by Amy Cross
“I really don't think that -”
“I'll prove it to you.”
Getting to his feet, he comes over and then steps past me, heading behind the bar.
“Just grabbing the book, Norman!” he calls out, and the barman yells something back from the kitchen. Turning to me, the man sets a cloth-bound book on the bar and opens it to the first page. “They took photos back in those days,” he continues, turning to the next page, revealing an old black-and-white image of the house's hallway, with blood smeared on the wall next to the basement door. “Seen these before, have you?”
“No,” I reply, “and I'm not sure I -”
Suddenly he turns to the next page, and I'm shocked to see a picture of the brightly-lit basement. There are dark patches all over the floor, and after a moment I realize that there's what looks like part of a human spine resting in one of the corners.
“There aren't real,” I say firmly. “They can't be real.”
“No?”
He turns to the next page, revealing a close-up photo of a shattered skull.
“These are the only copies known to exist,” he explains. “Don't want them getting out for the public to gawp at, do we? We just keep 'em here and show 'em to anyone who doubts the stories about Wetherley House.”
He turns the page again, and I let out a gasp as I see several pictures of a naked, bloodied body in the house's hallway. A thick mop of tangled black hair covers the girl's face.
“That's Mary, after she died,” the man continues. “The monster herself.”
“I'm sure she wasn't a monster,” I reply, swallowing hard.
“No?”
He turns to the next page, and this time the body has been rolled over and the hair has been moved from across her features, revealing a horrifically gaunt face with large, wide-open dead eyes. The girl's mouth is open too, as if she died screaming. After a moment, I look at the mural and see that it's clear the painting was based on this photo.
“She was kept in that basement for several years before she died,” the man explains. “By all accounts, she was a normal girl before that, but she certainly wasn't normal by the end. I mean, look at her. Even dead, you can tell there's madness in those eyes.”
“I don't think you should be showing these pictures to anyone,” I tell him.
“Oh, calm your britches,” he says with a sigh. “They're used as a warning.”
“But -”
“And then there's this last thing you need to see.”
He turns to the final page, where there are two photos.
“That's Eve Carmichael herself,” he says, pointing at the picture of an austere-looking woman in a plain dress. “They took that after she was arrested. She was sent to the gallows not long after.” He moves his finger across the page, toward an older photo showing a smiling, pregnant woman sitting on a chair with a man next to her. “And that is believed to be the only surviving image of Mary's mother, a French woman by the name of Marguerite. The fella next to her is her husband Robert. He died shortly after this picture was taken.”
Staring at the photo, I can't help but note the happiness in the woman's eyes. She has one hand resting on her swollen belly, and the picture seems so hopeful and full of life.
“Do you see it?” the man asks.
“See what?”
“Look closer.”
I turn to him. “I'd really rather -”
“Look closer!”
Sighing, I look back at the picture for a moment. Just as I'm about to tell the man that there's nothing untoward, however, I realize that as well as Marguerite and Robert, there appears to be a third face in the photo. Peering closer, I try telling myself that this extra face is just a smudge on the wall behind them, but deep down I can tell that this isn't the case. The face is faint and slightly blurred, but there's definitely someone standing with them in the room. Except that while Marguerite and Robert are staring at the camera, the third face is looking down at the pregnant belly.
“See that blur?” the man behind the bar asks, pointing at a smudge in the air, covering part of the belly. “I reckon that's a hand.”
“This is just a trick photo.”
“From 1888?” He shakes his head. “We've had it analyzed. There's no trickery here.”
“You want me to believe that you've found a ghost in the picture?” I ask, before realizing that his story is starting to fall apart. “That doesn't even make sense,” I point out. “If the unborn baby is Mary, then who's the smudged ghostly figure supposed to be, anyway?”
“Well, that's the part we haven't figured out just yet.”
Before I can reply, I hear a door swinging open, and to my relief I turn and see that barman coming through with the baguettes in a brown bag.
“Thanks for the ghost story,” I mutter, taking the bag and turning to leave, “but I have to get back to the house now.”
“We've been guarding that house for eighty years.”
I turn and see that both men are watching me now.
“I'm sorry?” I ask.
“After the first stories started doing the rounds,” the first man explains, “people started going out there. Thrill-seekers, people who wanted to see a ghost for themselves. So a few men in the town formed a kind of neighborhood watch organization to make sure the house was never deserved. Every single night for more than seventy years, there have been men out there at the edge of the property, guarding Wetherley House and making sure that no-one sneaks in. I myself joined the group back in the 1980's, and you can ask any of us who've been out there, we've all heard noises coming from inside.” He pauses. “If you like, we can stay out there and -”
“No,” I reply, shocked by the idea. “Wetherley House belongs to my family, and we don't need some random group of locals hanging around outside to keep people from going inside.”
“You want us to stand down, then?”
