The Curse of Wetherley House

by Amy Cross

  “We are in the process of searching for some more help,” he continues, sounding exhausted and looking utterly distracted. “Your mother had to make do in the kitchen as best she could manage and...”

  His voice trails off, and all of a sudden I cannot help but note that he appears rather pale.

  “You ask a lot of questions,” Mother says after a moment. “Child, you would do well to remember your place.”

  “Yes, Mother,” I reply, looking down at my rather unappetizing meal. I never knew how much I relied upon Mr. Carsdale's cooking skills until they were gone. “I'm glad you're feeling okay, Mother.”

  “I just had a funny spell,” she continues, although her head twitches again. “You know how it can be, Mary. Well, perhaps you do not, not yet. You're not a woman. It can be very easy for women to let their thoughts overpower them. One must not read too much into one's dreams, or one is liable to find them spilling out into the world around us. And then one must remind oneself that they really are just dreams, which can be quite exhausting. Fortunately, your father reminded me that I must stay strong, and that is -”

  She flinches suddenly.

  “And that,” she adds finally, sounding a little breathless, “is what I am doing.”

  I look over at Father, but his head is bowed and he's simply staring down at his plate. Turning back to Mother, I cannot help but notice that she seems to be eyeing me with a great deal of suspicion. I think perhaps I preferred things when she was upstairs whimpering.

  “I have pulled myself together now,” she explains, “and overcome my delusions. As any strong woman must do. I know what is real and what is not. I recognize what is possible and what can only exist in fancy. Do you know, child, that for a short while this morning I actually came to believe in ghosts?” She smiles. “I even thought I saw one. Why, if I had remained in that fragile state, I might even believe I was seeing one at this very moment.”

  I wait for her to continue, but now she's simply staring at me.

  Not daring to break eye contact, I nevertheless set my hands in my lap.

  “But no,” she whispers. “I am not seeing a ghost. What a ludicrous proposition. The dead do not return to this world, Mary. Where they go, I cannot say, but it is somewhere very far away. And they do not come back, and we would not hear them even if they called to us. Perhaps they do call to us, and perhaps in our weaker moments we might think we hear them, but we do not. Nevertheless, I do think they sometimes leave things behind, things that we might not immediately notice. Things that might somehow influence us. Does that make sense to your childish mind, girl, or are you not yet sufficiently developed?”

  “I don't know,” I reply, my voice feeling dry and choked.

  “The dead are dead,” she continues. “If you don't -”

  Before she can finish, I hear a loud bump and I turn just in time to see that Father has slumped forward and slammed his head against the table. His face is resting on his plate, and I stare in horror as I see that he is no longer moving at all.

  “Well, that's some auspicious timing,” Mother mutters, as if she's not very surprised. “Now let me think, your father wasn't allergic to nuts, was he? Oh yes, he was. I suppose I should have left them out of tonight's meal.”

  Shocked, I push the chair back and get to my feet.

  “Sit,” Mother says firmly.

  “But -”

  “Sit!”

  I hesitate for a moment, before slowly sitting back on the chair. My heart is racing and I can barely keep my thoughts straight.

  “Draw yourself to the table,” Mother continues.

  I stare at Father's un-moving figure for a moment, before pulling my chair closer to the table. I know Father can't be dead, I know that I must simply be missing something about this situation, but at the same time I am quite sure that Father would never partake in some kind of joke. I am filled with panic, yet I do not know what I should do next.

  “Your father appears to have left the conversation,” Mother says calmly. “Keep a stiff upper lip, Mary. This is not the time to let yourself get emotional.”

  Still staring at Father, I feel a shudder pass through my chest.

  “But Mother,” I stammer, “he...”

  My voice trails off.

  “What, dear? Whatever's the matter?”

  “He... I mean, is he... Is...”

  I hesitate for a moment longer, as I realize that Father has been face-down in his dinner for a couple of minutes now.

  “Is he... dead?” I manage to ask finally.

