by R. H. Dixon
He breathed in deeply and massaged his temples. ‘Sounds too messy and creative for Freya. She’d more likely key my car.’ But Callie could tell he was already deliberating the implied motives of his girlfriend.
By now there were six ravens on the veranda brooding against a backdrop of intense dirty-white. They looked like sooty fallout from some infernal fire that was raging underground. A fire that was rising up and making enough smoke to seep through soil. Enough smoke to fill and suffocate the earthbound world.
‘Let’s suppose that Freya is Sarah Jane Miller,’ Thurston said to Callie. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Callie admitted. ‘But does Sarah Jane Miller need a reason to hate someone? Maybe she got bored. Or maybe she didn’t like something I said last time we spoke on the phone. What I do know is that if Freya is Sarah Jane Miller, then I got off quite lightly compared to you guys.’
‘I know why she wouldn’t like you,’ Pollyanna said, surprising everyone with her sudden input. She’d been quiet this whole time, her face hidden by her mass of red hair, but now she was looking from beneath her lashes at Callie. More ravens had gathered at the window, forming a line to her left like some implied extension of her. And the fog seemed to have darkened at its core, as though something evilly obscure within it drew closer. ‘Because you’re successful. She’d hate that.’
The ravens barked a ragged chorus that was much too enormous for how many were visible. Callie imagined there must be hundreds on the lawn, hidden within the swell of the fog. Even Thurston swivelled round to see if he could see.
Pollyanna smiled, managing to look even slier. ‘Also, because Thurston likes you. That’s more than enough reason for Sarah Jane to despise you.’
Soft thuds came from the roof. Callie jumped with a start and looked up. The birds were covering the cabin, looking for a way in. It wasn’t long before she could hear wings flapping within the cabin. Upstairs. Behind Smiler’s closed bedroom door. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, swallowing to keep her heart down. ‘Me and Thurston are just friends.’
‘Poll’s right,’ Smiler said. He had moved to the edge of the armchair and his eyes darted about with every scratch and bump exacted on the cabin. ‘Because supposing Freya is Sarah Jane Miller, those are two very good reasons as to why she would hate you. The version of Sarah Jane that I knew was possessive and vindictive. Didn’t apply logic or rational thought to the way she ran her life. Was devoid of empathy. And got off on ruining lives for fun.’
Callie felt sick. ‘So you really do think I’ve been set up by a friend who begrudges my career and hates the fact I’m on speaking terms with her boyfriend?’
‘Like you said, you got off lightly,’ Smiler said.
‘And we’re speaking completely hypothetically,’ Thurston reminded them all. ‘Read some more of that thing,’ he said, indicating the diary with a troubled glance. ‘Then we’ll know for sure. But be quick, I think the ravens are about to go all Hitchcock on us.’
‘Alright, alright.’ Callie thumbed open the journal, feeling pressurised by the gathering black army outside. ‘Should we skip straight ahead to the Essie Bennett stuff in that case?’
Thurston and Smiler nodded their agreement, but Pollyanna didn’t say or do anything. Callie took her silence as an assent, not an objection. ‘When were you seeing her, Smiler?’
Smiler shifted about in his seat. ‘Er, actually, I’d be kind of uncomfortable if you were to read anything out that she might have written about me. I’d rather vet those parts myself. In private.’
‘Of course.’ Callie was already nodding. ‘So what would be a safe date for us to resume?’
Smiler closed his eyes and thought. ‘Say around November 2013. We broke up just before Halloween.’
‘Okay, let’s start December 2013, just in case.’
32
Sunday 1st December 2013
Dammit Dorian!
Stuff happened this weekend. Serious stuff! And now I’m in deep shit!!! But where to start? I can’t think straight because Roxanne is going off on one downstairs. Again.
