The Curse of Wetherley House

by Amy Cross

  With that, I turn my back on his shocked face and begin to make my way along the busy street, slipping through the crowd of rabble. Behind my back, the loathsome workers are yelling at each other, but a moment later I hear that infernal whispering sound again. I stop and look around, but of course there's no sign of anyone. Still, the sound continues, and after a moment I see that the three young Trin girls are staring at me from the other side of the street. They're standing near the truck that's being loaded with glass panes, and suddenly one of the girls turns and calls out to her father.

  “Daddy!” she shouts. “Who's the horrible woman who's whispering into Mrs. Carmichael's ear all the time?”

  I turn and look over my shoulder, but there's still nobody. When I look back at the three children, I see that they're still gawping at me.

  “Mrs. Carmichael?”

  Realizing that a man has approached me, I turn and find that a police officer has come over.

  “I'm terribly sorry to disturb you,” he continues, his voice barely rising above the incessant whispering sound, “but I was planning to come out to Wetherley House later today and speak to you about a rather delicate matter.”

  “If it's about the Cruikshanks,” I stammer, “I know nothing.”

  “Cruikshanks?” He furrows his brow. “No, Mrs. Carmichael, I think we're at cross purposes here. I need to talk to you about -”

  “Watch out!” a man yells. “Move! Get out of the way!”

  Suddenly there's a loud snapping sound nearby.

  I turn and look. Before I even have a chance to blink, however, the uppermost pane of glass slides away from the rest at speed and shoots out from the back of the carriage, slamming straight into the three young Trin girls and slicing cleanly through their necks in just a fraction of a second.

  As the blood-smeared pane finally smashes down to the ground, the girls' decapitated heads drop from their bodies and bump onto the cobbles, leaving the three bodies standing with blood spraying from the stumps of their necks. And then, one by one, the three bodies drop down on bent knees before toppling onto their sides and spilling more blood.

  As screams ring out from the crowd, I stare at the three severed heads and see that each of the girls is still blinking. This continues for a few seconds, before first one falls still, then the second, and finally the third.

  Eve

  “It sounds utterly horrific,” Mary says, staring at me with an expression of pure horror. “All three girls? All at once?”

  “I have never seen a scene like it,” I reply, thinking back yet again to the awful accident I witnessed in town. Or rather, trying not to think back, but finding that the grisly image is lodged in my mind. I take another sip of water. “Mr. Trin became utterly catatonic. I can't imagine he'll get over it.”

  “And the girls were looking at you when it all happened?”

  “I don't see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Of course not, I just...”

  Her voice trails off for a moment, as if she still can't quite believe that such a terrible thing could have occurred. At the same time, there seems to be just the faintest trace of a smile trying to curl across her lips, as if she's struggling to keep her true feelings contained.

  “It's just hard to believe that such a thing could be an accident,” she continues finally. “It's almost tempting to think that the fates conspired, or some other force intervened. Still, I suppose that's not possible. God would never do such a thing, and I can't imagine that there's anything else in all of existence that would be capable.”

  “You must put such thoughts out of your mind,” I tell her. “The triplets simply suffered a very nasty accident. Perhaps if they hadn't been so ill-disciplined and unruly, they wouldn't have been standing in such an unfortunate place to begin with.”

  “But -”

  “If they had been in school, or studying verse at home, they would still have their heads.”

  “I hope you didn't say such a thing to poor Mr. Trin.”

  “At least they'll no longer be bothering us by playing near the forest,” I add. “It's a terrible thing, but not every consequence is going to be negative.” I pause for a moment. “Although I suppose something will have to be done about the business now. With Mr. Trin likely out of action, perhaps I shall have to sell it all off to the highest bidder. Still, there should be someone out there who'd be willing to take on all the new ideas Mr. Trin was coming up with. I'm led to believe that there's quite some degree of promise in his work. He claimed to be developing an exceptionally thin and sharp type of glass and, well, one way or another today's horrible accident at least proves that he must have been onto something.”

  “There is a man coming toward the front door.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  Turning, I look out the bedroom window and see that Mary is right. A figure is indeed making its way along the path that runs from the distant gate, and something about the figure's gait give me pause for concern. As he comes closer, I realize that he is wearing a dark uniform, and finally I feel a sudden clenching sensation in my chest as I understand that this gentleman appears to be a police officer. Not just any police officer, either. He's the same uncouth ruffian who tried to speak to me earlier in town, and whose conversation I would have been forced to endure had the accident not occurred. It would appear that he's determined to try again.

  “What does he want?” Mary asks.

  Turning to her, I can see the fear in her eyes.

  “You must get rid of him!” she says firmly.

  “Wait here,” I reply, getting to my feet and taking a moment to straighten the front of my dress. I take another sip of water, before setting the glass on the bedside table. “I shall see to this matter. I'm sure he's just performing his rounds and checking on all the houses in the area.”

  I turn and head toward the stairs, and then down toward the hallway.

  “They don't do that, though, do they?” Mary asks.

  Stopping, I glance back at her.

  “He must be here for a specific reason,” she continues. “Don't let him into the house.”

