The Curse of Wetherley House

by Amy Cross

  I wait.

  Silence.

  “Please? Okay, so if you still wanna look around, can I at least go wait in the car with the engine running so I can warm up a little? You said I could do that earlier.”

  No reply.

  I open my mouth to call out yet again, but the last thing I want is to sound like some kind of asshole.

  Finally, realizing that he's not going to reply, and that I can't just storm off, I start making my way up the stairs. Everything about this entire situation feels wrong, but I don't exactly have a choice. Fortunately, I'm able to remind myself that despite appearances, Wetherley House is just a big, empty old pile on the edge of some dusty little town. I mean, sure, there's a danger that a bunch of crazed hobos might be living here, but I think they'd have made their move by now. As I get to the top of the stairs and look along the landing, I'm resigned to the fact that Toby's just trying to piss me off.

  He's starting to do a good job, too.

  Listening to the continuing silence, I wait for some hint of Toby's presence. He's blatantly waiting in one of the rooms, probably lurking behind a door, but I don't exactly fancy walking right into some kind of trap. There's no way he can keep quiet for long, but I still need to lure him out a little, so finally I realize that I'm going to have to fight fire with fire. Toby was a bit of a joker sometimes at school, but two can play at that game and I'm going to turn this thing right around on him.

  “Alright, then,” I mutter with a sigh, making sure to keep my voice up so he'll be able to hear wherever he is, “I guess that asshole left me behind. I'm going home.”

  With that, I turn and stomp very loudly back down the stairs, before pulling the front door open and then letting it swing shut. Standing in the hallway, I stay completely silent as I wait for Toby to come scampering down after me, but to my surprise the house remains quiet. I turn and look up the stairs, but I guess he's just not convinced yet that I've left. Crossing my arms, I lean back against the wall and decide to wait him out, although I can see my own breath in the cold night air and I'm starting to feel like Toby's a little too obsessed with this place. I mean, it's good to have passions, but I never expected him to cut me loose like this.

  As the wait continues, however, I start to wonder whether Toby's a little more stubborn than I'd realized. I was convinced he'd have come down by now.

  “Come on,” I whisper under my breath, not loud enough for anyone to hear. “This isn't funny. I should be at a baby shower right now, not shivering to death in an abandoned old house.”

  Turning, I look out the window and see the path that leads toward the gate in the distance. I really want to get the hell out of this house, and I'm starting to think that maybe I don't really owe Toby this much patience. I've tried playing along with his silly game, and I think I've been more than reasonable. Now, as I stand here looking longingly toward the gate and shivering in this cold hallway, I feel like I'm reaching a point where I just have to call it quits. Finally, even though I still feel a little bad for this, I realize I'm done.

  “Okay,” I call out, as I turn back to look up the stairs, “this time I'm really -”

  Gasping, I step back and bump against the door as I see that there's a woman standing at the top of the stairs, staring at me from the landing. The light's too low for me to make out her features properly, but she's definitely a woman and her dress looks kind of old-fashioned. My heart is pounding and all I can do for a moment is watch the woman as I try to work out exactly what I'm seeing. This can't be real. There's no way there can be someone else here.

  “Hey,” I stammer finally, “so you're, like, a friend of Toby's?”

  I try to force a smile, even though I'm feeling really uncomfortable. I keep telling myself that this is a set-up, that Toby's just doing something weird that I don't understand, and I really don't want to give him or his buddy the satisfaction of seeing me panic. Whatever they're up to, they just turned things up a notch and I really don't want to get involved.

  “Tell Toby I'm out of here, okay?” I continue, waiting for this woman to actually acknowledge my presence by any other means that this icy stare. “He's got my number, so can you just tell him to call me some time? You know, if he wants. It's not big deal either way. And tell him I really don't appreciate being lied to about what I'm getting into, okay?”

  I wait a moment, still trying to act calm, before turning and trying to pull the door open.

  Suddenly it's locked.

