Stephen

by Amy Cross

  Then I hesitated.

  The Lord wants me to go into the room, I remember thinking. This is all part of His plan.

  “Mrs. Brooks?” I called out, aware that she seemed not to have reacted to the sound of the door being opened. After all, one might have supposed that she would have tried to stop me, yet she had not. “I am coming inside, Mrs. Brooks,” I continued. “I only mean to help. Please, do not be afraid.”

  I waited, before getting to my feet and then pushing the door all the way open. The hinges creaked slightly, and I immediately noticed a musty yet sweet smell in the air. The light in the nursery was a little lower now, as evening began to fall outside, and the shadows that spread toward the doorway were long. Flies, meanwhile, were buzzing around the chandelier above. I felt a tremendous sense of fear, and that sense only doubled when I saw Mrs. Brooks sitting on the wicker chair by the window, silhouetted against the sunset, facing me.

  I could see immediately that her dress was raised, and that her bared legs were wide apart.

  And that she was leaning down and examining herself in her most private area. Or at least, I thought at first that she was examining herself. I could hear the squelching sound a little more clearly, and the sweet musty smell was stronger, but now there was something else as well. It was as if the mere opening of the door had suddenly allowed me to make out the sound of Mrs. Brooks gently, sadly sobbing to herself. Those sobs could just about be heard now above the sound of so many buzzing flies.

  “Might I come closer?” I asked.

  She did not reply, so I began to make my way across the room. As I did so, I looked around to see what had become of Stephen, but I did not spy him anywhere. There was a dark patch on the floor, as if some kind of liquid had stained the wood, and the needle and thread lay discarded near the wall. As I got closer to the far side of the room I found that the musty stench was becoming almost overpowering, and again its nature had changed a little, becoming more sweaty and organic and fishy.

  “I want to help you,” I continued, turning to Mrs. Brooks again as I got closer, “and -”

  And that is when I saw what she was doing.

  I have never quite been the same since.

  “He's going home,” Mrs. Brooks said softly, her voice filled with exhausted sorrow as the squelching sound continued. “Something happened and he has to go home. He'll be safe there, and then he can come back later once everything is alright again. Once we're happy.”

  I opened my mouth to ask what she meant, but my eyes were drawn to the gap between her legs and suddenly I was filled with a violent need to vomit. I turned away – but only just in time – and now I found that I could not help myself. Leaning against the table, I brought up a mouthful of bile, then another, and I could not keep from opening my mouth and letting the foul liquid dribble down against the wood. Half a dozen painful retches followed, and then I hesitated before wiping my lips and turning once again to look at Mrs. Brooks.

  The smell immediately made me want to retch again.

  Mrs. Brooks' hands were busy around her nether regions, where she was in the process of carefully placing piece after piece of poor Stephen inside herself. And although most of the pieces looked like nothing more than rotten meat and bone, there were just enough sections still in their original shape. Just enough, that is, for there to be absolutely no doubt about what she was doing.

  “He's going home,” she whimpered again, as she slid a meat-covered section of bone through her mass of black, curly pubic hair and back inside her own body. She had to use a fingertip to part the glistening folds of her nether, so as to allow a smoother entry. “He'll get better in there. You don't believe me, but you'll see. I can make him well again.”

  “No,” I stammered, and in that moment I truly felt as if some part of my mind was becoming unknotted. I took a step back, and then my knees gave way and I dropped down to the floor, while still staring at Mrs. Brooks' wettened hands as they worked. The insides of her thighs, too, were caked in gleaming moisture. “For the love of God, please no...”

  “It's a happy thing,” she continued, sounding as if she was trying to smile. “Just trust me. A mother always knows best. He was created in me once, so why not again?”

  I was about to lunge forward and try to stop her, but suddenly the stench seemed to become overpowering and I dropped instead onto all fours. I tried to hold my stomach, yet almost immediately I vomited up more bile, and I was powerless to do anything other than let the pale yellow liquid dribble down onto the boards. Then I retched again, and again and again, over and over and each time bringing up less and less bile until I felt the excruciating pain of an empty, spasming stomach.

  “Stop!” I croaked. “Please stop!”

  Yet still the squelching sound continued. I squeezed my eyes tight shut, hoping against hope to somehow deny the reality of the room, but then finally I forced myself to look against at the awful scene that lay before me. Shivering with fear and shock, I stared at the space between Mrs. Brooks' legs and watched as the last piece of meat – a hand, with tiny fingers – was tucked inside her, and all the while I was retching without having anything else to bring up. The acid from my bile was already starting to burn my mouth.

  “Stop!” I gurgled between retches. “Dear Lord, you have to stop! This is sacreligious! It's wrong!”

  “A mother's love knows no bounds,” she said calmly, using one fingertip to slide the last piece well out of sight. “I can remake him, I know I can. I can heal him. Mother knows best.”

