That is when he told me.
He loves me.
He said it real soft, scarcely more than a whisper.
His hand crept to my bosom, and I let it lie there. But I ain’t no bad girl.
That evening was just the best ever. The sun went down pink and purple and Bob held me closer as the air turned chill. He whispered to me, of new dresses, of marriage. And he spoke of a house of our own where children would run. He knew just what I wanted.
So I let his hand stray across my bosom, and I did not complain when his attentions became stronger. It was only when his hand moved to my knee that I began to protest. Even then, I did not struggle too much, for if truth be told, I found pleasure in his advances.
But I ain’t a bad girl. When his hand went up under my petticoat I slapped him away, hard. I done seen in his eyes that he weren’t happy, but Jane had told me all about what boys would be after.
He held me some more, and whispered some more, but now it sounded cold, and the chill had settled deeper into my bones.
I told him to take me home.
And that’s when it happened.
He done told me I was a tease. He said I was a bad girl underneath, and that he knew all about girls like me.
Then he took out his gun and told me to lie still.
He said I would enjoy it, but I didn’t. Not one bit.
He ran his hands all over me underneath my skirts. His face looked red in the last of the sun’s light. He looked like Old Nick himself, smiling in the fires of Hell.
So I waited until he unbuckled his trousers then did what Jane had taught me. I kicked him hard, between the legs. He moaned and fell off me. His gun fell to the ground. He made a grab for it, but he was more concerned with the thing between his legs and was slow and clumsy. He no longer looked red. His face was pale, a gray pallor that made him look half-dead. He did not look anywhere near as attractive as he had earlier on the porch.
I took the gun and raked it across his nose. Blood, black in the darkness, spurted.
Even then he did not stay down. He circled me, like a cat after a mouse. Indeed, he may have caught me, but just then I heard a carriage rattle across the ruts and I yelled, loud.
I turned my head to see who might be coming.
The gun went off, jarring my arm all the way up to my shoulder. It suddenly felt too heavy, so I dropped it to the ground. I half-expected Bob to keep coming for me, but when I looked he was dragging himself slowly up into the Surrey. He moved as if he was hurt. I guess my kick did more damage than I thought.
The next thing I remember is old man Crozier pulling me up into his wagon.
Ain’t nobody seen Bob for three days now.
Despite everything I miss him.
I am his sweetheart, and he said that he loves me.
Extract from the diary of Daniel Teed. August 23rd 1878
There is something wrong with my sister-in-law Esther. She will not say a bad word about him, but if that rascal MacNeal has harmed her in any way I swear I will swing for him.
I did not want her walking out with him in the first place, but she is as headstrong as her sister is, and I have learned long since not to get between a Cox woman and anything that she desires.
MacNeal always was going to turn out to be a bad ‘un. Ever since he was a boy he has been picking fights, lighting fires and more recently whooping it up down at the saloon on a Saturday night. Then there is the matter of the Briggs girl. She swears blind that MacNeal is the father of her child, and no amount of nay-saying on his behalf will persuade me otherwise.
Good riddance to him. Old man Crozier said he saw him hightailing off in the Surrey like a rat with a squib up its arse.
He had better not come back.
Extract from the diary of Esther Cox. September 3rd 1878
There is still no news of Bob MacNeal. I do hope he comes back. I am so sorry I hurt him. But I ain’t a bad girl. I couldn’t do what he wanted.
I missed the dance in the church hall on Saturday. Jane wanted me to go with her, but I waited at home to see if Bob would call on me.
The house was quiet. The parlour was too cold, too dark, so I took my book and a candle upstairs to my room. When the wind dropped I could hear the fiddles from the hall and it fair set my feet to tapping. The new dress hung behind the bedroom door, and I knew it would only take me ten minutes to dress and take myself along to the dance.
But then I might miss Bob calling at the door, and I so wanted to see him again.
So I sat still and quiet, listening for his Surrey on the road outside.
The first time I heard the mouse, if that is indeed what it was, I nearly jumped out of my skin. At first it was little more than a rustle behind the headboard. We are used to mice coming in from the fields when the temperature starts to drop. A good thump on the wall usually sends them scurrying for safety... but not this one.
The tap-tap of its feet sounded in time with the music of the dance for a second. From where I sat on the high bed I could not see it, but I heard it run along the side of the wall towards the window. I got up slowly and carried the candle over. Even as I got closer it scurried away again, and even bending down towards the floorboards I could not quite catch sight of it as it merged with the shadows.
I went back to my book but I could not concentrate. Every time I came close to losing myself in the tale, the pitter-patter of tiny feet would start again. I gave up trying to read and lost myself in reverie, imagining Bob and I together on the dance floor, him holding me tight and everyone watching us.
A louder scrape brought me back to myself. The cardboard box in which my dress had arrived moved across the floor and came to a halt near the door. As I got off the bed it moved again, sliding noisily back to where it had originally been standing against the wall. I watched it warily but the movement was not repeated.