  “Well that depends on whether he can breathe gravy, doesn't it?” Mother replies, before reaching over and turning Father's face slightly, allowing me to see his dead, gravy-smeared face and the fragments of potato that are stuck to his wide-open eyes. “Oh dear. I do fear the worst.”

  With that, she lets his face press back against the plate.

  “I suppose there will be some changes around here now,” she continues, picking up her knife and fork and then immediately starting to cut into her meat. “Your father was a good man, Mary, but he could be somewhat spineless. Now that it's just the pair of us, I shall need you to help out more in the house. Still, you're getting old enough for extra responsibilities, and I am sure I'll be able to find plenty of jobs for you.” She pauses, and I see a flicker of something new crossing her face, as if she's perhaps not quite as calm as she's trying to appear. “Life goes on, my dear, and you must be very well-behaved. Is that understood?”

  I want to ask what she means, but still I cannot stop turning back and looking at Father. And then, after a moment, I realize I can hear the whispering voice again.

  “I should have done that years ago,” Mother mutters. “Now eat up, dear. You have plenty of work to do after dinner, starting with the task of removing your father and -”

  “No!”

  Suddenly filled with the realization that I have to get out of here, I get up from my chair and take a step back.

  “You're insane!” I stammer. “You've completely lost your mind!”

  She tilts her head slightly.

  “You're a murderer!” I continue. “You killed Father! You... you... You killed him!”

  “Sit down, Mary.”

  I shake my head, before turning and hurrying toward the door. Racing up to my room, I make my way inside and then I stop as I realize that I'm not entirely sure what to do next. Thoughts are rushing through my mind, but finally I realize that I simply must go to town and speak to the police, and I must tell them what Mother has done. I have no idea how they'll react, but they have to at least come out here and investigate, which means that perhaps Mother will be hauled away for her crimes and I shall be sent to...

  To where?

  With Mother gone, I would be an orphan. Or alone in the world, at least.

  Still, I have no choice. Turning, I head back to the door, only for it to swing open as Mother steps through. Gasping, I try to pull away, but she shoves me back until I slam hard against the wooden floor. Dragging myself toward the window, thinking that perhaps I can climb out and drop down into the flowerbed, I finally start to reach up, only for Mother to snap a cane across my back and send me slumping back to the floor.

  “And what do we have here?” she mutters, reaching down and picking up the skull from next to my writing desk.

  “Leave that alone!” I shout.

  “My,” she continues, taking a closer look at the skull as a faint smile crosses her face. “Hello again, Marguerite. How distressing to find that you have temporarily found your way back into the house.”

  With that, she drops the skull, letting it crash back down against the bare boards with such force that a section cracks away from one of the cheekbones.

  “No!” I gasp, trying to crawl around Mother and make for the door. Before I can get even halfway across the room, however, she cracks the cane against my face, cutting open a seam of flesh and sending me falling back against the side of the bed.

  Reaching
up, I feel blood running down to my chin. I'm trembling now, terrified of what Mother might do next, and a moment later I see that a dribble of blood is already running from the end of her cane. As Mother steps closer, I flinch and put my hands up to cover my face, and then I try to curl into a ball as she slowly, creakily kneels in front of me.

  “Fruit of my loins,” she says calmly, as she leans so close that I can feel her hot breath against my face, “how am I going to make you see things my way? How am I going to set you on the straight and narrow?”

  She pauses for a moment, as the whispering voice gets louder and louder in the air around us, and then finally she tilts her head as if she's heard something she understands.

  “Ah yes,” she purrs. “I have an idea.”

  Part Four

  1906

  Eve

  “I think I am getting much better at the piano now,” Mary says happily as she spoons some more potatoes onto her plate. “You were right, Mummy. All I really needed was more practice. Thank you for telling me to keep at it.”

  “Not at all, dear,” I reply. “It fills my heart with joy to hear you playing.”

  “I know I shan't ever be able to play in public,” she continues, “but I still like to practice for my own amusement. Why, I can play for hours and hours each day without every growing tired or bored.”

