult out here at times,” she continued, turning to me. “We are quite alone, which is a blessing but also sometimes a burden. I have so many duties to perform in the house. I have to clean and cook, and of course I must look after Stephen. I rather think that Elliot was right to bring someone in from the outside to help. I was a little resistant at first, but Ms. Seaton I believe we are going to get along handsomely.”

  “Please,” I replied, “call me Beryl.”


  “And you must call me Severine!”

  “I do not think that is wise,” Doctor Brooks murmured, glancing at her. “It is not usual for the help to be on such close terms with their employers.” Next he glanced at me. “You will understand, I'm sure. My wife was merely getting a little carried away. Doctor and Mrs. Brooks will be perfectly acceptable names for you to use when you address us.”

  “I suppose my husband is right as usual,” Mrs. Brooks said a little wistfully, although she quickly brightened up. “You come to us from a convent, Ms. Seaton, do you not? That must be a very peculiar way of life, one that's rather different to what the rest of us are used to. Tell me, are you finding it difficult to be out in the world now?”

  “I doubt that Ms. Seaton wants to talk about her experiences,” Doctor Brooks told her.

  “Have you asked her?” his wife replied.

  “There is no need.”

  “She might be perfectly willing!”

  “There is no -”

  “I shall ask her,” she added, before turning to me again. “How are you finding your life outside the restive confines of the convent?”

  “I'm sure she does not want to be quizzed,” Doctor Brooks grumbled. “But if she does, then so be it.”

  “It's quite alright,” I replied meekly, barely daring to meet either of their gazes, but trying nonetheless as I turned to Mrs. Brooks. “Yes, I was raised in the convent after the death of my parents. Until last year, I worked as an assistant to Mother Superior. She would direct me about my tasks each day, and I would support the sisters in whatever they were doing. Sometimes gardening, sometimes community work, sometimes helping needful souls who came to our door. Truly, I expected to remain at the convent for my entire life, but eventually it was decided that I should leave and support myself.”

  “They wanted rid of you?” Doctor Brooks asked.

  “I do not think it was quite like that,” I replied. “I think it was more that Mother Superior wanted me to experience the world.”

  “How quaint,” Mrs. Brooks purred, raising her right hand to her mouth and briefly letting her little finger brush against her lips. She seemed momentarily lost in thought, and she was eyeing me in a most unusual manner, as if she was studying me and attempting to solve some form of puzzle. “It must be strange to be out and about,” she added finally. “There must be so many things that the rest of us take for granted, but which seem utterly strange to somebody who has led such a sheltered life.”

  “I was extremely lucky to spend so much time at the convent,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I learned a great deal.”

  At this, Mrs. Brooks let out a faint mumble of what seemed – at the time – to be some form of pleasure.

  “Your duties in the evenings are quite specific,” Doctor Brooks said suddenly, and as I turned to him I quickly realized that he meant to change the subject. “Ms. Seaton, you are to take some of the burden from my wife's shoulders. You must clean the kitchen and ensure that the household is ready to retire. My wife and I have different needs, we shall inform you of those later. And then you must be up early in the morning, so as to be ready for us when we awaken.”

  I nodded.

  “And the child...” He hesitated, as if he hated whatever he had to say next. “The child must be taken up from his bed at around seven o'clock. As for his morning ablutions, he is to be treated as if he is any other child.”

  “Of course he is,” his wife added, and I turned to her. “Just like any other,” she added, although I thought for one moment that I perhaps saw a hint of tears in her eyes. “He is,” she added. “Really.”

  “You are an intelligent young woman, I hope,” Doctor Brooks continued, scraping his cutlery against his plate as he began once again to finish the dregs. “I hope that we shall not have to give you precise directions at every turn, Ms. Seaton. When you are given a job, you will have to use common sense. This should not be beyond you.”

  “Of course not!” I told him, before turning to his wife. “Of course not. I hope I shall quickly be as efficient and helpful as the last governess.”

  “The last -”

  She frozen mid-sentence, suddenly staring at me with an expression of concern. Indeed, looking back now, I think I was seeing the first flicker of madness, even if I did not recognize it as such at the time.

  “The last governess is gone now,” her husband interjected, with a tone in his voice that made it quite clear we should speak no more of the matter. “We have a new governess now, somebody who will look after Stephen properly.” He cast a glance at me, and I felt as if he was trying to warn me with his stare. “We have a governess now who cares a great deal about Stephen, and who will do all in her powers to look after him. All will be good.”

