The Ghosts of RedRise House

by Caroline Clark

As they hit the ground, a pain ripped through her coccyx and rose up into her skull. For a moment she was stunned and so was her passenger. She wanted to shut down to get away from there, but she sensed that she must fight for control. That maybe she even had a chance. There was something different about the presence that had hold of her mind. It felt smaller, weaker, and less overwhelming.

  Before Matron could move, she got to her feet and looked around.

  An old woman was standing there, holding her nose and looking at them with wild eyes. On the floor near her feet was a huge, shiny knife. Rosie didn’t remember having it and yet she knew it must belong to Matron. The wickedly curved blade glinted in the moonlight and yet the handle was dark. Looking at it sent a shiver down her spine, as she remembered it from her dreams back at RedRise House. Back where this all began. Where this spirit forced its way inside her; where she lost her life.

  For a second she thought about grabbing the knife to keep it away from Matron. Only that was ridiculous. Once she had it, if the Old Hag took control again, then she already had the knife.

  “Run,” Rosie shouted at the woman. “Run and get away from here.”

  Slowly the woman let go of her nose. The bleeding had stopped but her face was smeared with blood and tears. Her hands were shaking and she looked as if she would start to cry, but not as if she could move.

  Rosie turned back to the fence. Maybe her best bet was to get as far away from here as she could. Grabbing hold of the gate, she walked toward it but as she was almost through, a red-hot lance seared into her brain and she let out a scream of pain.

  You’re not in control here, a cold voice said inside her head.

  “Neither are you,” she replied but she was already turning back. Bending to pick up the knife.

  “No!” she screamed and put every effort she had into stopping her body.

  They came to a stalemate, and she froze in the small dark garden like some android that was going into meltdown. Part of her knew that this must look a ridiculous sight. A grown woman moving back and forth as she tried to reach down and then held back. She had the sudden urge to laugh, except this situation wasn’t funny.

  Her arm stretched forward and she bit her cheek. The pain centered her and she stopped. Like a statue, bent over with her right arm stuck out. There she stayed for a few seconds, shaking and rocking on the spot as she forced Matron to relinquish control.

  Sweat was running down her forehead and down her back. She felt so dirty, and stale; her clothes were damp and sticky, but she wouldn’t give in.

  Once more she bit down on her lip. This time on the outside, and she felt her teeth cut through the flesh. It hurt like a mother, but gave her the edge and she straightened up just a little.

  Had she won? Maybe if she caused so much pain then Matron would have no control. Maybe that was her way to fight.

  No the voice was angry and it sent a shiver down her spine.

  You have no chance, for I can wait and I can cause you much more pain than you can cause me.

  Once more, white heat seared through her brain. Closing her eyes she reached for her head, but her arms were moving in the opposite direction. While she felt as if she were holding her head, she was vaguely aware of her body reaching down and picking up the knife.

  “No!” she screamed, and bit down on her lip once more, but this time her teeth wouldn’t move. The pain in her head spread and she screamed silently as her body moved forward.

  Shut down and escape the pain, Matron said in a soft, cajoling voice.

  It was alluring and Rosie so wanted to comply. To let go of this pain was so enticing. She would do anything to escape the feeling that hot metal had been poured into her skull and was melting her brain… only she couldn’t. If she did, then Matron had full use of her body and would do whatever she wanted. If she did, then this woman would die.

  Clenching her jaws, she screamed out her agony, and it helped. She knew that she must sound like some wailing banshee and hoped that someone would come. Maybe they could stop her. Maybe she would be arrested and that would be a good thing. If she went to jail then no innocents would have to die.

  So she screamed and fought, but it made no difference. Her hand had hold of the knife now.

  Slowly, it was raised above the woman’s head and then Matron stopped. She reached out and turned the woman, adjusting the direction in which she was standing. Rosie didn’t fully understand, but she could tell from the thoughts in her mind that this was important.

  Still she fought, and as the hand holding the knife started to lower, she applied everything she had.

  In her head something tore and it felt as if blood gushed out and filled her brain. The pressure on her eyes was tremendous and tears were running down her face.

  No matter how she tried, she was failing. “Run!” she shouted but she didn’t know if the words were only in her mind.

  They were answered with a deep and dark chuckle. Matron knew she had won.

  Rosie was pushed from control and floating in a sea of pain. Vaguely aware of Matron, she could see and feel a bolt of blue energy entering the index finger of her left hand and heard Matron calling. The language was one she didn’t understand. It felt guttural and dirty on her tongue and she had the urge to spit out the words.

  Panic seared through her brain along with the pain. The panic that she must do something, stop something, but she couldn’t understand why and she was slowly floating away… away from the pain, from the blinding blue light, from the name on her lips —Lucifer.

  The knife tore down and she saw the woman’s eyes widened as it struck home. Her fist hit flesh and warm blood spread across her hand.

