by Amy Cross
Getting to my feet, I hurried across the room and pulled the door open. I leaned out into the corridor, to check that nobody had been close enough to hear the commotion. I was still short of breath, and exceedingly flustered, as I shut the door again and made my way to the dresser. I lifted my small silver crucifix from the hook and held it in my hands for a moment, trying to regain some sense of composure, but it took several minutes before I truly felt as if I was myself again. At which point I ran my hands down my dress, trying to smooth out the creases, and then I went over to the mirror and began to fix my hair.
When I caught sight of my eyes in the reflection, I instantly felt a wave of embarrassment, as if I had somehow allowed myself to become raw. I quickly took some pins and began to re-tighten the bun in my hair. I could feel some form of moistness in my under garments, but I did not take time to change my clothes. The moistness, I reasoned, would dry soon enough.
Chapter Thirteen
The astute reader of this tale will have been waiting for ghosts, I am sure. Well, despite my skepticism on the matter, I did promise to relate every part of this tale, so I cannot leave out what happened to me in the laundry room that afternoon.
It is difficult to write of ghosts without seeming utterly foolish. One only has to mention the rattling of chains, or the banging of doors in the night, and one will elicit one of two possible reactions. Either one will find that others huddle around and tell their own ghost stories, or one will find oneself being laughed at and mocked. In truth, I suppose that most ghost stories are complete tosh, told for the amusement of those who wish to gain a little notoriety.
But what happened in that laundry room was real. I am sure of it. I leave it for others to explain.
***
Following my unsettling experience during prayer, and with a few hours before I was supposed to go and play with Stephen again, I decided to do some laundry. All my life, I have found the unfolding and folding of sheets to be a uniquely calming experience. Indeed, at the convent Mother Superior would often send me down to work alone in the laundry for days at a time. Any time I felt unsettled, a spell in a laundry would always make me so much better. It is natural, then, that it was to Grangehurst's laundry that I retreated on the cold day when I sought a little more normalcy.
For the first hour or so, I worked quickly and quietly, and I began to quite forget myself. Working all on my own, in a large and quiet room where I was not disturbed by Doctor Brooks or his wife, I was able to lose my worries in a moment of pure happiness. Just as I always enjoyed doing laundry for the sisters at the convent, I also enjoyed washing and hanging shirts for Doctor and Mrs. Brooks. I was left absolutely alone, and I suppose one might even say that I entered a kind of trance. Oh laundry, how I love thee.
And then I heard the sobbing.
Even now, I hesitate to write those words. I can still hear the sobs, four decades later, echoing from that awful lunchtime. The sound came gradually, so that at first I barely noticed anything at all. I recall that I was hanging one of Mr. Brooks' shirts on a line when I realized that I could hear something, but at that point it was nothing more than a very faint whisper. I told myself that nothing was amiss, and I got on for several minutes with the task of washing another shirt. It was only a short time later that I once more stopped what I was doing and listened, and realized at last that I could hear somebody sobbing nearby.
I remember looking around and seeing no-one.
The laundry room was quite empty, except for the tables and the baskets of clothes. The only movement came from beyond the window, where trees could be seen swaying in a faint breeze.
Still, the sobbing sound seemed to be becoming clearer and more distinct, so I stood in silence and listened. I was waiting for the sound to fade, but in truth it became strong still. Sure enough, I became more and more certain that somebody was weeping, and I finally fell under the impression that this person was a woman. At first I told myself that it was not my place to interfere, that it must be Mrs. Brooks who was upset. Actually, if I am honest, I believe that I was not keen to encounter her again so soon after our trip to Bumpsford, and it crossed my mind that perhaps I should sneak away and pretend that I simply had not heard anything at all. In truth, that might have been the best idea, but unfortunately my pious nature quickly overrode my instincts.
“When you can help a suffering soul,” Mother Superior once told me, “it is a sin to do anything else.”
Setting down the shirt I was washing, I made my way cautiously toward the door, hoping to find the sobbing woman and offer her some comfort.
I expected to find her in the next room, from where the sound seemed to be coming, but when I stopped in the doorway I saw that there was nobody around. I could still hear the sobbing, however, so I took a few steps forward, convinced that Mrs. Brooks must be hiding somewhere just out of sight. I felt absolutely certain that I was in the right room, that the woman must be just a few feet from me, yet as I looked all around I saw nothing but the stone walls and a few more rickety tables that had been left out. Finally I looked into the far corner, and I realized that the sobbing seemed to be coming from that empty spot. It was as if an invisible woman was there in front of me, and I could only hear her.
“Hello?” I called out unconvincingly, taking a step forward but then stopping again. “Mrs. Brooks?”
The corner remained empty, but the sobs continued.
If it seems unlikely that I would have gone to seek the woman out, consider this: I still believed, from my days at the convent, that I had a duty to help any soul that might be in distress. I had already seen Mrs. Brooks suffer some form of breakdown, and I truly wanted to offer my help. In addition, I believed that I might be able to bring her some enlightenment, and that I might even persuade her to seek guidance from the Lord. I also believed that perhaps she had been sent to me as a test, so that I might prove myself. Yes, I had rather a high opinion of my ability to help. So that is why I began to step toward the corner, toward the sobbing sound, and it is also why I finally knelt before the corner and stared at the emptiness.