  “It's good that you know your place,” I tell her. “I'm so glad that you don't fill your thoughts with foolish ambitions. So many women these days seem to think that they need to become the equal of men, in order to achieve anything in this life. The truth is that women are born to a quite different role, and it is best that we stick to our own course. You and I, my darling girl, are happy just the way we are.”

  “You are right again, Mummy. I'm so glad that I have the benefit of your wisdom. I'm the luckiest girl in the whole world.”

  I watch for a moment as she starts to eat, and then I cut into my own meat. Mary has become a quite excellent cook over the past few years, better than I myself ever managed, and I am so very proud of her. Even now, she maintains perfect poise and posture as she sits at the other end of the dining table, and at the age of eighteen she has blossomed and become an utterly beautiful young woman. To my relief, her resemblance to Marguerite has even faded, and now I dare say she actually looks a little like me, and like Gordon too. I can only suppose that nature has finally taken its course.

  “Might I play for you after dinner?” she asks eventually. “Please, Mummy? I don't want to bore you, but I would so dearly love for you to hear how I'm getting on.”

  “Of course, darling,” I reply, unable to stifle a faint smile as I realize that life is so perfect now. “Nothing could give me greater pleasure than to hear my own dear daughter playing in the evening. I think, in fact, that this is what I have wanted my entire life.”

  Wetherley House is now the happiest house in the whole of England.

  ***

  Later in the evening, the sound of Mary's playing fills me with joy as I step into the drawing room. Somehow, the music seems to drift effortlessly from room to room, almost as if it follows me, and I cannot help but smile as I make my way over to the bookcase and search for a specific volume. Finally locating one of Gordon's old books on gardening, I slip it out and start searching for the section on perennials, so that -

  Suddenly I hear a loud banging sound, and I turn to look back through to the hallway.

  Mary is still playing, but I am sure I heard someone at the front door. It's almost seven in the evening and I can't imagine how anybody would ever have business at Wetherley House at such a late hour. Indeed, it has been so long since we last had visitors at all, I had begun to think that we were never to be disturbed again. A moment later, however, the knocking sounds returns, and this time Mary abruptly stops playing.

  Now the house is silent, but finally the knocking rings out for a third time, and it is clear that our unwanted visitor will not simply leave.

  “I'll answer!” I call out, setting the book down and heading back into the hallway, from where I can see that there appear to be two figures outside. As I get closer to the door, I cannot help worrying that this disturbance might mean trouble. “Go to your room, Mary,” I continue, as I reach for the latch. “I shall deal with this.”

  I wait until I hear Mary reaching the top of the stairs, and then I slide the latch aside and pull the door open. As soon as I do so, I'm startled to see my cousin Muriel Cruikshank standing outside with her son George.

  “Oh, thank goodness you're home!” Muriel says, bursting inside without even waiting for an invitation. “We're in the most frightful jam, Eve! You're a lifesaver!”

  “What are you doing here?” I stammer.

  “What are we doing here?” She lets out a long, pained sigh, as if she has just ended some awful tribulation. Turning to me, she bumps against the hall table, almost knocking it over. “Let me tell you, Eve, this is the last time I ever go on holiday beyond the confines of London. As soon as one gets away from the city, one enters a wild and savage land that barely deserves to be considered part of our fair England at all! It's quite astonishing, but the warnings were all quite correct!” Stepping past me, she sets her hat on the table and then sits on the nearest chair, which creaks under her considerable weight. “There are no trains past Colchester this evening,” she continues. “Can you believe that? No trains at all. It's as if we're in the wilderness!”

  “I'm sorry,” I reply, “but I still don't -”

  “We're stranded, Eve! Stranded, hundreds of miles from home! It's only by the grace of God that I recalled you had returned to Wetherley House, and I said to George that we would simply have to throw ourselves on your mercy.”

  “She did say that,” George adds glumly.