I lay back and watched the moon cast shadows on the ceiling in time with the dance music wafting on the wind.
Sleep was a long time coming, and when I woke I did not feel at all rested.
Extract from the diary of Daniel Teed. September 3rd 1878
I know not what to make of it.
We were late in getting back from the church hall and the house was in darkness. I was slightly merry, having taken too much beer during the course of the evening, and I felt hot and tired.
All I wanted to do was fall into bed and rest.
But it was not to be.
Jane noticed the sound first, a far-off scratching, like fingernails on wood. I would have put it down to mice or maybe squirrels, but the sobbing started almost as soon as I put a foot on the stairs to the upper floor.
We found Esther lying on top of the bedclothes. She was as naked as the day she was born. Jane shooed me away, but not before I saw that her body seemed gross and bloated, like a neglected cow that has not been milked for many days. Her eyes stared at the ceiling but she did not react to our presence. She just kept sobbing in a soft piteous mewling that brought tears to all that heard it.
Jane pushed me out into the hall where my brother John stood, unsure what was to be done. We had started on our way downstairs when the whole house shook with a bang that made me think we were under attack from cannon fire. John and I ran for our guns and headed outside to meet what might be there.
There was only the clear quiet night sky.
We stood there for long minutes but there was no repeat of the noise. After a while we retired inside for some liquid courage.
Jane came down later to tell us that Esther now seemed settled and slept soundly.
In the morning Esther showed no sign of remembering any of it, and we have not spoken of it since.
Extract from the diary of Esther Cox. September 10th 1878
I scarce know where to begin.
My sleep has been troubled of late, and it came to a head just this last night. I tossed and turned for hours, alternatively hugging the bedclothes close to me, then throwing them asunder when they
became too confining.
I had just pulled them tight around me when I heard the scampering of tiny feet once more. I intended to chase that mouse from my chamber. I threw the bedclothes off... and they kept going, sailing across the room as if propelled by a high wind. They hung, suspended in the air, a full foot above the floor.
Their crumpled shape looked like a body doubled over in pain.
I have no memory of it, but I believe I must have screamed, for I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, and cries of concerned alarm. For my part I couldn’t take my gaze from the bundle of bedclothes. It drifted, as if being at the whim of wind and tide. Then, just as Jane appeared in the doorway, the bundle fell to the floor with a muffled thud.
Jane and Daniel were most officious, and insisted on treating me like an invalid. Daniel made me drink a sleeping draught. It tasted vile, but within several minutes I had all but forgotten the drifting bedclothes as my mind wandered in a hazy stupor that was not unpleasant.
I have only the vaguest memory of the rest of the night, and only have Daniel’s word as to what actually happened. What cannot be denied is the presence of the writing, and the whispering that I hear even now as I write this entry.
You may not believe any good of me. But if you believe nothing else, believe this.
I ain’t a bad girl.
Extract from the diary of Daniel Teed. September 10th 1878
Esther has not been well, and things reached a climax yesterday evening.
When we arrived in the bedchamber Esther was in a state of distress, and it required a strong dose of Doctor Walton’s opiates to calm her. We were about to retire, confident that the girl was now asleep, when her bedclothes blew from the bed. Esther had not moved, yet the quilt was thrown the full length of the room. When I went to retrieve it I found it to be like wrestling with a recalcitrant sheep. The material seemed to twist in my arms, fighting against me at every turn.
Brother John came to my aide. The quilt went still and we were able to drape it over Esther. But the girl was once more swollen up like a dead fish too long in the water, and her skin took on a deep red hue, as if burning from within. I dispatched John to fetch the doctor while Jane and I took turns sitting with Esther. She showed no sign of being aware of our presence, merely stared, wide-eyed and unseeing, at the ceiling.
When the doctor finally arrived, my brother John would not come back into the bedroom. Indeed, he has packed his bags and departed without saying goodbye. And I cannot say as I blame him.
The doctor had barely bent over Esther when the bedclothes swirled up as if caught by a maelstrom and wrapped themselves around the man’s head, threatening to suffocate him there and then. It was only through Jane and I combining out strength that we were able to rip them from him. I thought that might be the end of his visit and that he would leave as John had left. But the doctor proved to be made of sterner stuff.
He bent forward once more and took Esther’s wrist, feeling for a pulse.
At that same instant the room rang as something banged hard, like a child slapping his hands against the wall. The noise ran in a circle, the full turn of the room.
Then silence fell.
Esther began to thrash and moan. The banging returned, louder this time, the whole building rocking and echoing as crashes like thunder filled the room. Plaster fell from the walls and every part of my being wanted to flee, to follow my brother to the nearest inn where we could start to forget together. Only Jane’s hand in mine stayed my flight.
The doctor administered laudanum and held Esther down. Slowly the drumming started to subside. Even as Esther calmed we all heard the scratching. We could not identify where it was coming from. The noise seemed to fill the air, from everywhere and nowhere.
