The Haunting of Henderson Close

by Cavendish

  Hannah stood by the photo section. “Let’s hope these work,” she said.

  “I heard what happened to those pictures a couple of days ago, but they’ve been all right since, haven’t they?”

  Hannah nodded. “Anything kick off while you were down there?”

  “One woman swore she saw a figure near Miss Carmichael’s corner. She said it had no face.”

  “No face?”

  “Yes. No eyes, lips, its facial features like swirling dark clouds. I told her it was a trick of the light but she wouldn’t have it. Hannah, what’s wrong? You’ve gone white.”

  “I’ve seen that. Not here. In my bedroom. A little girl with a doll. But when she turns around, she has no face, only these clouds. The last time.…” No, she really didn’t want to remember the last time. “She seems so real until then. Too solid for a ghost. At least, too solid compared with how I always imagined a ghost might be. I’m almost sure she’s the same girl who came to me when I was tied up in Eliza’s room. If it is her, her name’s Isobel.”

  “That’s not all though. This loud thumping started from behind the boards. It went on and on. I got them out of there then. Fortunately we were at the end of the tour anyway and this brilliant guy suggested it was heavy-duty rats.”

  Hannah breathed. “I wish he was right.”

  Mairead looked over at the group, mingling around, picking up books, postcards and a host of tourist mementoes. “They seem happy enough.”

  “Thank God for that. The photos have come out all right.”

  Mairead peered over her shoulder as Hannah tapped through them one by one.

  “Hang on a second,” Mairead said. “I saw something. Go back…back again…there.” In the bottom left hand corner of a photograph, the figure of a small child crouched. Her long, straggly blonde hair concealed her face and she wore what looked like a grubby white shift.

  “That’s her,” Hannah whispered. “The girl who comes into my room. Isobel.”

  “I can’t see her doll.”

  “Let’s look at the other photos.” The next four were perfectly normal. Then.…

  Hannah exclaimed. “That’s the doll. She came back for it and it’s there. In the photograph. She’s holding it.”

  “Keep your voice down.” Mairead indicated a couple of curious faces. “Smile.”

  A more forced smile Mairead couldn’t imagine but it seemed to satisfy the curious, who resumed their search for gifts.

  “The only thing we can do is play dumb and hope they don’t notice. At least not until they’ve left. Most people are more concerned with how they look than any of the scenery.”

  “True,” Hannah said, as the first couple approached them with their order.

  As the last of that group left, Ailsa came up to them. “Everything all right, Mairead?”

  Mairead nodded. No way would she tell her about the knocking downstairs, but.… “I think you should see these pictures. They’re of the latest group of visitors.”

  Ailsa leaned over Mairead’s shoulder as she clicked through the photographs on the laptop. “Interesting. Are we sure there were no children down there?”

  “Positive.”

  “Probably wisest to take these down off the public screen. That group have all left now and if anyone makes a late request, we’ll have it on computer.”

  “You never know,” Hannah said. “If we keep them up. It might attract more business. Perhaps we should go for some free publicity. Get the papers onto it. Social media.”

  Ailsa blinked at her. “And did either of you think to get the visitors’ permission to use their images? I thought not.”

  “We could always pixilate their faces,” Mairead said.

  “Nice try, Mairead. No. Take them down.”

  Hannah and Mairead stared after her as she moved on.

  “You know,” Mairead said. “Sometimes I really don’t understand Ailsa. She goes on about increasing business and then when an opportunity like this presents itself, she’s left the building.”

  “Crazy,” Hannah said, returning to the photos of the little girl. “It’s only a matter of time though.”

  “What is?”

  “Until something serious happens. To our guests, I mean. Hell, enough has been happening to us. The banging you heard? I heard it too. The other day. I tried to put it out of my mind, but it was excessive. Really loud. And then…something weird.… I can’t explain it.”

  “Was that the tour when you came up a few minutes after the last of your visitors? George said you looked terrible and had a splitting headache.”