  “We need to stay the night,” Muriel continues breathlessly. “I'm so sorry, Eve, but we desperately need you and dear Gordon to put us up. How is Gordon, by the way? Still a handsome devil?”

  “I...”

  Barely knowing where to begin, I stare at my cousin with a sense of utter astonishment.

  “You don't have any food, do you?” she asks, before turning to George. “Darling, I need something to eat. You'll have to find me a morsel, so that I can eat while Eve and I catch up!”

  George turns to me.

  “I believe there is a public house in town,” I say cautiously, “with rooms available on a nightly basis. I don't mean to sound unwelcoming, but I rather feel that you'd be more comfortable in -”

  “With all those beer-drinking loudmouths?” Muriel roars uncouthly. “I'd say not! Whatever's given you that notion, dear Eve? I don't want to expose poor George to such horrible things.”

  “She doesn't,” the boy adds forlornly.

  “We shan't bother you too much,” Muriel continues. “George and I are very quiet and polite house guests, and it's only for tonight and tomorrow morning. Or perhaps until Thursday at the latest.”

  “Thursday?” I gasp. “That's out of the -”

  “Where's dear Mary, anyway?” she continues, turning back to her son. “You remember Mary, don't you? Perhaps not. After all, it has been a while and she's several years older than you.” She turns back to me. “You and Gordon have rather hidden Mary away from the rest of the family, haven't you? She must be, what, eighteen years old now? Surely she's coming into her own and filling out nicely?” A leering grin crosses her face. “I dare say the local boys must be starting to sniff around, eh? Are you planning to marry her off any time soon?”

  “I -”

  “Of course, girls of that age can be so much trouble,” she adds. “I hope Mary hasn't become too rebellious!”

  This stream of questions is so shocking, and so rapid, that I honestly don't know where to begin. Muriel was always frightfully rude, but since our last encounter she seems to have become something from a caricaturist's most fevered dream. In fact, I had not notice before, but now I see that her left eye is rather bloodshot.

  “Y
ou look shocked,” she adds finally. “George, go to the kitchen and raid their larder. Find me something to eat, boy.” Easing herself off the chair, which creaks once more, she steadies herself for a moment against the dresser. “My knees aren't half bad, Eve. Now, let's get started, shall we? What's been going on with you since the last time we met? I want to hear all about it!”

  Eve

  “They sound utterly frightful,” Mary whispers behind me, as I peer out through the crack in her bedroom door and listen to the Cruikshanks arranging themselves in the spare bedroom. “Mummy, they're not staying for long, are they?”

  I open my mouth to assure her that they'll be leaving in the morning, but when I turn to Mary I immediately realize that I can offer no such reassurance. So far this evening, Muriel has ignored or perhaps not even noticed my subtle attempts to make her realize that she's not welcome, and I have had to accept now that she and her wretched son seem rather settled.

  “How can they be related to us?” Mary continues. “They sound like pigs!”

  “Every family must bear its burdens,” I tell her, keeping my voice low so that the Cruikshanks won't overhear us. “Muriel and her spawn have always been rather raucous, which is why I have long tried to avoid having anything to do with them. Unfortunately, one cannot always avoid such people forever, and it seems that they have descended upon us for a short while. We must simply bear their visit with good grace and manners.”

  “Can't you throw them out?”

  “They are family, dear.”

  “But -”

  “You shall stay in your room,” I add, trying to work out how exactly we are going to deal with this intrusion. “I do not want you exposed to them in any way, in case their uncouth manners rub off on you.”

  “I'm sure they wouldn't, Mummy.”

  “One cannot be too careful. You are to stay in here. Is that understood?”

  Hearing footsteps outside the door, I listen to the sound of George running downstairs. He sounds like an absolute bull in a china shop, bumping against the walls and paying no mind to the fact that this is a restrained home. If he is like this when he is a guest, I cannot begin to imagine how he must behave at home. A moment later, however, I hear one of the floorboards creak on the landing, and I realize to my horror that Muriel must have emerged from the spare room.