  Tears were streaming down my face, as she moved her hands away. All signs of the body were gone now, pressed inside her, and the folds of her nether were slowly closing. A moment later I heard a purr of pleasure. Looking up, I saw that Mrs. Brooks was staring down at me now with the broadest, most child-like grin. Indeed, her smile was so wide, the tracks of her tears had been forced down the side of her face.

  And somehow, in the midst of all this madness, I felt once again that I had to help.

  Leaning forward, I reached between her legs. I meant to start taking the pieces of Stephen back out of her, but my fingers froze just short of the curled mound of pubic hair. I was utterly nauseous, as much from the thought of what had happened as from the foul smell of sweat and rot, but I was absolutely certain that God would want me to excavate the child. I reached closer, then, and began to touch the woman's nether regions and ease the lips apart. Just as I began to touch the glistening pink wetness, however, Mrs. Brooks reached down and took my hand in hers, as if to stop me.

  “Please,” I gasped, “this is indecent. It is so wrong.”

  I was sobbing now, looking up at Mrs. Brooks as she delicately held my fingers away from her nether.

  “You have to let him out,” I continued. “It's ungodly!”

  She tilted her head slightly, the way a dog might when it is trying to understand a command.

  “You must realize that this is wrong,” I sobbed. “Please, you cannot -”

  Suddenly she snapped my little finger, breaking the bone and causing me to cry out. Falling back against the wooden floor, I clutched my hand and felt an immense pain bursting in the damaged finger, and I let out a slow whine as I realized that it could no longer be moved.

  “He must stay inside,” Mrs. Brooks said calmly, looking down at her nether regions. “He's safe there.”

  My broken little finger was throbbing with pain now.

  “Nobody can hurt Stephen now,” Mrs. Brooks continued. “Nobody can take him away from me. He'll come back out when he's -”

  Before she could finish, I let out a louder gasp and fell onto my side. The pain in my finger was spreading through my body, and it was a pain that brought back thoughts of the discipline with which I used to whip myself. I clenched my teeth together and squeezed my eyes tight shut, trying to force all thoughts of the discipline aside, but already I was feeling the same tightening cramp in my groin. I rolled onto my back, I think, and held my breath as I tried desperately to r
etake control of my body, but all was in vain. The cramp burst in a series of waves, pulsing through me and bringing an equal pleasure to counter the pain. I rolled back onto my side and retched, but this pain only made the pleasure stronger and for a moment I lay completely helpless, spasming on the floor as each fresh pain only made the pulses more powerful.

  Finally – somehow – the sensation passed, and I let out the longest, lowest moan that has ever come from my lips. My body felt utterly exhausted and I even think I might have lost consciousness for a moment. I opened my eyes and saw the splinters of the floorboards, and then I turned and looked up to see that Mrs. Brooks was staring down at me with an expression of bewilderment.

  And then, suddenly, she burst into a fit of manic laughter.

  “No,” I whispered, sitting up as I felt a wave of revulsion rush through my body, mixed with a considerable degree of embarrassment, “this is wrong, this is all hideously wrong!”

  Still she laughed, with her legs still wide apart.

  “You must stop!” I shouted. The paroxysm of pain had cleared my thoughts somewhat and made me feel sharper. “Do you hear me? You've gone too far and you must stop!”

  “What is happening here?” Doctor Brooks roared suddenly.

  I did not even turn in time. His footsteps thundered toward me, and before I knew what was happening I felt him grab the back of my collar and heave me up from the floor. I almost tripped, but already he was manhandling me toward the door with such ferocity that I finally stumbled forward and slammed, sobbing, against the wall. I tried to cry out, to tell him what I had seen, but he grabbed me by the shoulders and forced me toward the door. I fell, landing hard, and then he kicked me hard in the shoulders until I tumbled out onto the landing and the door slammed shut.

  Weeping uncontrollably, and in constant pain not only from my broken finger but also from my body's dry retching, I lay curled on the boards. I drew my knees up and hugged them tight, and over the sound of my own sobs I could just about hear Doctor Brooks screaming at his wife, and her laughing maniacally back at him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  For anyone who omitted chapter twenty-eight in their reading and came straight to this point, let me sum up events thusly: Mrs. Brooks had taken Stephen apart and disposed of him in a most horrific manner, and then I – in an attempt to stop her – had suffered a broken finger that had caused me unwanted pleasure. I had then been ejected from the room by Doctor Brooks upon his arrival.

  I hoped that by writing down those awful events in the previous chapter, I might gain some kind of freedom from the power they have always held over me. I suppose I reasoned that the process of reliving that time might have been cathartic. In truth, however, I feel rather numb. The one change is that the fear has been tempered a little, even though I am now replaying the horrific images over and over in my mind.

  And I can smell, I think, the mustiness in the air.

  I can also feel a twinge of pain in my right little finger. Well, perhaps not pain exactly, perhaps merely stiffness and discomfort. The break is long since healed, but there remains a trace of a reminder. Even now, when I attempt to move that finger, some deep and hidden bone knot pushes back.

  “Tea?”

  Startled, I turn just as the landlord comes over with a fresh cup. I thought that I told him I would be okay, but then maybe I was barely even paying attention. Or possibly he sensed that something was wrong and he wanted to help.