  “Yes, I think so. I had a mental blank about the end of that tour. I’d no idea I was late back.”

  “Not excessively. Only a couple of minutes or so. Maybe you were tidying something up, or picking up litter or “If I was, I don’t recall it.”

  “I don’t think we can afford to do nothing for much longer.”

  “No, you’re right, but I haven’t a clue what to do to make it stop. I wish that psychic medium – Cerys – hadn’t binned us. I’ve tried to contact someone else I knew years ago, but she hasn’t been back in touch either.”

  “There’s only one thing for it. We’re going to have to go it alone. Do it ourselves. Go down to the Close after work and try and contact Miss Carmichael.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened. “You’re not serious? Another séance? After what happened last time?”

  “I wasn’t there last time. But if we don’t do something, these occurrences are only going to get worse. You and I both know that, and so does George.”

  Hannah went quiet. She bit her lip. Mairead waited, served a customer who had just come in and went back to her. “So, what do you think?”

  “I wish you weren’t right, but we know something has been unleashed down there and it’s spreading. You’ve been targeted, so has George and so have I. Before long, it could get much worse and then, who knows who’ll be next in the firing line? We’re obviously not going to get any help from Ailsa so we’re going to have to try and put it right ourselves.”

  “I have no idea why we three have been targeted, but we have, so it’s down to us.”

  “God help us.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  October 1891

  Donald Bain wiped the kitchen knife on his filthy trousers and cast quick glances up and down Farquhars Close. Three o’clock on an icy morning did not lend itself to a throng of people. The street was deserted, except for him. And the body that lay slumped on the ground at his feet. He hadn’t intended to kill him. If the daft bastard had simply handed over his wallet, none of this would have happened. He brought it on himself. He could see Donald had a knife. Purely for protection, of course, and to ‘encourage’ his mark to follow his orders. But there was always one who thought he could get the better of him. He did it to himself really. Charging at him like that. Impaling himself on Bain’s ma’s only kitchen knife. Suicide.

  The blood had pooled from the deep gash in the man’s chest. Donald Bain bent down and rifled through the well-dressed stranger’s pockets. He smiled as he found what he was looking for and retrieved a fat wallet from the man’s coat. What was such a fine gentleman doing down here anyway? Probably looking to give Nancy or one of the other girls a bit of trade.

  Donald flipped open the wallet and removed the wad of notes. He stuffed them in his pocket and dropped the notecase on the ground. He must get away before anyone saw him. Now he was sure all the man’s pockets were empty, he stood, looked around one last time and then raced up the street toward Henderson Close. A couple of minutes and in the distance behind him he heard shouting, a police whistle. Good job he could run so fast. They must have found the body, but he was well out of sight by now. Lucky for him the night was still pitch dark and he knew the streets so well. A sudden noise nearby startled him and he melted into the shad
ows of a doorway. A figure moved toward him. It seemed to glide over the rough ground, making no sound. As it neared him, it stopped.

  Donald held his breath. The…whatever it was…swayed and writhed. Like nothing he had ever seen before. Not human or animal. It coiled like some strange serpent, but Donald could see straight through it. The dark, dank street rippled behind the smoke-like substance. Donald shrank as far back as the door behind him would allow. The figure knew he was there and it wanted him for some purpose he would rather not think about. If he had believed in anything but his own wits, he would have prayed, but he knew no one was listening. No one had ever listened to Donald Bain – except when he pointed a knife at them.

  As he stared, the apparition began to take on form. Long, thin legs like poles protruded from a wasted, skeletal body. An emaciated face with a long, pointed nose and mismatched eyes grimaced at him, opening a tight-lipped mouth to reveal teeth even more rotten than Donald’s own. Claw-like hands reached for him in an ugly embrace and an old memory stirred. Donald choked as the breath was squeezed out of him. The creature lowered its head and a strong stench of sulfur leaked from its half-open mouth.