  “Quiet,” I reply, keeping my gaze fixed on her for a moment. “I need you to be quiet.”

  “You don't have to worry about me,” she says with a smile. “You know who you have to worry about. Keep that man out of this house.”

  Before I can answer, I hear a loud, brutish knocking sound at the front door. My chest tightens with fear and I turn to see that a jovial-looking policeman is already waving at me through the glass panel. I force a smile, hoping to set him at ease, and then I make my way over so that I can turn the latch. I still hesitate for a moment, worried about how I shall appear once I have to speak, but I quickly remind myself that I have spoken to such people before. I can do it again.

  “Good morning,” I say as I finally open the door. “What brings you to Wetherley House?”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Carmichael,” he replies, removing his hat in the proper manner. “I'm sorry to disturb you on this fine day, but we were rather unfortunately interrupted earlier by that terrible business in town.”

  “Indeed.

  “As I was about to tell you,” he continues, “a matter has arisen in London and I have been asked to come over and make sure that it's of no concern.”

  “London?” I cannot help feeling a flush of relief. “I have no dealings with anyone in London.”

  “Might I come inside for a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  I step aside so that he can enter. I hate the intrusion, of course, but I know I cannot turn the man away. Of course, he somehow manages to step on not one but two creaking boards in succession, and I flinch as I imagine how loud those boards must sound in the basement.

  “Do you know a Doctor Josiah Edge, M'am?” he asks as I shut the door. “Or rather, did you know him?”

  “I beg your pardon?” I reply as I turn to him. I recognize the name, of course, even though I have not heard it uttere
d in many years. Nor did I ever wish to be reminded of that man again.

  “A Doctor Josiah Edge of Marystone Street in London was found dead last Tuesday week, M'am,” he continues. “Suicide by hanging, I'm afraid to say.”

  “How dreadful,” I mutter, although my mind is racing as I try to work out why such news should be brought to my door.

  “Doctor Edge left a note behind,” he continues, “in which he blamed his failings on various factors. He seems to have been a rather bitter gentleman, if I'm blunt, and it was a very long note. More like a small pamphlet, really. Anyway, I'm told that most of it was a kind of ramble concerning the injustices of the world and the fact that his genius had not been recognized by his peers, but there was one section in which, well...”

  He hesitates for a moment, as if he's worried about sounding indelicate.

  “Well, M'am, in one section he speaks of you specifically. And of this house, actually. And of certain matters that I've been asked to clear up with you, on behalf of my colleagues in London.”

  “I can't imagine what I might have to do with this,” I reply. My throat is so very dry now.

  “Is your husband at home?”

  “No. No, he's not.”

  “Do you know when he'll be back? It's just that I'm not sure I feel comfortable discussing the contents of the note with a lady such as yourself.”

  “If the note mentions me,” I continue, “then I suppose it's only right and proper that you tell me what it says.”

  Even as those words leave my lips, I know that I do not mean any of them. The truth is, I am simply trying to sound normal and unconcerned, while my mind races and I try to think of some way to make this mean leave.

  “Doctor Edge made certain allegations in his note,” he explains, “about something that he claims took place here at Wetherley House eighteen years ago. The nature of these allegations is a kind of brag, actually. He seems to think that he took part in some kind of operation for which he should receive a great deal of credit. Now, I don't want to go into the awful particulars with you, seeing as how they're too offensive for the ears of a lady, but suffice it to say that my colleagues in London have spoken to a surgeon and asked for his opinion. He was shocked, but he did say that the operation described in Doctor Edge's note... Well, it might be possible for it to have been actually performed.”

  “And what operation is that?” I ask, trying not to show that I am on the verge of fainting with fear.

  He pauses for a moment, watching me carefully. Does he see my discomfort?

  “Do you have a daughter, M'am?”

  “What of it?”

  As soon as I have uttered those three words, I know how defensive I must appear.

  “Is she at home right now, by any chance?”

  “She is not.”

  “She's out, is she?”

  “She is.”

  “With your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he is her father?”

  “Of course.”

  He pauses again, and now it's clear that he's not entirely satisfied by my answers. After a moment he glances across the hallway, almost as if he heard something.

  “Would you mind, M'am,” he says finally, turning back to me, “if I took a little look around?”

  “That would be most inconvenient,” I reply.

  “It's just,” he continues, “Doctor Edge says in his note that he was paid to carry out an operation on a lady of French origin, by the name of Marguerite -”

  “I really have no time for this,” I say suddenly, opening the door open and stepping aside so that he can leave. “I don't know what kind of house you think this is, but you can't barge in here with these wild accusations and these claims that have been dragged from the pages of a madman's journal. My husband will be outraged when he hears of this, and you'll be lucky if you keep your position. I would strongly advise you to leave at once, and you can tell your colleagues in London that I have nothing to tell them about this Doctor Edge individual. His claim to have somehow moved a child from one woman's body to another is utter, fanciful nonsense.”

  “It is, is it?” he replies, furrowing his brow.

  “It is.”

  I wait for him to leave, but he still seems very concerned. A moment later, as if the fates themselves have conspired to turn against me, a heavy bump rings out from the basement beneath our feet.