“I want you to let us get on with sorting the house out in private,” I tell him, feeling a little frustrated now. “My sister and I definitely don't want gangs of men hanging around outside. If we see anyone, we'll call the police!”
“But if -”
Without waiting for him to finish, I head out into the midday sun and then hurry along the street. Before I've managed more than a couple of steps, however, I notice that a woman seems to be watching me from a nearby doorway. I swear, sometimes I think this entire town is obsessed with Wetherley House.
Nearby, some children are playing a game. At first they seem like a welcome relief from the morbid atmosphere, but as I pass them I realize their song concerns a familiar subject.
“Evil Mary's gonna get you!” they call out, as one of them skips repeatedly over a rope. “She's gonna eat your throat!”
Hannah
“I got the oranges!” I call out as I step through the front door. “You won't believe some of the things people were saying to me, though. This man in the pub went on and on about the house. I brought something for lunch, though.”
After setting the oranges in a bowl next to the door, I slip my shoes off and set the bag of baguettes down before stopping to hang my coat up. As I do so, however, I realize I can hear a voice coming from the kitchen, and I realize with a dull sigh that maybe another local has arrived to offer some wisdom. I appreciate all the words, but at the same time I was hoping for a break after my encounters in town. Besides, I'm surprised that anyone actually knocked at the door of Wetherley House; most people give the place a wide berth.
Making my way across the hall, I stop near the door and listen to Katie's voice.
“I don't think she would,” she's saying, with a slightly flat tone. “She's not like that.”
I wait, but now the house is silent again.
“I'm not saying I can't try,” she says suddenly. “I'm just saying I don't think I can count on her.”
Wondering why my sister's visitor seems so quiet, I take a step closer to the door and see that Katie is actually sitting quite alo
ne at the kitchen table. She's slumped slightly in the chair, which is unusual enough, but the strangest thing is that she's staring at the opposite chair as if she's hearing someone speak. I watch for a moment, convinced that Katie will – as usual – hear me and turn to make some dumb joke, but instead she simply continues to stare at the other chair as if something has caught her rapt and undivided attention. She certainly seems not to have noticed my arrival.
“Well,” she continues finally, “I can try tonight.”
And then silence once more.
“What should I do?” she asks after a few more seconds.
She waits, and then she nods.
“And if she won't go? She might not. She might insist on staying.”
A pause, and then she nods again.
“Of course. It's not ideal, but -”
Suddenly she turns and looks straight at me, and for a moment her gaze is strong and angry before her features soften slightly and she sits up straight on the chair.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping into the kitchen.
“What are...” She pauses again. “What are you doing?”
“I just came back from town. I picked up the oranges, like you asked, and I got some baguettes from the pub.” I glance around the kitchen, still convinced that there has to have been some kind of mistake. “Were you talking to someone?”
“No.”
I turn back to her.
“Were you on the phone?”
She shakes her head.
“I didn't hear you come in,” she tells me, with a faint smile. “What are you up to, sneaking about like that? You're so much like a mouse, Hannah. You should grow whiskers.”
“I'm not a -”
I catch myself just in time.
“So have you got one of those in-ear phone things?” I ask.
She furrows her brow.
Stepping over, I look into one ear and then the other, figuring that she was on the phone with one of the hands-free devices I've seen other people use. Spotting no sign of anything, however, I look around the kitchen again before turning to see that Katie is staring at me with a new kind of intensity, almost as if she's studying my face with great scrutiny.
“I heard you talking to someone,” I tell her.
“You're mistaken.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” I can't help sighing as I head to the sink and pour myself a glass of water. “I'm not up for jokes right now, Katie. I felt like everyone in town knew that I'm staying here at the house. There was this man in the pub who just came up to me and started talking about the place. He showed me a whole load of photos, and some of them were horrible. I'm pretty sure they must have been fake, though. I mean, they can't just keep them there at the pub and get them out to scare people.” I pause for a moment. “At least there'll be no more strangers in the road outside the house. I found out what that was all about and I put a stop to it.”
Setting the glass down, I turn and see that Katie's still staring at me.
“You're being weird,” I point out.
“Am I?”
“You know you are. Stop trying to freak me out.”
She hesitates, before looking back over at the empty chair. I swear, for a moment it feels as if she's hearing someone speak. Finally, however, she turns back to me.
“Why don't you go to your room?” she asks.
“Sorry?”
“You look tired. You look like you need some sleep.”
“I do need some sleep.”
“I have pills that'll help.”
“I'm not a big fan of pills.”
“But they'd be good for you.”
She pauses, before getting to her feet and heading over to the counter, where she grabs a bottle of pills and turns to hold them out toward me.
“You'll sleep really well with these,” she continues.
“I think I might just take a walk,” I reply, ignoring the bottle as I head to the back door. “Tire myself out the natural way, you know?”