  “That's not what the last governess did,” Mrs. Brooks replied.

  “I can assure you,” I said, hoping to defuse the situation somewhat, “that I will care for your son absolutely in every possible regard.” In that moment, as I attempted to reassure them, I believe I somehow forgot that Stephen was not a real child. Or rather, that he was no longer a live one. “I will do what is asked of me,” I continued, although now I was noticing that Mrs. Brooks seemed to be mumbling to herself with her head bowed. “You may count on me.”

  I could not have known what was about to happen.

  “That is all we ask,” Doctor Brooks told me.

  “That's not what the last governess did,” his wife said quietly, and now she had placed her hands on the table with her wrists facing toward the ceiling.

  “The last governess is -”

  “That's not what the last governess did,” she said again. “That's not what the last governess did.”

  “Severine,” her husband replied, keeping his voice low, “remember yourself.”

  I stayed perfectly still and quiet, watching Mrs. Brooks as she sat staring at her own wrists. It was at that moment, in the quiet of the cold dining room, that I first noticed the ridged scars that criss-crossed the woman's skin, running in patterns all the way down from her elbow and onto the palms of her hands. I had worked with the wounded before, during my time at the convent, and I was quickly able to determine that the scars seemed to be very new, just a few weeks old at most. And although I did not want to consider the possibility, I did wonder whether they might have been self-inflicted.

  At that moment, I felt that I should leave the table and the room, but I was too meek to rise from my chair. I sat hoping that I would be sent away, but the silence continued for fully a few minutes before Doctor Brooks began once again to eat. It was as if, merely by staring at his wife, he had pressed her into submission.

  “Your food,” he murmured, gesturing vaguely in my direction with his cutlery. “Don't let it get cold.”

  “No!” I blurted out, picking up my spoon. Like an obedient little school-child, like some meek thing with no will of its own, I did as I was told and ate, although I could not help glancing at Mrs. Brooks and noting that she was still staring at her own wrists. She, it seemed, had lost her appetite for soup.

  And then, after several more minutes had passed, with the only sound coming from two spoons scraping two bowls, I began to think that I really should excuse myself from the table. I worried that I was intruding, that Doctor and Mrs. Brooks would like some time alone. Still, I could not quite work out how to phrase my request without seeming rude, so I simply continued to drink my soup until the bowl was empty, and then I sat staring down at my spoon as I waited to be released.

  “That's not what the last governess did,” Mrs. Brooks said suddenly, and this time I looked over at her just as she in turn looked at me.

  I waited, but she simply stared at me, and the low light of that underlit room cast great pooled shadows beneath her eyes. As the candles flickered slightly, the shadows themselves trembled, serving to mark the unyielding gaze of the woman's stare. It was as if her features themselves were changing constantly in accordance with the light's yield, and the result was t
hat she gained the most unnatural countenance.

  I moved to ask again whether everything was alright, but instead I simply looked back down at my bowl. My throat was dry from nerves.

  “That's not what the last governess did,” Mrs. Brooks said again.

  I froze, still staring down at my bowl.

  “Ms. Seaton,” Doctor Brooks said after a moment, “perhaps you would like to take your meal to your room and -”

  “Of course!” I gasped, immediately getting to my feet, feeling a sense of utter relief as I picked up my bowl. I did not even think about the fact that I had finished eating. All that mattered at that moment was getting out of the room.

  “And after you are done,” he continued, “go to -”

  “That's not what the last governess did,” Mrs. Brooks said suddenly, and now her voice was trembling as if some great rage was boiling beneath her calm exterior. “That's not what the last governess did.”

  “After you have eaten,” Doctor Brooks continued, plainly trying to ignore his wife, “go to the nursery and check that Stephen is still comfortable for the night.

  “That's not what the last governess did.”

  “Now!” he barked.

  “Of course,” I said, turning and carrying my bowl around the table, heading toward the door at the far end of the dining room. In truth, I felt so utterly relieved at the prospect of leaving that strange atmosphere, I almost ran as I got to the door.

  “That's not what the last governess did!” Mrs. Brooks screamed suddenly, and I heard the most almighty crashing sound.

  Stopping in the doorway, I saw that Mrs. Brooks was running toward me, but her husband quickly reached out from behind and pulled her back, wrapping his arms around her to keep her in place.

  I recoiled until I bumped against the wall.

  “That's not what the last governess did!” Mrs. Brooks shouted, trying desperately to get to me once more, like some wild animal caught in a trap. “That's not what the last governess did! That's not what the last governess did! That's not what the last governess did!”