The sobs seemed to be coming from a spot directly in front of me.
“Hello?” I said again, before slowly reaching out a hand, as if I half-expected to feel what I could not see. “Are you there? It is me, I...”
My voice trailed off, and for a moment I merely listened to the sound of the sobs. It was as if a woman was crying right in front of me, just inches from my own face, yet all I saw were the slate-gray bricks of the corner.
Finally I reached my hand out further, until my fingers touched the wall and I felt not only the cold but also the drops of moisture, as if I was reaching straight through somebody I could not see, and then -
And then the sobbing stopped.
Suddenly.
Abruptly.
And with a faint but audible gasp.
I held my breath, waiting.
Slowly, so slowly that at first I barely noticed, I began to hear another sound instead. I tilted my head slightly, to try to work out what was happening, and then I realized that the sobbing had now become a very low, anguished weeping sound as if somebody was absolutely terrified. As if, by coming to the corner, I had made everything worse.
I listened, too horrified to turn away, desperately trying to think of something else that could be causing the sound. Just as I was starting to wonder whether the whole thing was in my head, however, I heard footsteps coming from the laundry room, and I turned to look back toward the open doorway. The footsteps marched loudly across the stone floor, and I felt certain that at any moment I would see somebody appear, yet the doorway remained empty. The laundry was only a small room, so small that it seemed impossible somebody could walk around in there without being seen, and a few seconds later the footsteps seemed to come through into this second room and then stop.
I waited, but now even the sobbing had stopped.
Silence filled the room, but when I look back now, I know that it was the
kind of absolutely silence that immediately precedes something awful. At the same time, I felt a strange sensation starting to bubble up through my chest.
Fear.
Absolute, unconstrained fear.
Even now, forty years later, I recall the feeling that fear was somehow being poured directly into my soul. This fear was coming from beyond my body, and I knew that it was not mine. At the same time, I was starting to shake as I felt a vast and crippling sense that something terrible was about to happen. I could not move, I could not run: I could only stay there kneeling on the cold stone floor, waiting and -
Suddenly I heard the most terrible scream.
I fell forward as the scream rang out. Turning, I look back into the corner of the room just as the scream seemed to come toward me, and I felt something rush past my face. I did not see anything, but it was as if somebody had lunged out of the corner and into the center of the room. I heard a brief kerfuffle, a series of gasps, and then silence returned. At this moment, the alien fear in my chest seemed to explode, briefly consuming me entirely before draining away just as rapidly.
Scrambling to my feet, I hurried back through to the main laundry room, but there was now absolutely no sign of anyone. I was breathless and terrified, convinced that I had heard somebody, yet deep down I already knew that I had been utterly alone. In that moment, I was unable to understand what had transpired. It is only now, looking back on that awful time, that I realize I had been given a glimpse of Grangehurst's terrifying past. Perhaps most other young girls would have fled at that point, and perhaps I should have fled too. It is easy to think that I was a fool for staying, and for not trusting what I had heard, but I also feel a flicker of respect for my younger self. She might have been wrong to stay, but at least she believed she was doing the right thing.
The benefit of hindsight, of knowing what awful things were to come, might make me too harsh on her.
After straightening the creases in my apron, I made my way back into the main laundry room. My heart was pounding, but after a few minutes I realized that the sounds – whatever they had been – were now gone. I resolved to finish my work, so I returned to the bowl and began once more to wash the shirt. I was hoping that laundry would, as usual, help me to steady my nerves. That everything would go back to normal.
And then, looking out the window, I saw a man hanging dead ducks on the gate.
Chapter Fourteen
“Excuse me!” I called out, hurrying across the frozen ground, clutching a shawl around my shoulders. “You there! Wait!”
The man was already walking away, with a rifle slung over his shoulder, but he stopped and turned to me as I reached the gate. I still remember the sight of his stubbled chin, and the thick-lined face marked with dirt and grime from the forest. In all honesty, I had never seen quite such a filthy-looking man in all my life, and I took an instant dislike to him. It is funny, is it not, that I would one day marry this man?
“What are these?” I barked, looking up at the half-dozen ducks that hung from hooks. I was trying to sound fierce. “You can't just leave them here!”
“They're for Doctor Brooks,” Jim replied – for Jim was his name, I soon discovered – and he let out a derisory sniff as he looked me up and down from the other side of the gate. I could see his breath in the cold mid-morning air. “He'll be expecting them.”
“They can't hang here like this!” I pointed out.
“No, they can't. So take 'em down.”
With that, he once again turned to walk away.
“Who are you?” I called out.
I heard a sigh as he stopped and turned back to me.
“My name is Beryl Seaton,” I continued, still a little breathless after my run from the house. “I am the governess here at Grangehurst. Well, the new governess. Well...” I took a deep breath as I realized that there was no need to explain everything. He, it seemed to me, was the one with some explaining to do. “What are these ducks doing here?”