  “Thank you,” I say, and I can immediately hear that my voice sounds tighter somehow.

  “Are you alright?” he asks.

  “I am quiet fine, thank you very much.”

  “It's just...” He pauses, staring at me with a curious expression. “It's just that you are weeping.”

  “I am?”

  Reaching up, I touch my face and find that he is right. Tears are streaming from my eyes, but I did not notice them at all until they were pointed out to me. I can only suppose that I became so wrapped up in the telling of that last chapter, I momentarily lost control of myself in the present. I quickly wipe the tears away with my hand, but the landlord takes a handkerchief from his pocket and passes it to me.

  I feel rather foolish, but I thank him and take the handkerchief, and then I start dabbing at my eyes.

  “Might I make an observation?” he asks.

  “By all means.”

  “You told me that you intend to go out to Grangehurst tomorrow,” he continues, “and now you are sitting up all night, writing in that book. It is clear that you're upset about something, so I can't help wondering why you're putting yourself through this. If going to Grangehurst troubles you so greatly, why did you come all this way up from London? Why do you not just turn around in the morning and go home?”

  “I have to see for myself.”

  “See what for yourself?”

  “What became of them.”

  He raises a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Have you really heard nothing of the Brooks family?” I continue, allowing a trace of desperation into my voice. “They must come to town for supplies now and again, they simply must. And even if they don't, there must be gossip. When I was here before, everybody knew of them. Why, they were rather hated!”

  “Times change. Tempers fade.”

  “But the people who live there must...”

  My voice trails off. In all honesty, I no longer know what I think I might find at Grangehurst.

  “If I had heard anything,” he replies, “I would tell you. But after you mentioned the place earlier, I did remember one thing. I've had cause to drive out that way now and again, and the road goes close enough that you can just about make out the house. I've only ever gone by at night, mind, but...”

  He hesitates, as if he does not want to continue.

  “But what?” I ask.

  “I have seen lights there,” he admits. “In the windows, I mean. Or at least, in one of the windows. Upstairs. Candlelight, I think it must have been. It was flickering.”

  “So somebody still lives there?”

  “I didn't see anyone, but I suppose a candle can't light itself, can it? I didn't think anything of it at the time.”

  I hesitate, before nodding. In truth, I had half wondered whether the ground might have cracked fully open and swallowed the house whole, but now I have my first confirmation that even after all these years, Grangehurst still stands. If I am honest with myself, I had come to suspect that the house most likely stood empty, with all trace of the Brooks family long gone. Now that there is a good chance they persist, I can feel my confidence fading. Perhaps Jim was right when he told me not to come back to this place, and perhaps the public house's landlord is right too. Perhaps I should turn around at sunrise and leave.

  “What happened out there?” the landlord asks.

  I turn to him.

  “Seems to me,” he continues, “that it must have been something serious. To put you in a state like this, I mean.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that nothing happened, but I can't quite bring myself to lie. After all, if I downplay the events of forty years ago, I would be doing a disservice to my younger self. She barely survived her time at Grangehurst, and even today I have nightmares.

  And then, all of a sudden, I feel the need to be absolutely, scrupulously honest.

  “I have to go to Grangehurst tomorrow,” I tell the landlord, “because it will be my last chance. My husband died recently, and in his final weeks I hid from him the news that I...”

  I take a deep breath.

  “The news,” I continue, “that I shall not be far behind him.”

  “You mean -”

  “I am dying,” I add, interrupting him. “I would rather not go into the details. It is one of those dull, petty illnesses that claim many lives. I have perhaps a month left at most, and I cannot go to meet the Lord without first knowing the truth about Grangehurst. I have lived the last forty years in denial, telling myself every day that it does not matter to me what ha
ppened after I left that house. The truth, though, is that I must know. I just must.”

  “Would you like some company when you go out there? I could try to find someone.”

  I shake my head. “I must go alone.”

  “And why's that?”

  “I just must.” I take a deep breath. “And now, if you don't mind, I must finish writing this account of what happened. I shall leave it behind when I go, along with an envelope. I was hoping that you would be willing to post that envelope for me, in the event that I do not return.”

  “Why would you not return?”

  “One never knows, does one?” I continue, preferring to sidestep the question. “For now, however, I must note down my recollection of the final day at Grangehurst. Time, I am afraid, is of the essence.”

  He hesitates for a moment, before nodding.

  “If there's anything you need,” he adds, turning and heading back toward the door that leads to the stairs, “anything at all, just tell me and...”

  His voice trails off, and a moment later I hear him making his way up the creaky steps.

  And now I am alone here in the saloon, and there is nothing to stop me finishing my story. There is a part of me that wishes to wait, but I know I must push on, so I pick up the pen and turn to a fresh page in the book, and then I start to write the words that describe what finally happened to me at Grangehurst. The final part of my ordeal there, so to speak:

  Still sobbing, with my face in my hands, I sat all alone in Doctor Brooks' study...

  Chapter Thirty