The Curse of Wetherley House

by Amy Cross

  And then everything is dark. All I can hear is a series of distant thuds, getting further and further away, as the men continue to fill my grave with frozen soil. Finally, even that sound ends.

  Now all is silent, and all is still.

  Part Three

  1900

  Mary

  All is silent and all is still. The forest is so quiet.

  Even the afternoon light does not make a sound as it streams down between the branches and leaves.

  There is no noise from the forest, or from the house, or from the nearby road.

  I am even holding my breath.

  Everything is silent, and yet...

  I can hear a deafening scream.

  Loud enough to shake me, to rattle my bones. Loud enough to make me want to put my hands over my ears. Loud enough to cause the muddy ground to tremble beneath my bare feet. Somebody is in agony, crying out for help, screaming louder than I ever thought a person could scream.

  Yet still the forest is silent.

  ***

  “Here she comes now,” Father says as we stand behind our chairs at the dinner table, waiting for Mother to join us. “Be patient.”

  I want to tell him that I'm always patient, but I know I should hold my tongue. Instead, I simply stand with my head slightly bowed, staring down at my plate as I listen to the series of creaks and bumps that are oh-so-slowly making their way down the stairs. I can hear a few gasps, too, and it's evident that Mother is having a particularly bad day with her aches and pains. Finally, hearing another bump at the door, I dare turn my head slightly and look past the table, and I see Mother's shadow shuffling into view as she leans heavily on her two walking sticks. Her shadow is like that of a huge, upright spider.

  And then Mother herself appears.

  “We waited for you,” Father tells her.

  “Thank you, Gordon,” she rasps, as he hurries over and pulls her chair back so that she might sit.

  I watch as Mother rests her walking sticks against the table and begins to ease herself onto the chair. I have never seen her without that huge black dress, nor have I ever been told much about her injuries, but I have overheard her talking to Father from time to time. So I know that Mother suffered some horrendous damage when I was born. A few times, after drinking wine at dinner, she has even gone to great lengths to remind me that I am the cause of her disability, that it is my fault that her body was so badly damaged in the process. I feel bad for that, honestly I do, and many times I have prayed to God that he might forgive my sin and set Mother's body right. But now, as Mother lets out a groan of pain as she finally settles on her chair, I cannot help but wonder what she looks like under all those clothes, and how badly twisted her hips and legs have really become.

  It is wicked of me to think such things, I know, but I am curious.

  “Be seated, Mary,” Father says finally, stepping back over to his own chair and sitting.

  I do as I am told, and a moment later Mr. Carsdale brings the first dinner pot through from the kitchen. I know Mr. Carsdale always waits outside the dining room until he knows that Mother is ready. This is one of the many unmentioned signals to which we are all accustomed here at Wetherley House. I suppose all families are similar to some degree, although lately I have begun to think that Mother's deformities are far more considerable than those of almost anyone else alive. Her upper body seems completely fine, but evidently from the bottom of her ribs down to her legs she is utterly ravaged. Who in their right mind would not be curious about such a thing?

  “Ah, pork,” Father says with a forced smile as Mr. Carsdale lifts the lid from the dish and leaves the room. “My favorite!”

  “You say everything is your favorite,” Mother mutters darkly.

  “I have a lot of favorites,” he replies, glancing at me. “You like pork, Mary, do you not?”

  “I do,” I lie, smiling at him and then at Mother.

  Mother, of course, glares back as if she hates the sight of me.

  I look down at the table.

  “Shall I lead the prayer today?” Father asks.

  When nobody replies, he puts his hands together.

  I do the same, and I bow my head too.

  “Bless us, O Lord,” Father continues, “and these, thy gifts, which -”

  He stops suddenly as a spoon bangs against the dish, and even without looking up I am quite certain that Mother has begun to serve herself.

  “And these, thy gifts,” Father says again, “which we are about to receive from thy bounty.”

  “That'll do!” Mother barks.

  “And which -”

  “That will do, Gordon!”

  And then silence for a moment, while Father gives in.

  Finally I allow myself to open my eyes, and after a moment I dare look up. Father's eyes are open too, and he has separated his hands, as if he has once again abandoned his attempt to say grace. Mother, meanwhile, has almost finished helping herself, and she winces slightly as she leans over and sets the spoon back in the dish. I feel as if I should help her, but I already know from bitter experience that she sometimes reacts very badly to such things. It is better, I have come to realize, if one remains as still and quiet as possible. Sometimes, I believe that the less attention one attracts from Mother, the better.

  “I saw there were some slippages in the forest,” Father says as he begins to put food on his plate. He's trying to make conversation, as usual. He'll fail, as usual. “Some mud slides, even. I think you should both refrain from going out there until I've made sure it's safe. We wouldn't want any accidents.”

  “When do I ever go out into that damnable forest?” Mother gasps.

  “Mary, you must be careful too,” Father continues. “I saw you out there earlier. What were you doing?”

  “Just exploring,” I tell him.

  “Exploring what?” Mother spits.