She went to her mate’s hen weekend in York on Friday afternoon and as soon as she got home this evening Dean told on me! I can’t believe it. I just don’t know what to make of it or how to feel. But I’m jumping the gun, aren’t I? I need to rewind…
Roxanne said she would drop me off at Dad’s on her way to York, but I asked Dean if I could stay with him instead (since I had a load of college work to be getting on with). I promised I’d be no bother at all and he laughed and said, ‘Shit, Essie, I can’t believe you thought you had to ask, of course it’s fine if you want to hang around here for the weekend!’
So I did.
On Friday evening me and Dean watched a few films together and shared a bottle of wine. It was the best night ever!
Yesterday he was out all day, so I just hung about the house. I took the opportunity to have a rummage through his and Roxanne’s bedroom, to see what I could find. And I FINALLY found it, Dorian! The key and address for the cabin!!! (Though I’m no longer sure I want to go there now, not after what’s happened. I don’t know if it’s appropriate. Or maybe it’s perfect?? I dunno. I need time to think).
Anyway, I’m going off on a tangent again. Dean didn’t arrive home till quite late last night. He smelled of booze and seemed quite merry. I made him a coffee and he stayed up to chat for about an hour. I love it when he’s drunk, he opens up and talks about his days in the army. About the gorier stuff that usually he would keep to himself. I wanted to ask him so many questions, but I could tell he’d had enough when his white eye stayed shut and his blue eye struggled to stay open. After he’d gone to bed, I watched more telly on my own for a while. Then during the night is when it all happened! When everything went wrong.
I mistimed. Misjudged. Got set up!
I woke and it was raining really heavy against the windows and because of this the ravens were unsettled. They wouldn’t let me go to sleep again, so I had to get up. They’re so bloody stubborn! On the way past Dean’s room, one of them pushed the door open. Then they ALL flew inside!
The bedroom was dark and smelled pleasantly sour. A mixture of alcohol and Dean’s aftershave. Dean was lying beneath the duvet, breathing heavily and murmuring about something. I crept inside, pleased that he was drunk, and waved furiously at the ravens, bidding them to come back to me. But they totally ignored me. Instead they perched themselves in a line along the headboard, their blinky black eyes full of mischief. Like one of them might crow at any minute, to wake Dean and get me in trouble. Then as if to wind me up further they started jumping down onto the bed, one by one, where they hopped about on Roxanne’s pillow and started burrowing beneath the duvet!
The rain was still loud and by this time I could hear thunder in the distance. I rushed over to the bed and tried to shoo the ravens away. But all of them, every last one, seemed intent on disobeying me and disappeared beneath the duvet!
I thought about leaving. Splitting on them and running. And in hindsight I should have. But I couldn’t. So I went to Roxanne’s side of the bed and lifted the duvet and found them all lying on their backs, looking up at me. They’re so defiant! And their black feathers were everywhere!
There was a massive crash of thunder then and Dean groaned and turned. Frightened the ravens might cause even more mischief, I quickly climbed into the bed to flatten them to the mattress, so they wouldn’t be able to touch Dean. Then I lay there for ages, unable to move.
After a while, Dean put his arm across me and stroked my arm with his thumb. I turned on my side to face him and watched him for ages. His warm breath on my face. When it seemed likely he wouldn’t wake, I dared myself to reach up and stroke his face and touch his mouth with my fingers. And I’m not altogether sorry that I did either. Not even when lightning flashed and thunder boomed and Dean opened his eyes.
He was confused at first. Then furious. He started shou
ting at me and told me to get out. I’ve never seen him like that before. When I jumped out of bed, the ravens scattered to the cream carpet like flakes of ash and I could hear them cackling. Sometimes they can be so cruel! It’s not the first time they’ve set me up. Though this was their worst prank so far.
I haven’t seen them at all today. They know I’m not happy with them. And Dean hasn’t spoken to me. I stayed in my room with Lucy and didn’t venture out. When Roxanne came home I heard her talking with Dean, then she stomped up the stairs and barged into my room. She looked like she wanted to kill me. Dean had come upstairs too and was standing right behind her. He looked awkward and I instantly wondered if he regretted telling her. But he had. The damage is done and can’t be taken back.