  “Great,” I mutter under my breath, trying to figure out what's changed over the past couple of minutes. I try the handle again. My hands are trembling and I'm struggling to keep from rushing, but nothing seems to be working.

  It's as if the door just spontaneously locked itself.

  Suddenly I hear a creak from the stairs. I freeze as I realize that the woman must be coming down, but I quickly tell myself that I'm only going to play into their hands if I panic.

  “Fine,” I continue as I turn back to her, “I just -”

  She's gone.

  I wait, listening to the silence of the house, but now it's as if I'm completely alone.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Toby, I want to leave. I'm not into playing games, so do you mind unlocking the door so I can get out of here? I'll walk into town and get a taxi or something.”

  Nothing.

  No reply.

  “Is that it?” I call out, feeling a rush of anger in my chest. “Do you think this is funny, Toby? Let me guess, that was supposed to be the terrifying Mary, wasn't it? Yeah, well, it's not scary and it's not funny! I don't appreciate being set up!”

  Again I wait, and again I hear only silence.

  “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

  Turning and looking around again, I realize that I have to get out of here via the back door. Still checking to make sure that the freaky woman doesn't show up again, I hurry through to the kitchen, bumping into the table as I make my way to the back door. When I try to turn the handle, however, I find that this door is also locked. I try a couple more times, and with each failed turn I feel another flicker of anger. How dare Toby and his asshole friends do this to me? Do they think I'm a complete idiot?

  Suddenly I see my reflection in the window's dusty glass panel, and I'm shocked to realize that there's another face right behind me.

  Startled, I turn and pull back, but once again there's no sign of anyone.

  “This is getting out of hand!” I yell. “Toby, do you realize I could call the cops on you right now? You have to let me out of here right now!”

  Unlocking my phone's home-screen, I type 999, but I can't quite bring myself to tap the green symbol and make the call. I don't want to get Toby into trouble, and I also don't want to have to explain the fact that we came here. At the same time, I'm down to just 2% battery, so I don't exactly have all night.

  “Toby!” I shout, stepping back over to the door that leads into the hallway. “You're starting to seriously piss me off now!”

  I wait, but of course the asshole doesn't respond. I might have been freaked out earlier, but now I'm downright mad.

  And cold.

  And tired.

  And hungry.

  With my phone in my right hand, I march past the open basement door and start stomping up the stairs, making sure to make plenty of noise as I reach the landing and head to the nearest door. Whatever game Toby's playing now, I'm sick of being some kind of patsy.

  “Where are you then, huh?” I call out, opening the first door and seeing nothing but an empty room with pale, patterned wallpaper. Feeling a tickle in the back of my mouth, I take a moment to clear my throat. “No? Not here?”

  I cross the landing and push the second door open, but of course all I find is another empty room.

  “Great,” I mutter, turning and heading to the third door, “I guess -”

  Suddenly I feel something filling my throat, and I reach out to steady myself against the cold wall as I realize that there seems to be some
kind of wriggling knot moving up from the back of my tongue. I try to cough it up, and immediately several small, moving chunks splatter into my mouth, along with a foul, bitter taste. Spitting some of them out into the palm of my hand, I'm horrified to see three small maggots, each wriggling in a patch of saliva and twitching their darkened tips.

  Before I can react, I feel more maggots in my throat, and I drop to my knees as I start desperately trying to cough them all up. I don't know what's going on or where they came from, but suddenly there's a whole swarm of the damn things not only in my throat but also wriggling all the way down into my chest. Several more are blasted into my mouth when I cough again, but I swear I can feel hundreds of the little bastards falling down the back of my throat and tumbling down my neck.

  Doubling over, I reach my hand into my mouth and push my fingers as far back as I can manage, scooping out the knot of maggots and then spitting them onto the bare floorboards. Even as I see a couple of dozen falling out, however, I can already feel more in my throat and suddenly I swallow involuntarily. Gagging and choking, I crawl away from the maggots that have already come out, and then I reach two fingers into my mouth and try to make myself throw up.