  “I don't know,” I continue, forcing myself to turn and look at her scowling features. “I suppose I just wanted to see how the terrible rains had affected the land. I noticed last time that the trees tend to -”

  “I don't want you going out there ever again,” she says suddenly, interrupting me. “I've told you before, girl. The forest is off-limits.”

  “I thought -”

  “Don't argue with me, girl.”

  “Of course not, Mother. I'm sorry, Mother.”

  “I'm sure it'll be safe soon enough,” Father says diplomatically. “Mary, you may serve yourself now.”

  “I don't want her going into that forest,” Mother replies, as I start putting food on my plate. “There's no reason for anyone to ever go out there. I'd sell this house in a heartbeat if I could, but nobody would ever give us the proper price. Those jackals think they can undercut us, but I'll show them. Eventually a real offer will come in and we can get out of here. Wetherley House is a monstrosity.”

  “I thought it was important to our family,” I say, daring to ask a question.

  “Who gave you permission to speak?” Mother snaps back at me.

  “Sorry, Mother.”

  Setting the spoon back on the dish, I look down at my plate.

  “Why must I be troubled all the time by foolish questions?” Mother continues, sounding a little breathless now. “When I say that something must be a certain way, it must simply be that way. Why do you, Gordon, or you, Mary, feel the need to disagree all the time?”

  “It's alright, Eve,” Father says calmly. “You mustn't let yourself get upset.”

  “Then tell that stupid girl to keep her mouth shut!”

  “Your mother likes to eat dinner in peace,” Father continues, and I look up to see that he's watching me now. “Perhaps we should save the conversation for some other time. For now, Mary, simply keep it in mind that you are to refrain from going out to the forest. There's nothing there of interest. If you get bored in the house, you have plenty of studies to be getting on with.”

  “Yes, Father,” I reply, although I can't help glancing at
the window and staring for a moment at the dark forest beyond the lawn. Even from here at the dining table, I swear I can hear the silent scream rising up from the mud between the trees.

  Why do Mother and Father not hear the scream?

  Mary

  “I shan't be long,” Father says as he leaves the master bedroom. “Are you sure you don't want me to stay and help you with your -”

  “Leave me alone!” Mother snaps. “Go and attend to your beloved horses, Gordon, if they matter to you so much!”

  Standing just inside my bedroom door, I listen to the sound of Father making his way down the stairs, and then I hear him leaving the house. He always spends at least half an hour out there in the stable each evening after dinner, tending to the horses, and I know that Mr. Carsdale is still busy with his duties in the kitchen. I wait a moment longer, therefore, before stepping out onto the landing and taking great care to avoid the boards that might creak and give away my presence. Fortunately, I know which boards creak; I know all the boards intimately, the way I know the keys on a piano.

  Ahead, Father has left the door to the master bedroom partially open, and I can hear a faint rustling sound as Mother gets ready for bed.

  It is wicked of me to even think that I might spy on her, yet curiosity has been gnawing at me of late and I feel certain that if I can understand the nature of Mother's injuries a little better, I might be able to get a better realization of why she is the way she is. Even now, as I creep along the landing and listen to the continued shuffling sounds coming from the room ahead, I keep trying to remind myself that what I'm doing is perhaps justifiable if one looks at things from a scientific standpoint. Despite everything we have been told at church, I feel more and more certain that sometimes there is no right and no wrong, and that God must surely understand why from time to time we must make compromises in our own souls.

  Besides, though I am but a girl, I want to be a doctor when I grow up.

  Reaching the door, I peer through the crack between the hinges, and I immediately see that Mother is over by the dresser in the far corner. She has already slipped out of her black dress, and now she is removing her undergarments. If she spots me here watching her, she'll surely fly into the most intense fury imaginable, so I tense myself in case I have cause to pull back at any moment. I continue to watch, however, as Mother begins to pull her petticoat away, then the last of her underthings, and finally my eyes open with shock as I see that it is not her legs that are damaged at all, but rather her hips.

  A huge, thick scar runs down through her rear, and a moment later she turns slightly and I see that the scar continues around to the front, splitting in two and forming a kind of Y-shape that covers most of her belly. The flesh is mottled and discolored, and there are several smaller scars running like tributaries from the main section of twisted and knotted flesh. It is as if her hips were at some point carved open and separated slightly, and only partially put back together, and as such her legs appear to have gouged up into her waist a little, which I suppose explains the fact that they have become bowed over the years, barely able to support her weight at all. In fact, the arrangement of her hips looks so unreal and so unnatural, I cannot help staring in open-mouthed horror at the ghastly sight.

  Letting out a gasp of pain, she steps over toward the far end of the dresser, and I can hear her legs clicking as her knees point out at opposing angles. She really does have a rather spider-like gait, and it's clear that she's in a great deal of agony. She has told me so many times that it was my birth that caused this damage, but I do not understand how one small baby could tear a woman's body open in such a manner. I have seen other mothers in town, and I am quite sure that they have all been able to walk around perfectly normally. Some of them have even given birth to several children, and it seems that only my mother was almost crippled by the arrival of just one. Was I really so monstrous from inception, so vile and dangerous, that I virtually carved her body open in the simple act of entering this world?

  Whatever could have been wrong with me?

