“Heathcliff, I’m going outside for a bit,” I said.
“Don’t get lost,” was all he said, and I stepped out onto the front grounds.
I breathed in the crisp morning air and reveled in the quietness around me. I heard the birds chirping in the tall trees as I ambled through the front courtyard and down the gravel path. The wrought-iron gate of Kolney Hatch was closed, but I managed to climb over it. I could have had Heathcliff open it, but I did not feel like walking all the way back to the asylum. Besides, I felt freedom in this act. I could leave this place and never return if I wanted, and I enjoyed that feeling. I continued down the dirt path. The river where Frederick Hume drowned was to my left. He would have been a free man, if only he’d been able to hold his breath longer.
Random thoughts drifted into my mind as I continued down the path. I thought of Claire’s letter and her pregnancy. Then I thought of Amy. Maybe I would visit her today.
When I was a good distance from the asylum, I opened the Cardhu and took a nice long gulp. Sheldon had been right about its taste, so I took another swig and turned left off the dirt path, through the trees and down to the bank of that dirty river.
I stood there for many moments without a single thought in my mind, and took another big swallow of the Cardhu. I closed my eyes. I felt so free; I wanted to stay in this moment. Then I heard a rustle of a tree, and my eyes shot open. I looked around.
“Who’s there?” I called out.
No one answered, so I began searching through the trees. I could not see anyone.
“Hullo? Is anyone there?”
I heard the crunch of leaves in the distance—someone was running. I ran out to the dirt path and continued down it away from the asylum. I ran and ran until I was breathless and then plopped in the middle of the dirt road, panting heavily. I took a longer than usual sip of the Cardhu, which was disappearing rapidly, and sat in the middle of the dirt trail for several minutes until I heard the putt-putt of a motor car. I hopped up, and when the black car approached, I recognized the driver instantly.
“Nigel!” I waved to him, and he smiled back at me.
“Doctor Watson, how aur yah?”
“I’m good, Nigel. I’ve had a bit of whiskey. What brings you back this way?”
“Me,” a voice said as Rosalind emerged from the backseat of the car. She looked beautiful as ever—her soft curls tucked under her cream-colored cloche hat.
“Rosalind!” I said, perhaps a little more excited than I meant. I blamed that solely on the Cardhu.
“Nigel, I’ll walk from here. I think Doctor Watson could use a little company, unless he would prefer a ride back to the asylum.”
“Oh, no, no. I do not plan to return to the asylum until I have to.”
“I’ll join you out here then,” Rosalind said.
When Nigel was gone, I turned to escort Rosalind back to the asylum.
“Come on, I’ll walk you up there. I don’t want you to get dirty out here.”
“I want to stay with you,” she confessed.
“But surely you don’t want to stay out here.”
“Of course...I would love to. As long as you give me some of that whiskey.”
I hesitated for a moment before handing Rosalind the bottle. She smiled and took a sip, then grabbed my hand and led me into the wooded area. I can’t remember how long we walked, but when we finally stopped, we were well into the wood by a felled tree.
Rosalind sat on the trunk of the tree.
“What about your dress?”
“What about it?”
“Well, won’t it be ruined?”
“I don’t mind,” she answered coolly, her frosty eyes staring deeply into mine. She put the bottle on the ground.
Then she took her hand and caressed my face.
“Are you growing a beard, Paul?” She asked playfully.
“No…well, not intentionally anyway,” I answered. “I’m just busy all the time I guess. I don’t have the time for luxuries such as a nice shave. Plus, I don’t sleep all that well.”
“Perhaps I can make you feel better then,” she said softly.
She ran her soft finger against my forehead down to my jawbone. I could only offer her a small smile. I was not in the mood to talk, and her touch felt comforting against my skin. I closed my eyes and took in a long deep breath, and then I felt her soft, cool lips on mine. I opened my eyes then and stared into her eyes.
“Perhaps you can,” I told her as I pulled her into my arms and kissed her passionately.
2 in the morning, June 3.—I woke to the light patter of footsteps. Something moved in my dark room, and I kept perfectly still. The moon was exceptionally bright, and a soft light crept through my tiny window and rested on the wall opposite my bed. I lay on my bed, still as a painting, and saw, from the corner of my eye, a shadow cross the wall. It was so quick that at first I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I heard the same soft footsteps and my heart beat louder and faster like the sound of the drums of an enemy troop approaching in war.
After a few more moments of stillness, I jumped out of my bed and ran to the door. All I could think was that Ransford had escaped and come to attack me. My sweaty, shaking palms fumbled in the darkness for the lamp. As the light filled the room, I saw, to my horror, someone sitting in the chair by my desk.
A girl’s body sat hunched over in the chair—an old dirty beige sheet draped around her head and face. She wore a cream-colored long-sleeved dress, and she had no shoes; her dirty toes rested on the cold floor. I could smell a pungent odor coming from her direction, a stench so repulsive I could barely breathe. I stood next to the lamp, frozen, waiting for her next move. She slowly lifted her head. The shawl was draped around her nose and mouth, so I could only see her large sorrow-filled eyes. She was young but tired, and she was undoubtedly a patient. I could not stare at her for long.