Roxanne asked me what in the fuck I thought I was playing at. I said I was sorry (even though I wasn’t) and said I must have sleep walked. I said I remembered nothing till Dean had woken me by shouting. I don’t think either of them believed me, but Dean calmed her down (slightly) and took her back downstairs.
When everything had gone quiet, I eventually went down to see how bad things were. And as it happens, Dorian, it’s pretty fucking bad! Roxanne says she wants me out. That I’ve gone too far this time and have to go and live with Dad or Gran.
Shit, why did this have to happen?!
I feel betrayed by the ravens and betrayed by Dean!
33
‘DEAN!’ A woman’s cry cut through the cabin’s wooden entrails, as well as the skin and bone of everyone in it.
Callie stopped reading and looked up. ‘Did you all hear that?’
‘Of course we fucking did,’ Thurston said. He’d scrabbled round on the couch so his feet were on the floor, his ragged body ready for action. Ready for something.
Smiler, on the other hand, was pushing himself as far back as he could, as though he hoped to hide inside the armchair. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘There is someone else here.’
Callie placed the journal on the arm of the couch and stood up. The sound of the woman’s fear was still ringing in her head. The way she’d cried out was as though someone was about to be murdered. But who? The woman herself? Dean? Someone else? Was the cabin some sort of murder house? Pollyanna had already said how Uncle Dean had hinted to her and Sarah Jane of it having a grisly past. Were spirits trapped here like bad karma, the cabin unable or unwilling to let go? And what did Whispering Woods have to do with it? The voices she’d heard outside. Were they current ponderings of the dead? Or a replay of words that had already been spoken, which the place possessively held onto and refused to let drift into the ether of the past. Nonsensical verses that were destined to hang around forever; able to break the soundest of minds in the here and now. Do you know any stories? Suppose that depends. Lived here as it happens. Something really awful. Take a guess. Suppose that depends. Why does anyone do anything? Suppose that depends. All except the small boy. But why? But why? But why? But why? That’s just how it is, sweetheart.
Callie crept to the foot of the stairs and Thurston made to follow. Thinking he’d be more of a hindrance than a help, she urged him to stay where he was with a frantic hand gesture and fierce scowl. Quietly and light-footedly, she then made the ascent, listening all the while for anything else the woman might say. But there was just silence. A cabin filled with held breath and heightened pulses. And Callie’s feet treading softly on the wooden stairs, a sound that was barely there. Once at the top, in the solemn gloom of the landing and the impending quiet, Callie forgot about the threat of the ravens and whipped the door to Smiler’s room open. What she saw made her cry out in fright. The bed was a writhing black mass of feathered bodies and over by the window, disturbing in terrible contrast, there was a woman. A figure so blurry she might well have been fog that had seeped in through the broken pane. Except it definitely was a woman, or at least some spectral projection of what used to be, because Callie immediately recognised her as the woman she’d seen in the bathroom mirror.
Aside from the ethereal quality of her presence, the woman didn’t look dead. More like a hazy, low quality playback. But this couldn’t be the case, Callie thought, because when the ghostly woman turned, her eyes caught Callie’s for the briefest of moments. The contact made Callie’s skin prickle with gooseflesh. She shuddered. The woman then looked towards the raven-infested bed, as though someone might be on it, beneath the birds, and said, ‘She’s here, Dean. I saw her. I think she saw me.’
Then, as though Callie had witnessed as much as the cabin had planned for her, the woman fizzled away to nothing. As easily as blinking away sleep. As quickly as shifting the brainstorm that comes with standing too fast. Callie was left unable to move.
I saw her. I think she saw me.
But why couldn’t I see Dean? Why were the ravens gathered in his place?
As if goaded by her thoughts, the ravens broke their eerie stretch of silence with a headachy raucous of excitable chatter. They began to jump up and down, landing on each other’s backs and jabbing each other with overly zealous beaks. Some of them scattered to the floor in the commotion, which prompted Callie to jump backwards and swing the door shut, to keep them locked within.