  “You belong here.”

  The voice was harsh, not quite human, more like an icy breath.

  Donald’s head swam, lack of oxygen and the odor sapping his consciousness. The creature tightened its grip on him and he sank to the ground in a dead faint.

  * * *

  “Ye cannae sleep here.”

  Donald opened his eyes and looked up into the bearded face of a policeman. He struggled to his feet, soaked through from a steady, freezing rain that had created puddles and sloshing mud. The street bustled with people going about their business. How long had he been out?

  “Get along wi’ye.” The policeman fingered his truncheon.

  Donald nodded quickly and did his best to run but his feet and legs were numb from cold and lying in the same position for hours.

  He felt in his pocket, relieved to find the wad of cash still there. His knife pressed against his bare leg; the cold metal stung his flesh. Memories of the creature from the previous night drifted back into his mind. Maybe he had dreamt it. But he felt different this morning. Today he could do anything he wanted. He had money in his pocket. He could enjoy himself. Eat and drink well. Maybe pay Nancy a call himself – after he’d cleaned himself up a bit. Give the whore a treat and give himself some fun.

  He smiled, then frowned. These thoughts should give him pleasure. Such rare treats. As he turned into Farquhars Close, he realized there was only one thing he wanted to do today.

  The murder had invigorated him. He wanted more.

  Chapter Twenty

  The woman’s fear. So strong he smelled it. Donald looked down at her as she lay on the bed, trapped under his weight. A little nick here…a little nick there.… How she screamed.

  “Shut it, you whore, or I’ll give ye something to scream about.” He smashed his fist into her face and she passed out cold.

  “That’s better.” Blood poured from her ruined nose. “Dirty bitch.”

  He stripped her flimsy blouse. The much-washed material ripped like paper. It revealed breasts discolored with the bruises of her previous dozen clients. “Filthy cunt,” he said, gritting his teeth. He balled up saliva in his mouth and spat at her. His ma’s kitchen knife gleamed on the bed beside him. He picked it up and stroked it against her right nipple. It instantly budded and that angered him. “Ye’re like alla them. Cheap dirty cow.” He raised his arm and brought the knife down, stabbing her through her right breast. Blood streamed from the wound, soaking into the stained and malodorous sheets. The pain must have cut through her unconsciousness because she managed to cry out once, the sound dying on her lips as she expired.

  A barrier rose in his mind and he stabbed, laughing with each thrust. Again and again he raised his arm and brought it down until a bloody, mashed, butchered corpse was all that remained of Nancy McGonagall.

  He wiped his hand across his mouth and stood, turning his back on his handiwork. His shirt was soaked in her blood. He must find a change of clothes. Dump these, away from here. Drunk with bloodlust, he opened her rotten door and staggered out into the black and silent night.

  Luck was on his side. The luck of the devil. Two doors away, someone had carelessly left their washing on a line. He reached up and grabbed a pair of worn trousers and a shirt. Damp, but they would suffice. Better than what he was wearing. He quickly stripped and re-dressed, shivering as the clammy material made contact with his skin. As an afterthought, he snatched a sheet and balled up the bloodstained clothes in it.

  Back home in the foul hovel he occasionally shared with what passed for his family, he shoved the sheet and its contents under the bed where two of his brothers were sleeping top and tail. Tomorrow he would find a rubbish heap and bury it.

  Tired but exhilarated, he hauled a thin blanket off his mother, who snored in the corner of the room, an empty gin bottle by her side. He stared down at her, filled with an almost irresistible urge to stab her with her own kitchen knife.

  Only the problem of what to do with her lousy, stinking body stopped him.

  * * *

  The next morning, he smelled the crisp dawn air through the miasma of rot and decay. No sun today. Clouds. He felt alive as he had never felt before, as if killing Nancy had refreshed his blood, opened his mind and possessed his soul.