Struggling for a moment to get the key to turn, I finally manage to open the back door. A bit of a breeze has picked up in just the few minutes since I got home, and the tops of the trees are swaying at the far end of the lawn, but some bracing weather isn't going to put me off. My mind is racing and I feel like I need to get out of myself a little.
“I won't be too long,” I continue, turning to see that Katie is still standing next to the counter, still holding the pill bottle out as if she expects me to change my mind and take a few. In fact, she seems almost stalled, as if she can't believe that I've turned her down. “The baguettes are in the hallway,” I tell her. “Don't worry about waiting for me. I think I just need a few minutes to get my head straight before I do any more of that paperwork.”
I wait for a reply.
“Okay,” she says finally, although she sounds very uncertain.
“And whatever you're up to,” I add, “can you cut it out when I get back? I'm not in the mood for games, Katie. And tonight, I really need to go over some of the papers with you. So can you please try to be acting normal by the time I come back inside?”
I wait for her to answer, but she simply stares at me. Finally, giving up for now, I turn and head outside.
***
Beyond the house, beyond the lawn, beyond the first line of trees, the forest is so beautiful. The ground is uneven, though, so I reach out to steady myself against the trees as I pass, and I can't help noticing that their bark is cold and damp to the touch. Ankle-high grass looks as if it's swallowing my feet and the treetops are rustling high above me, almost as if they're welcoming me to the old family house.
And asking, maybe, why I never came here before.
The truth is that Daddy never let any of us come. We heard whispers about Wetherley House, and we had an inkling that it was a key part of our family's history, but Daddy never spoke to us about it directly. So we had to piece things together. Katie heard a fragment and Johnny heard a fragment, and I heard a few things, and from there we figured out that there was this house in our family that nobody wanted to visit anymore, where something very bad happened long ago.
I always knew I'd get to visit one day.
I just wish it could have happened while Daddy was alive.
When I reach a little stream that meanders through the house's grounds, I crouch down and try to see my reflection in the water. I don't really have much luck, but after a moment I take a stick from the ground and use it to move a few pebbles. This entire scene feels idyllic, and I'm really starting to wonder whether there's any way we could keep the house in the family. Maybe if I could persuade Katie, we could pool our resources and -
Suddenly hearing footsteps behind me, I turn and look the way I just came. Katie must have come out here after me, but there's no sign of her. I wait, convinced that she'll suddenly appear from behind one of the trees, but then I tell myself that I must be mistaken.
I look back down at the water, and immediately I hear several more steps hurrying this way.
Getting to my feet, I look all around, but all I see are the trees and – far off in the distance – the lawn and the house. Still, I know that I heard steps, even if I can't spot anyone right now.
“Hello?” I call out. “Katie, is that you?”
I wait, but now the wind is a little more chilly.
“If that's you, Katie,” I continue, “you're in a really funny mood today, aren't you? Is there no -”
Before I can finish, I spot a hint of movement in the distance, and I realize I can just about make out Katie in the house's front room. Squinting, I'm able to tell that it's definitely her, which at least means that she's shaken herself out of that daze that kept her talking to herself in the kitchen. Making a mental note to keep an eye on her so that I can be sure she's coping okay with Daddy's death, I watch as she walks past one of the windows and disappears from view, and then I spy her through the hallway window. A moment later, to my surprise, I see that she's unbolting the
door to the basement and going down the stairs.
What the hell is she doing in there?
I take a step forward, figuring I should go and find out, but suddenly something slams into my right hip with such force that I spin and thud down against the mulchy ground. Letting out a startled, pained gasp, I feel the fabric of a coarse skirt brushing against my face, and then I turn just in time to see a little girl running away between the trees, quickly disappearing deeper into the forest.
“Hey!” I yell. “What was that for?”
Hauling myself up, I dust some dirt and grass from my shirt.
“Hey!” I call out again, even though I can no longer see the girl. “I'm sorry, but this is private land! You can't play here!”
I wait, but now there's no sign of the girl at all, and the only sound comes from the rustling canopy high above. Still, there's no doubt that she was here a moment ago, and the fabric of her skirt was harsh and bristly, leaving a very faint itching sensation on my cheek.
Picking my way between the trees, I set off after the girl, although I don't really have much hope of finding her. I can already see the fence up ahead, marking the end of Wetherley House's land, and I imagine the girl has climbed the fence already and run off into the vast forest that stretches past the edge of town. Almost slipping a couple of times, I finally reach the fence and lean against one of its rickety posts, which immediately leans alarmingly. Steadying myself again, I look out at the forest and wait for a moment, just in case the girl shows herself, and then I turn to head back.
Startled, I find that three little girls are standing just a few feet away, on either side of a tree, watching me. They're wearing identical pink dresses, and they're each staring at me with the same calm expression.
“Hey,” I say as I step back, bumping once more against the fence. “Do you realize this is a private garden?”