“I bring him one quarter of everything I catch on his land,” he replied with a very faint smile, as if he found me amusing. “He won't complain, not when he sees 'em.”
With that, he trudged back toward the gate, stopping just on the other side and staring at me between the rusty bars.
“You're a city girl,” he muttered.
“I don't see what that's got to do with anything!”
“It's got everything to do with whether you know what to do with a duck.”
“Of course I know what to do with a duck!”
“What, then?”
“Well,” I replied, trying to hide my indignation, “if you don't know, then I'm certainly not going to explain it to you.”
“No offense, lass,” he said, rolling his eyes, “but you don't look like you're from round here. Maybe you should get back down to the city, where life's easier. Where ducks come ready to eat, rather than ready to cook.”
“I can skin a duck,” I replied, reaching up and starting to unhook one of the creatures.
“Skin it?” He laughed. “Why would you be skinning the poor thing?”
“I can manage just fine.”
As I said those words, however, I found that the duck would not come away from the hook. I tried every which way I could imagine, until my arms began to ache, but I was very much aware that Jim was watching me. At the same time, the more I worked the more I was covered in a deluge of feathers, until some fell into my mouth and I instinctively began to spit them out.
I glanced at Jim and immediately felt infuriated by his grin, yet I knew that I could not give up. So it was that I spent two or three minutes muttering to myself and struggling with the duck, until yet more feathers fell not only into my mouth but also into my eyes. Momentarily defeated once more, I stepped back and cleared the feathers away, before resolving to get back to work. Before I could do anything more, however, Jim reached up from the other side of the gate and removed the hook itself from the top of the metal railing.
“There,” he said, as the duck fell into my arms, and as I almost dropped the heavy thing, “now you can take it out at your pleasure. I'll come back for the hooks another day.”
Barely able to hold the duck, I adjusted it in my arms for a moment. In truth, I was becoming rather annoyed that this ruffian was simply standing there and watching me. I was not willing, however, to show any sign of weakness at all. Therefore I held the duck in my arms, despite the fact that its weight was causing my muscles to burn. Jim said later that he could see I was struggling, but I still maintain that he could not.
“Might you help me carry them, at least?” I asked a little breathlessly.
“Aye, no,” he replied, and now at last his smile faded. “I've brought 'em as far as I'm willing.”
“You carried them from the forest,” I muttered, “yet now you refuse to take them the final twenty or thirty yards? Are you, or are you not, a gentleman?”
“I won't be going onto that land,” he said, looking down at his feet. “ That's for sure.”
Following his gaze, I saw that his unkempt and worn shoes were just half an inch from the line that marked the threshold of Grangehurst.
“I've never set foot on the man's property,” he continued, “and I won't be starting now. I'm sorry not to help a lady out, truly I am, but there are certain matters I just won't consider. Certain lines I won't cross.” He paused, still staring past me, watching the main house with an expression of great apprehension. “This is as close as I'll go,” he added, “and even that's not something I like very much. Just tell the high an' mighty Doctor Brooks that I've made payment for another hunting season. An' remind him that I gave Hannah two extra last time, so it's only fair for me to be two down today.”
With that, he doffed his cap at me.
“Be seeing you, perhaps,” he added as he turned and began to walk away. “You should think about what you do next. It won't do you any good to spend too much time at Grangehurst. Not with them.”
“Who's H
annah?” I asked, for it was the first time I had heard the name that was to eventually mean so much.
Again he stopped, and again he glanced back at me. I did not fully realize it at the time, but there was a great deal of concern in his expression at that moment. Fear, even. He no longer seemed amused by me, more... worried about what might happen if I remained at Grangehurst. Much later, he would admit to me that this was indeed the case.
“Was she the previous governess?” I continued, showing a little more understanding than might have been expected. “Is it Hannah that I have been brought in to replace?”
He paused. “Aye,” he said finally. “Hannah's the one who was 'ere before you.”
“Do you know why she left?”
I waited for an answer, but he simply stared at me.
“Did she...”
My voice trailed off. I wanted to know so much about my predecessor, and about her time at Grangehurst, but at the same time I was struck by the firm belief that the Brooks family's doings were none of my business. Mother Superior had always taught me to refrain from gossip, and I had rather taken this advice to heart. In truth, perhaps I was right not to pry, at least in ordinary circumstances. The pity, then, is that I did not yet understand that I was in the middle of a situation that was very far indeed from ordinary, and that Mother Superior's advice was not necessarily going to help me at Grangehurst.
Yet though I felt I could not press Jim about Hannah, I could not stop myself asking about Stephen.
“The child,” I continued, trying to choose my words carefully, “Stephen -”
“I don't need to know about what's going on in there,” he said, cutting me off. “I wouldn't get involved in their business, not for all the money in the world. I won't natter about them, either, but there are others who aren't so tight-lipped.” He turned and pointed along the frozen road that led away from the gate. “Like I told you, you should come to the Hounds. It's a small place, but there're plenty who drink in there of an evening, and they'll tell you more about the Brooks family than you care to know.”