  Suddenly Mother turns and I instinctively pull back, holding my breath. A moment later I hear a series of clicks and soft bumps, and I realize that she is coming over to the door. Avoiding the loose boards once more, I pick my way carefully but quickly back to my room and then I gently push the door shut. Fortunately, Mother is unable to move at any real speed, so at least I know that she had no chance of spotting me. Still, I wait with a growing sense of fear as I realize that I can hear Mother coming out of her room.

  A moment later, one of the boards creaks on the other side of my door, and I realize she has come to check that I am asleep.

  Stepping back from the door, I wait for her to knock, or for her to simply come inside. I have no hope of fooling her into thinking that I have already gone to bed, so I shall most likely be in the most awful trouble if she decides to enter. After a few seconds, however, I hear the same board creak again, and I realize to my utter relief that she has turned to go back to her own room. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I tell myself that I just took an awful and unrepeatable risk, but at the same time I know that the risk was worthwhile. I have now seen Mother's true form, and a shudder passes through my body as I realize that perhaps she was right all along when she said that her disability is my fault.

  Finally, getting down onto my knees, I begin to offer a prayer before bedtime, imploring God to forgive me for doing such awful things to my own mother, and asking that she might be spared any further pain.

  ***

  It's the wriggling sensation that disturbs me at first. I drift in and out of sleep, occasionally waking for a few seconds at a time, for just long enough to brush a hand across my face and then nod off again. Between these moments, I dream of horrible creatures crawling all over my body, and finally I wake yet again and roll onto my back, opening my eyes and staring up at the dark ceiling.

  And then I feel it.

  Something is on my face.

  Reaching up, I run a hand across my left cheek, and sure enough I find that some kind of small worm is making its way past my nostril. Plucking it from my flesh, I turn and place the offending creature on my nightstand, and then I watch with a sense of both fascination and disgust as a single maggot wriggles in the moonlight. For all of a few minutes, I cannot help but watch the maggot's progress, and I must say that I feel a very faint sense of admiration for the fact that it seems so determined to continue on its way. I have no idea where a maggot needs to be in the middle of the night, but the little chap is evidently in a great hurry. So long as he is not on me, I suppose that his business is really none of mine.

  Peering closer, I squint and look closer at its darkened little tip.

  Turning to roll back over in bed, I suddenly realize that I can see a figure outside, far beyond the lawn. I pull myself further up the bed and peer out the window, just in time to see that there is indeed someone walking between the trees in the forest. From the fact that the figure is walking normally, I can immediately tell that it is not Mother, and after a moment I realize that the figure appears to be a man. It's not Father, though, and I know that there is nobody else who has any right to be out there on our private property. Bathed in moonlight, the man regularly slips out of view behind some of the trees, only to swiftly appear again a little further along, and I am struck after a moment by the realization that although I cannot make out his features at all, he seems to be looking directly this way.

  Directly at me, even.

  I pull back from the window, lest I should be seen, but I cannot contain my curiosity for long and I quickly look out again.

  He is still there.

  Still walking calmly through the forest, just as the maggot still crawls calmly across my nightstand.

  “Your activities might be none of my business,” I whisper, looking down at the maggot, “but that man...”

  My voice trails off for a moment, before finally I climb out of bed and take my gown from the hook on the door. Once
I am decent, I pull the door open, and then I take the maggot in the palm of my hand and step out onto the landing, although I immediately step on a loose board and flinch as a creak rings out. Staying completely still, I wait as silence returns, desperately hoping that I have not woken Mother and Father. After all, they would undoubtedly send me straight back to bed, and I fail to see why I should not go out and see for myself what the man wants. I am twelve years old now, almost thirteen, and I refuse to be easily scared.

  Of course, I would be far less nervous if the figure were a woman, but I am sure I can fend for myself. Besides, one scream and the whole house will hear.

  “Anyone would think I'm foolish for doing this,” I whisper to the maggot as I tip it from one palm to the other, “but that would simply be because they did not know me very well. I'm tougher than I look.”

  I wait a moment, but of course the maggot simply continues to crawl across my hand. He would probably be much happier outside.

  Creeping past the door to Mother and Father's room, taking care to avoid the rest of the loose boards, I finally begin to make my way down the stairs and through to the back door, where I stop for a moment so that I can peer out across the lawn. At first I see no sign of the man, but after a moment I spot a faint figure moving through the moonlight, and I realize that he cannot have been some wild hallucination that I dragged into the waking world from my dreams. He's real, that's for sure, and without hesitation I reach down and turn the key, unlocking the door and then pulling it open.

  And all the while, I am constantly keeping track of the maggot, and transferring him from one palm to the other whenever necessary.

  The night air is cool, but I step out and make my way to the edge of the lawn. The man is still in the forest, and now more than ever I'm certain that he's looking at me. I know I should go and wake Father, but at the same time I want to know who the man is and what he wants, and I feel certain that Father and Mother would both make me go to my room while they dealt with him, and that I would never be told the truth. Besides, something about the man seems strangely familiar and calming, and after a moment I realize that while the silent scream is still filling the forest, it seems now to be calling me onward. Perhaps it is the scream that is giving me uncommon bravery tonight.