It was Jane who saw it first. The writing appeared, scripted by an invisible hand, in crude four-inch high letters above the headboard of the bed. Just reading it made my blood run cold.
“You are mine to kill.”
Extract from the diary of Esther Cox. October 4th 1878
The doctor said the voices would stop. Why have the voices not stopped?
Every night he drums on the walls, and every night he whispers to me, so close that I alone can hear him.
He says he loves me.
Extract from the diary of Daniel Teed. November 6th 1878
It is a week now since we sent Esther to the sanatorium, a week of blessed relief from that infernal drumming and the incessant scratching. The house has returned to a semblance of normality.
Esther is on the mend. The doctor says it was diphtheria, and that it will take several more weeks of rest and recuperation before she is able to return home. I am unable to reconcile the diagnosis with all that has occurred in this house, but to admit to anything other would only lead to madness.
In her delirium Esther spoke often of Bob MacNeal, and in a lucid moment told Jane that the man had tried to take advantage of her maidenhood. At that very same moment the drumming in the room reached a crescendo of noise that deafened the whole household.
I cannot help but think that all we have suffered has been a result of that night back in August. If MacNeal ever shows his face around these parts again, I shall surely kill him.
Extract from the diary of Esther Cox. December 14th 1878
I have only been home these past two days, yet I fear that once more I will bring terror and fear to my family.
I was so happy to be home and in my own bed again after the weeks of quiet desperation in the sanatorium. I had started to believe that the whispering had all been a delusion on my part, a reaction to the fever that had raged through me.
But the very first night home showed me that I ain’t free. I might never be free again.
I was lying in my own bed, just luxuriating in the soft quilts, when I smelled smoke. Somebody laughed, a deep chuckle that sounded cold and hard. Suddenly there was heat at my feet. I had to throw the quilt to the ground and stomp on it to stop it smouldering, and if Jane ever finds out about the blackened hole there then I will be in serious trouble.
Afterwards, I found a spent match on the floor, and when I picked it up, the chuckle came again, closer this time, as if someone stood at my ear.
That was the only occurrence, but last night it happened twice—I was sitting reading quietly when once more the quilt started to burn. And even as I stomped to extinguish it, the drawer of the dresser opened and smoke came from the petticoats I have stored there.
This time I found two spent matches. As I threw the blackened stumps from the window the chuckling returned, louder this time, and with a distinct air of malice.
My heart raced, and I was unable to get any rest after that. As I lay there in the darkness the sound I had not heard in months came back—sibilant whisperings in my ear, of love and honor, of fidelity... and of death.
I am greatly afeard, but I dare not tell.
If I tell, they will surely send me away again. That is what happens to bad girls. And next time I may not be allowed to return.
Extract from the diary of Daniel Teed. December 26th 1878
We cannot take any more. Yuletide is meant to be a time of rejoicing and celebration. This year, our gifts were only fire and terror.
It all started so innocuously. The alarms of the autumn had been forgotten, and, while Esther was still pale and confined herself mostly to her room, there had been no incident of real note since her return these two weeks past.
I set the Yule Log to burn on the fire and nailed the holly wreaths in the porch. There had been a light snowfall overnight, and I called the family to see the scene before any thaw could tarnish it. It was an idyllic moment... but that was as good as the day ever got.
We were all on the porch when Esther started to scream—so loud that I saw lace curtains twitch and doors open all along the street as our neighbours took notice. As luck would have it I was closest to the door, and first up the stairs.
Esther sat on a bed of quilting that was already w
ell alight, screaming as dancing flames reached for her. Jane arrived at my heels and between us we managed to drag her off the bed and away from the fire.
The flame had already taken hold in the walls, and we had to take to ferrying buckets up the stairwell. Townsfolk arrived to throw water on the exterior to prevent the fire spreading, and even then we only just managed to control the raging conflagration.
Afterwards, as we all stood outside staring at the charred side of the building, I was aware that our neighbours were being vocal in their disapproval of Esther’s continued presence in the street. There was even talk of sending for a priest.
I myself had to stand between Esther and three women intent on beating the devil out of the girl.
Matters came round to shouting and pushing, and may have turned to something even worse had John White not intervened. He has always had a soft spot for Esther, even when she was but a child, and he has offered to take her into rooms in his inn on the other side of town, until things calm down.
Esther seems amenable to this offer, and she has gone with the innkeeper.
I spent much of my Christmas clearing up water damage and salvaging what I can from the ruin of her room.
I am far from feeling any festive cheer.
Extract from the diary of Esther Cox. February 14th 1879
I had thought John White to be a friend. Indeed, I do believe his intentions to be sincere. But this table rapping smacks of the devil’s business, and I ain’t sure that any good will come of it.
His friends are nice people, and they mean well, but they seemed far too excited when my whispering friend decided to share his affections with them around their table. There is talk of inviting a man from the newspapers, and Mr. White whispered of visitors from as far as New York.
Samurai and Other Stories Page 14