Regaining my composure, I took a step toward the girl, but to my surprise she jumped from the chair and ran for the door. I rushed through the door after her, but she had vanished. I lingered for a few moments to see if she would return but soon realized I was alone in that hallway. I contemplated telling Heathcliff, but he was nowhere in sight, and I thought it best for me to compose myself. I would tell Doctor Reid about this experience in the morning. I sat on my bed and tried to erase her image from my mind. Restless, I stared at the empty walls for hours before finally falling asleep.
The next day, when Doctor Reid and I met for breakfast, I told him of my night.
“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming Doctor Watson? Perhaps this experience was actually another one of your nightmares.”
He ate a spoonful of porridge.
“No, I’m sure it was real.”
“I don’t know any patients here that fit your description.”
“It sounds odd, I know. But the girl was real.”
“Is anything missing from your room?”
“No, nothing.”
“Well then...perhaps you should consider it was a nightmare.”
Maybe the whole experience had only been a nightmare, since I neither saw nor heard from my visitor for the rest of the day.
nineteen
THE WALLS HAVE EYES
Paul Watson’s Journal
June 10, 3’o clock, early morning.—I listened to the distant screams of a woman patient, and I tossed and turned in that hard bed, until I realized no sleep would be possible unless I calmed her down. I crept from my room and down the narrow South Wing hallway following the sound of her distant cries into the isolation ward. The dull bulbs flickered.
Woods and Hodgson usually patrolled the hallways periodically, but tonight no one was around. I tried not to make a sound and wake any of the sleeping patients, especially Ransford.
The woman screamed again, and I traced the screams to Hannah’s room. I peered through the bars into her dark room and saw her sitting in the dark with her hands over her face.
“Hannah,” I whispered,
“Why are you crying?”
She rose from the bed and appeared by the barred door seconds later with her head down.
“She wouldn’t go away. She’s here,” she said in an agitated, raspy voice as she stared straight ahead without making eye contact with me.
“Who wouldn’t go away?”
Hannah’s eyes widened, and she quickly backed away from the bars.
“Please…don’t hurt me.”
She put her hands over her eyes and continued to cry out.
“Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!”
“Please, Hannah...please calm down. I’m not going to hurt you…”
“Don’t hurt me!” She screamed louder.
“Hannah. I’m a doctor...Doctor Watson, remember? I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”
I looked to my left and right and my apprehension grew; both patients on either side of Hannah were beginning to stir and moan. Then Hannah abruptly stopped her frightful outburst and stared intensely into my eyes.
“She has a message for you.”
“Who, Hannah? Who has a message for me?”
“The ghost!” She repeated numerous times. “She’s coming for you.”
I was so tired; I took a seat on the floor by the bars. My back toward Hannah, I leaned by head up against the wall with my feet stretched out on the cold hard floor.
“Hannah, you’re confused. It’s alright.”
“No, no, no, she’s coming through the walls,” she said hysterically. “I have to protect my son.”
“Hannah…”
“Theodore keeps us here. The money. Prisoners. My son, he cries for me,” her voice quivered. Her face showed a mixture of fear and sorrow. “He’s sad because of what they do to me.”
“Please, Hannah...”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.” I paused. “I don’t.”
“You should.”
I shifted my body around to look at Hannah who now sat down on her side of the bars and gripped her hands around them.
“Hannah…”
“No, no, no, no. No,” Hannah said restlessly as tears filled her eyes again. “I’m not crazy. They’ll hurt me. They’ll hurt me.”
“Hannah, calm down, please. If you don’t calm down, Heathcliff will come up here, and…”
She was quiet then, her eyes fixed in a vacant stare. I tried to speak to her.
“Hannah…are you alright?”
She didn’t respond. She only stood and quietly returned to her bed. Hoping that Hannah had exhausted herself for the night, I quietly began my return down the South Wing. The groans and grumbles of the newly aroused patients unnerved me, so I sped up and put one quick step in front of the other. Thankfully none of the men stirred, but I still felt an eerie chill as I quickly passed Ransford’s room. Hannah was quiet now, but the whole encounter tolled through my mind like a clock’s chimes at midnight.
I returned to my room and began to slide back into bed, when I noticed something lying on my pillow: a simple handwritten note with only a four words.
“The walls have eyes.”
The note sent chills up my spine as I feared someone may have been watching me sleep, or perhaps someone may have been listening to my conversation with Hannah. I did not know what the note meant, but the message was clear enough. Someone was watching me.
twenty A RETURN LETTER
“Claire? Claire!” Petunia called to Claire, who was rustling through Paul Watson’s postbox. She had done this for the past two weeks, every day at twelve in the afternoon, and Petunia was determined to find out why. When Claire looked up, she held a letter in her hand.
“Oh, hullo Mrs. Pennyworth,” she said nervously. “I’m so sorry, but I’m in such a hurry, I can’t talk right now.”