‘There’s a ghost,’ she said, hurrying back down the stairs. Her hands were trembling and she was sorry she’d gone to look, sorry that her curiosity had been sated. ‘It’s a woman. I’ve seen her twice now.’
‘What does she look like?’ Pollyanna wanted to know. There was a quiet dread etched onto her face, making her small mouth slightly downturned. Callie could already guess what she was wondering.
‘Mid-thirties, maybe. Long dark hair. Slim build. Pretty.’
‘Aunt Roxanne,’ Pollyanna confirmed, her forehead puckering with a building permission to grieve at last.
‘Do you think it’s possible Sarah Jane killed her?’ Callie asked.
‘I’ve been here all this time. How could she have?’ Pollyanna said. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Me neither,’ Smiler said.
‘I do.’ Everyone looked at Thurston. His shoulders were slumped and he rubbed at the dried blood that discoloured his fingers. His expression was so concentrated he looked almost stultified. ‘We’ve got it wrong,’ he said. ‘That is, we’re looking at it from the wrong angle.’
Callie almost didn’t dare ask, but had to. ‘What are you talking about?’
He stopped rubbing and showed her his hands, a gesture of openness and sincerity. ‘Look at us. We can’t get out. We’re trapped here. Think about it. Really think. Pollyanna should be twenty-one, for chrissakes.’ He shook his head at the absurdity of that idea. ‘And look at Smiler. He looks like Death warmed up. Then there’s me. I’ve got a dirty big hole in my chest and I think it might be worth mentioning, though I really didn’t want to have to, that I can’t feel my heart.’
‘What the hell are you saying, Thurston?’ Callie forced him to maintain eye contact, hoping to see a glimmer of humour, however sardonic, so she could know he wasn’t being totally serious. But all she saw there was sombreness. ‘That you think it’s us who’re dead? That you think we’re the ones haunting this place?’
He held his arm out to her. ‘Check for a pulse.’
‘You’re being silly. You’re not well, that’s all.’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to convince myself. But I know that’s not true. I first realised after we’d been outside, when those things were out there. I was scared witless and ran back to the cabin with you, yet when we got inside I couldn’t feel my heartbeat.’
‘Maybe it’s something to do with the wound.’ Callie shrugged, her eyes denoting a certain amount of rising fear. ‘Maybe you have low blood pressure? I dunno, I’m not a doctor. There must be a logical explanation.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I wanted to believe. But since then, no matter how much I try, I just can’t find a pulse.’
‘I don’t think it’s as easy to find your own.’
‘
So find one for me, prove me wrong. I dare you.’ Again he held out his arm. When she made no attempt to do any such thing, he said, ‘You said you thought you’d got off lightly, Cal, but I don’t think you did. I think we’re dead. All of us who’re sitting here in this room. That’s why none of this has been making any sense.’
‘Sense! And you think that what you’re saying does make sense?’ Callie responded, with a snort. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with your heart, but that fever must really be getting to your brain, Thurston.’
He waved his arm at her, offering up his wrist. ‘Go on then, check! Feel for a pulse. If you find one, then I’ll admit I’m wrong.’
Callie was aware now that Smiler and Pollyanna were watching, their faces steeped with an interest that was perversely fortified with dread. They were waiting, she realised, for her to make the argument in favour of them not being dead. So she did the only thing she could do and took hold of Thurston’s wrist. Her fingers searched for a pulse. For the tiniest, faintest rhythmic beat. But after much probing, she found nothing. She shook her head and said in a voice that was high with fear and thin with indecision, ‘Like I said, I’m not a doctor.’
But Callie had more or less substantiated Thurston’s claim; a frightening prospect, because it made his outlandish idea that little bit more real and he’d rather have been disproven. ‘Put your hand inside my chest again if you like,’ he urged, becoming visibly worked up. His eyes were wide and he’d begun to tremble. ‘You don’t need to be a doctor to feel for a heart. I’ll bet you can’t find one, because Freya tore it out, just like you said. Only a little more literally than you originally thought.’