  “Come on!” I gurgle, with tears in my eyes. “Get out of there!”

  Finally I vomit, and scores of wriggling maggots come spewing out my mouth along with the half-digested remains of the burger and fries I had on the way here. As dribbles of vomit trickle from my lips, however, I can already feel more maggots in my throat, along with a sudden tickling sensation deep in my nose, as if some of the maggots have crawled deeper into my face. Hell, I think I can even feel them in my sinuses.

  “What the hell are you doing to me?” I gasp, stumbling to my feet as I realize that I just have to get out of this place. I feel dizzy, and the effort of vomiting has made my stomach cramp, but a moment later I throw up for a second time, involuntarily this time.

  Doubling over, I take a couple of faltering steps forward before bumping against the next door. As I feel more maggots wriggling through my face, my eyes start watering to the point that I can barely see properly. I turn the door-handle and stumble through, before stopping as I realize that I can just about make out a figure standing in the middle of the room, with its back to me. To my immense relief, I recognize the jacket.

  “Toby!” I gasp, trying to get to him but only managing a couple of steps before falling back against the wall. I take a moment to steady myself. “What the hell are you doing? Get me out of here!”

  I wait, but he's simply standing calmly, and so far he hasn't even reacted to my arrival. He's just looking toward the far window.

  “Toby!” I shout as I clutch my throat. Tears are streaming down my face now, and I swear I can feel maggots behind my eyeballs. “You've gone too far! I need an ambulance!”

  Stumbling toward him, I grab his shoulder and try to turn him to face me, but he's standing strangely firmly and all I can manage is to hold on for a moment before limping around him.

  “Toby!” I hiss. “You've got to -”

  Suddenly I see his face, and I pull back in horror as I see that maggots are crawling through his flesh, wriggling beneath the skin and poking out through gaps around his eyes and cheek. Hundreds and hundreds of tiny holes dot his features, left behind by the maggots as they've chewed through his body, and some of the maggots are even squirming and wriggling in his eyeballs. It's the holes that horrify me the most, though; so many bloodless little holes and tunnels running through his flesh, most abandoned as the maggots move on to the few patches of skin that haven't already been consumed. In some areas, several holes have merged to form gaping chasms in his face.

  I don't even know how he's staying on his feet.

  A faint, clicking groan slips from his throat and his eyes flick toward me, although some of the maggots catch on his eyelids and he lets out another gurgled cry.

  “Please tell me this is a joke,” I stammer, taking a step back until I bump against the wall. “Toby...”

  My voice trails off as I realize that there's someone standing directly behind him. All I can see right now is the faint outline of a dark dress, but a moment later I see that there are two shadows on the wall: one is Toby, while the other looks to be a woman standing right behind him, barely in my line of view. Before I can ask what's happening, I realize I can see one of her hands, and her flesh looks painfully worn and tight.

  “Run,” Toby gasps, as more maggots spill from his mouth. “Rosie...”

  “This is a joke, right?” I continue, as tears run down my face. “Toby, please -”

  “Run!” he groans, his voice suddenly sounding much tighter, as if he's in pain. His whole body is shuddering now, and a moment later I watch as the pale hand reaches up from behind and touches his shoulder.

  “Toby,” I whisper, “please, tell me this is all a -”

  Suddenly the hand pushes down hard on his shoulder and he slumps down, and I'm left staring into the rotten, hate-filled eyes of Evil Mary herself.

  Part Two

  1888

  Marguerite

  “They're wonderful!” I exclaim as Robert takes my hand, helping me up onto the carriage. “I never dreamed they'd look so beautiful.”

  All around, the port of Dover is bustling on this sunny Monday morning, but I am looking past the throng of workers and visitors, and instead my attention is focused on the vast white cliffs that rise up high and seem to tower not only over the port but over the English Channel itself. I had always hoped that my first view of England would fill me with awe, but I had not reckoned with the majesty of these huge chalky cliffs.