  He almost skipped down Henderson Close, stopping abruptly as a tall, impossibly thin man stepped out in front of him.

  “Ye should look where ye’re going,” Donald said.

  The man opened his mouth, revealing rotten teeth. There was something familiar about him.

  For once, Donald knew fear. “What do you—”

  The cloak cut off his words. Nearly choked him. He coughed. Spluttered. Memories of the previous day’s encounter flooded back. The man forced Donald’s mouth open, pushing filthy fingers inside. Donald gagged. Images swirled in front of his eyes. He saw himself, knife raised, a woman, helpless and screaming beneath him. He brought the knife down. Once. Twice. Three times. Again and again, slashing, slicing. The man released his hold and Donald laughed. Harder than he ever had before, his pitch rising to maniacal proportions.

  He was alone in the street. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. A faint stink of sulfur, like a massive egg-fueled fart, made him wrinkle his nose. He felt the knife in his jacket and he knew what he must do.

  He would find them at the corner of Farquhars Close where it intersected with Henderson Close. Even at this early hour, they would be about, waiting for any man drunk enough or hungry enough to give them some business. It didn’t take him long. One found him within minutes.

  “Want a little company?” she asked. She was like all the rest of these whores. Unkempt, blousy, in her thirties. Well into her thirties. He said nothing, but went with her.

  “I’m Rose,” she said. As if he cared. “What’s your name?”

  “Victor,” he replied. Knowing he would indeed win.

  “That’s a nice name.”

  He wished she would shut her filthy mouth. Her breath stank of stale tobacco and gin. He’d do this one from behind, then he wouldn’t have to smell it. Or look at her.

  She produced a key from her floppy cleavage, running her tongue over her lips. Supposed to make him ready for her? Stupid bitch! He’d show her.

  She unlocked the door and he pushed her in, eager to get on with it.

  “Oh, you’re keen, ain’tcha?” That accent. Not Scots. English. A goddamned fuckin’ Sassenach. She’d get double for that.

  The room was surprisingly clean, if irredeemably dingy. The bed was neatly made up although when she pulled the eiderdown off, he could see he wasn’t the first to grace its sheets today. Or maybe even this month. Fury swelled within him, fueled by his encounter with the strange man. If m
an he was. Demon maybe. He’d passed something on to Donald that only heightened his own bloodlust.

  He shoved her down on her back on the bed.

  “Hey. Money first. Pleasure after.”

  He grunted, fumbled in his pocket and found a few notes, which he scattered on the rickety table next to her bed. He would pick them up again later.

  She glanced over and seemed satisfied with his payment.

  “Now, my lover, what’s your pleasure?”

  He drew his fist back and slammed it into her face. She screamed. Blood spurted from her nose and smashed lip.

  “Don’t ever call me that. I am not your lover. I am your destroyer.” He marveled at his new voice. Deeper, more raucous than before.

  She struggled to raise her hands to shield her face but he straddled her, landing blow after blow until her face became a pulpy mess and she lost consciousness.

  Roughly he threw her over onto her front, lifted her skirt and thrust his hardened cock into her, ramming her mercilessly until he climaxed. He withdrew instantly, taking pleasure in seeing the flow of blood staining her legs and the sheets beneath.

  She groaned.

  “Still alive, are ye? Enjoying it?”

  More groans.

  “Ye bitches are all cunts and whores. My mother’s just like ye. She’d send me out of the room while she fucked her latest for pennies. Then sent me down the ale house for gin. She’d drink hersel’ stupid while us bairns starved. Any wonder I hate the whole fuckin’, mawkin lot of ye?”

  The woman struggled to speak. “Please.…”

  “Oh, please, is it? Ye want more o’ the same? I never refuse a lady.”

  He grabbed his knife out of his jacket. The first stab was up high between her legs. She tried to scream but he shoved her face hard into the blood-drenched pillow and ignored her feeble struggles, which grew weaker by the second. Then she was still.