  “Are you alone in the house, M'am?” the police officer asks.

  “I am.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I am.”

  “So there's not -”

  “I am,” I reply. “I mean, I'm not... I mean, I'm quite alone. Of that, I am certain.”

  “And if -”

  Before he can finish, another bump rings out, and this time I once again feel the floorboard shudder. Looking down, I see that the same board runs under the officer's feet as well, which means that he might have felt it too. When I look at his face, in fact, I can immediately see that he is concerned.

  “Would you mind terribly,” he says finally, “if I took a look in your basement?”

  “I think I would mind, yes,” I tell him.

  “And why is that?”

  “This is my home. I don't want grubby men poking about here.”

  “Is there somebody in your basement, M'am?”

  “I have already told you that I am alone in the house. Are you calling me a liar?”

  “M'am, I -”

  “Let him, Mummy.”

  Turning, I look toward the door that leads into the drawing room, but there's no sign of Mary. When I turn back to the officer, I see that he's eyeing me with even greater suspicion than before.

  “You have to let him, Mummy,” Mary's voice continues, emerging from the whisper that continues to scratch at my ear. “There's no other way now.”

  I open my mouth to reply, before realizing that perhaps I should not do so. Not in front of company.

  “You have to let him go down to the basement,” she continues. “Everything will be alright if you just let him go down to the basement.”

  “Alright, then,” I continue, shutting the door again and then heading over to the basement door. “If you're so insistent, I suppose I shan't stand in your way.”

  My hands are trembling as I slide the bolt across. I hesitate for a moment, trying to work out exactly how I shall deal with this situation, and then finally I pull the door open and feel the cold air against my face. As I turn to the police officer, I remind myself that I shall simply have to think on my feet this time, and that I have done so on numerous occasions in the past. Even now, as I wait for this irritating man to step past me and go down into the basement, I can already see that he is concerned.

  “There's nothing down there,” I tell him, hoping to goad him into seeing for himself. “This is all a terrible fuss over nothing, and I have plenty of housework to do, so I'd rather you looked around and left as quickly as possible. You've already been frightfully intrusive.”

  “I might come back later,” he replies, “with -”

  “Are you scared?”

  As I say those three words, I hear a faint scratching sound at the foot of the wooden stairs. I doubt the police officer was able to hear, not from all the way over by the front door, but I most certainly know now that she is coming. My initial instinct, of course, is to slam the basement door shut and slide the bolt across, but I am starting to think that this wretched officer has no intention of going down to take a look. If he leaves now, he'll surely return later in the day with more of his kind, and then I shall have a real problem. If I can just deal with him before he has a chance to speak to anyone else, I might yet contain the situation.

  A moment later, I hear another scratching sound, this time a little closer.

  She's coming up the stairs.

  “What are you waiting for?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on the officer. “You must do what you came here for. I have nothing to hide.”

&
nbsp; He looks at the open door, and I think that perhaps now he does hear the scratches.

  “It's quite alright,” I continue, pulling the door open all the way and, in the process, making sure that I stay well back. “You look a little pale. Please, tell me that you're not going to waste any more of my time.”

  As the officer continues to stare at the door, my darling Mary steps into view behind him.

  “Oh Mummy,” she says with a smile, “you are clever. I'm so proud to be your daughter. I hope that I'm like you when I get older.”

  “Are you sure you're alone in the house, Mrs. Carmichael?” the officer asks, his voice sounding so tight and nervous as the scratching sound gets further and further up the stairs. “There's no-one else here at all?”

  Behind him, Mary's smile grows.

  Glancing down into the dark basement, I'm shocked to see a pair of savage eyes staring back up at me from the gloom. I instinctively step back and move behind the door. My heart is pounding, but I know I have to do this. I can sort everything out once the officer has been dealt with, but for now I just have to make sure he doesn't cause any more trouble.

  “M'am,” he says finally, taking a step toward me, “I'm afraid you -”

  Suddenly she screams and strikes, lunging up from the basement and clattering through the open door. I pull back as she bumps past me, and I must admit that I'm shocked both by the sight of her bloodied, naked body and by the foul stench of bodily fluids that immediately fills the air. She lunges at the police officer, but he stumbles back and into the dining room, quickly slamming the door shut so that she can't go after him, and now she's clawing frantically at the wood in an attempt to make her way through.

  “This way!” I shout, running to the kitchen door and pointing through to the next room. “Go around, foolish girl!”

  She turns to me, and for a moment I see pure hatred in her bloodshot, yellowing eyes. She stumbles this way, limping heavily on the stump of a right foot that she tried to gnaw off several years ago. Maggots are wriggling in her flesh, swarming from her legs all the way up to the side of her face. This is the first time I have seen her properly in the light for several years, and I must admit that the sight is entirely disquieting. Taking a step back, I reach for the letter-opener from the hallway table and I hold the blade up so that she'll realize I'm still in charge. She's still staring at me with those ravenous eyes, and I can't help but notice patches of fresh blood still smeared all around her mouth, left over no doubt from her encounter with Muriel and George.