  And high up atop those cliffs, bathing in the morning light, there stands the most wonderful castle. From my reading on the subject, I know that the castle is more than seven hundred years old, and I desperately want to go up and explore. At the same time, I feel as if the whole of England is waiting for me, with more to do and more to experience than I can ever manage in a lifetime.

  In truth, the sight of the cliffs is a welcome distraction from the din of the port itself.

  “Can we stay a night nearby?” I ask, turning back to look down at Robert once I'm on the carriage. “I know it's a lot to ask, but the sea air is bracing and filling. Please, just one night.”

  “I'm sorry,” Robert says, “but -”

  “Just one night,” I continue, unable to help myself. “Must we really be on our way so soon?”

  “Another time,” he replies with a smile, as he heads around to the rear of the carriage and supervises the loading of our cases. “We have to get on our way if we're to reach the boarding house by nightfall, and then we must set off early in the morning so that we reach Wetherley House.”

  “It must be a wonderful house,” I tell him, “if it's enough to draw us away from this natural beauty.”

  “You'll like England,” he continues. “Trust me. Soon your old life in France will be almost forgotten.”

  As he starts speaking to the workers, I remain standing on the carriage, ignoring the strong wind that's blowing in from the sea and watching instead as this busy port town goes about its business. After a moment, as if to join in with the rush of movement and activity, the child in my belly gives out a strong kick, and I reach out to steady myself against the carriage's railing. The child kicks again, and I can only suppose that perhaps he really is reacting to the din all around us. I imagine that he, like me, is somewhat overawed by the change in our surroundings.

  So far, England is so much busier than our quiet little corner of Provence.

  “All's ready,” Robert says suddenly, and I turn to see that he's climbing onto the seat at the front of the carriage, where the reins are tied around a loop. Ahead, two fine black horses are being fed by another dock worker.

  “Do you mean to drive the carriage yourself?” I ask.

  “I do,” Robert replies. “If a man can't drive his own wife to their new home, then what good is he?” He smiles as he takes a seat. �
�I want our arrival at Wetherley House to be memorable, Marguerite. I want to show the others that I mean business. My family can be...”

  His voice trails off for a moment. As ever, the merest mention of his family's existence has brought about a change in his demeanor.

  “Will your family be waiting for us?” I ask.

  “Some of them, if we're unlucky.”

  “You shouldn't say such things,” I point out.

  “How's the baby?”

  “Kicking.”

  “That's my boy,” he continues as he takes hold of the reins. “Or girl. Now sit down and get comfortable, for we have a long drive ahead of us through Kent. I have told the horses to take extra care, but there could still be a few rocks along the way.”

  Doing as I'm told, I can't help looking around at the rough, dirty faces of the dock workers. I had heard that England could be a somewhat filthy place, and I can't help noticing that the workers here seem to take less pride in their appearance than the workers back home in Paris or Marseilles. Still, the sheer bright whiteness of the cliffs is more than enough to compensate. As Robert gets us underway and our carriage begins to rattle along the dockside toward the road, I lean back and look toward the horizon.

  I'm home. My new home, anyway. With the man I love and, soon, our first child.

  ***

  “Is something the matter?” I ask a couple of hours later, as Robert brings the carriage to a halt at the side of a remote road.

  “I just need to feed the horses,” he replies, already climbing down. “Rest, my dear. This won't take long.”

  “I think I should like to stretch my legs,” I tell him, and he duly helps me from the carriage.

  Relieved to be on firmer ground once more, I step around the side of the carriage and look up at a nearby signpost, which informs me that a place called Ashford is just ten miles away. I turn and look around, marveling at the rolling green hills and at the fields that stretch to the horizon. In the distance, sheep are grazing on a patch of land, and the whole scene seems so wonderfully peaceful and divine. Now this is the England of Mr. Blake's poetry, the green and pleasant land of which I dreamed as a girl in Marseilles.