“Of course. I’m just curious as to why you’re continuously checking Paul’s post-box. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, of…of course. Everything is just fine. Paul was just afraid that some of the letters would not be forwarded to Whitemoor, so I’ve been checking to make sure they’re properly addressed. Looks like I found one misaddressed.”
Petunia knew Claire was lying—Paul had asked Petunia to collect any letters that were not sent to his Scotland address. Intrigued by Claire’s lies, Petunia decided to play along.
“Is that so? Well, that’s so very kind of you, Claire.”
Claire returned a slight smile to Petunia. All of a sudden, an omnibus pulled up just past them on the street.
“Claire?” Richard Baker asked as he stepped off the bus. He looked his usual refined self, slicked hair, neatly pressed white shirt with the sleeve cuffs rolled to his elbows, and matching black vest and pants.
“Richard, what are you doing here?”
“I suppose I could ask you the same question, Claire.” He turned toward Petunia. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pennyworth.”
Petunia only nodded toward him. She could not look Richard directly in the eyes after what she witnessed at the Loxley’s party the other evening. She wanted to tell Claire about the incident, but she saw no reason to upset the woman—what she did not know would hurt her less.
“I was just collecting Paul’s misaddressed mail, darling.”
“Oh, is he still receiving letters here? I thought he had everything sent to his address in Whitemoor.”
“He said that some of the letters would still come here.”
“Oh, when did you speak to him?”
Petunia saw Claire had the letter behind her back. Richard sensed Claire was hiding something when she ignored his question.
“Did you find any letters, then?” Richard asked Claire, as his eyes shifted from her eyes to the hand behind her back.
“No, not really,” Claire answered nervously.
“Except for the letter behind your back, of course,” Petunia answered quickly.
Claire looked at Petunia with desperate eyes. Petunia felt that way so many times, and her heart wrenched with compassion for Claire.
“May I have my letter?” Petunia asked Claire, hoping she would go along with the lie. “It’s unfortunate that some people don’t care to put the appropriate address when sending a person a letter.”
“Of course,” Claire said, handing the letter to Petunia, who noted the thankfulness in Claire’s eyes.
“What were you doing here anyway?” Claire asked Richard. “I thought you had to make those changes to your screenplay for the film director. You seemed pretty focused on it when I left the house.”
“Well, I was focused, but then something inside of me told me to make sure you were okay. You seemed so distraught when you left.”
“So you followed me here,” Claire said indignantly.
Claire’s face blanched.
“Claire?” Petunia asked, “Are you ill?”
“Are you alright, darling?” Richard asked stepping toward Claire and rubbing his hand along her back.
“Yes, oh yes. I’m fine, really.”
Petunia thought Claire looked faint, so she stepped toward her and put her hand on her forehead.
“You’re all clammy. Why don’t you come inside? I’ll get you some water and a cool rag.”
“You’re so kind, Petunia,” Claire answered, “But I’ll be okay, thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
“If she says she’s okay, then she’ll be fine, Petunia. Thank you.”
Richard’s bossiness unnerved Petunia. Claire clearly needed to sit down. She could barely speak. Petunia ignored Richard’s remark.
“Why don’t you sit down a little while, Claire? You really don’t look well.”
“I…”
Claire felt unsure of what to do as she looked back and forth from Richard to Petunia. Richard made the decision for Claire.
“We’re going home now. Come along, Claire.”
He escorted her along, but Claire still looked like she was about to be sick.
“I just think it may be more helpful to rest a moment,”
Petunia interjected.
“Petunia, she’s fine.”
“She doesn’t look fine.”
Richard snapped at Petunia.
“Claire is coming home with me. We do not need your help, thank you. And perhaps in the future you should be less concerned with our affairs and more concerned with your own.”
“Richard!” Claire scolded, her voice faint and weak.
Dumbfounded at Richard’s tactless words, Petunia stormed into her house with the letter in her hand. She stormed up her stairs and into her sitting room. Finally, she sat down and opened the letter.
My dearest Claire,
I do not know why you are so unhappy. You must tell Richard. He will be so happy. He loves you so very much, Claire. I am sure if you spoke to him about your feelings and his behavior, he would change. But you must tell him you are pregnant.
Kolney Hatch is a strange place, but I would like to think I have made a difference already in the lives of these poor souls here. I miss you all so much. I know I must be careful what I say in these letters, but I trust that everything is well? Please continue to write to me, and I will send the letters only to my home, for you.
With love always,
Paul
Claire was pregnant, and she had told Paul before her own husband. Well, that explained why she was so ill and distant. And what about Richard? He followed Claire as though he were a detective and Claire, his suspect. Was that not so often the case—the wrongdoer questioning the innocent because his unworthy actions had led him to question the very people he had wronged? Petunia decided she would keep the letter. Claire would come for it soon enough.
twenty one PETUNIA’S SECRET
Petunia walked down Peddler Street with a false confidence. She tried to hide the humiliation she felt, for as Petunia passed her neighbors—many who were outside on this warm June day—she heard their censorious comments about her and felt their disapproving stares on her back.
The Secret of Kolney Hatch Page 11