  Revulsion brought bile to her throat and yet there was a sense of euphoria, the likes of which she had never experienced. A sense of power so strong, it jerked her upright and threw her back. Held there on a tidal wave of power, she closed her eyes and drank in the life-force. As it began to fade, Rosie pulled back, pulled away from Matron in her mind.

  The old lady crumpled to the ground, her pink coat soaked with blood. Her birdlike hands were clasping for her neck. As she fell face down into the mud, her long gray hair fanning around her head, Rosie ran from the vision. Inside her mind she fled back to her vault and blessed darkness.

  27

  When did the bed get so hard?

  Pain throbbed in Rosie’s shoulder as bit by bit she struggled out of sleep. Everything was a blur and her eyes would not open. Reaching up, she could feel something dried on her face and covering her eyes. For a moment she wondered if she had gotten really drunk. A distant memory of dried sick on her face flashed through her mind.

  Then panic cut through her stomach like a butcher’s knife.

  Something was wrong, very wrong, but she couldn’t remember what.

  Still her eyes wouldn’t open, and she knew she wasn’t at home. Her hands scrubbed at her face and bits of dried something fell from her skin but eventually she could open her eyes.

  It didn’t help; it was dark — pitch black in fact.

  Where was she?

  The sound of traffic had her turning her head to the left and she fought down the impending feeling of panic and dread. Something bad had happened, of that she was sure, but she couldn’t remember. There was just this sick empty feeling inside. A feeling that she had done something so wrong and that she would have to pay.

  Tears came to her eyes and ran down her face, and as they washed the crust off her cheek, they ran into her mouth. Her tears tasted coppery… and then, she knew… she was caked with blood.

  Panic brought her to her feet. Her body ached as if she had fought ten rounds with a world champion. Every muscle screamed in protest as she stood and she wavered on her feet.

  Is the blood mine? Am I hurt?

  As soon as she had the thought, she knew it was wrong. That it would have been easier if it was hers. That it would have been better—but she still she couldn’t remember how she got here, or what she had done. She
couldn’t even remember where she was.

  Slowly she began to walk down the street and as she did, she had flashes of memory. There was an old lady in a pink jacket and faded fawn trousers with a tired, wizened face. Frail bird-like hands fluttered against her chest.

  Something about the memory brought a tightness to Rosie’s chest.

  Was the woman hurt? Could she help her?

  Shaking her head she searched her memories as she walked, and then she recognized the street and the ginnel that the woman had walked down.

  Nausea dropped her head and emptied her stomach onto the pavement. She remembered Matron, the Old Hag that controlled her. She remembered the feel of the knife in her hand. How the handle was warm and wet and how it throbbed in her fingers. Then she remembered the inner fight with Matron and losing. The look in the poor old woman’s eyes as the knife hit flesh.

  What have I done?

  A sob wracked her body and dropped her to her knees. A fresh steam of vomit flooded her throat, bursting out and hitting the cold pavement splashing back to hit her face.

  Rosie wanted to lay there and to forget the world. She would have no more part of this. She would never let this beast use her to kill again.

  What if she’s still alive?

  The question brought her to her feet and she searched the street. No one was around. There was no one to help, no one to hide from, another part of her said, get home, get cleaned up before the body was discovered.

  “No,” Rosie shouted and she started to run to the alley. She turned down and raced through the gloom. Going so fast that it felt as if she was falling through the darkness, as if she was rushing toward her doom. Then she saw the gate—slightly ajar.

  It was dark, but her eyes were growing accustomed. She peered into the garden. There, crumpled on the ground like a castaway sack was the old woman. She had fallen face down and her hair spread out around her like a halo. In so many ways she looked peaceful, idyllic, at rest.

  A pool of blood was soaking into the grass around her neck.

  Rosie let out a gasp and dropped to her knees. They sank into a warm wetness and she knew that more blood would be soaking into her clothes.

  With a shaky hand she reached out to find the woman’s pulse. Only her neck was cold, sticky, and rubbery. Still she searched but there was nothing there. No sign of life, not even a glimmer.

  The tears were falling uncontrollably now and Rosie rocked and sobbed in a world of despair.

  You have to go, a voice said in her mind, and she wanted to shout at it. To tell Matron to shut up. That she had done enough already but the voice was her own. It was the rational side of her mind that knew she couldn’t stop this, but she had to find a way.

  Getting up, she gritted her teeth and knew what she had to do. So she hid her thoughts in her vault and started to walk as fast as she could.

  When she got to the opposite end of the alley, she turned away from home. Dropping her head, she put her hands in her pockets. The right one touched the knife. It had sliced through the bottom of the pocket and hung against her leg. The blade nicked her index finger but she ignored the pain. Ignored the feeling of blood as it ran down her finger and pooled in her pocket, before running through the hole and dripping down, down, down.

  Just keep walking. That was all she had to do. If she could just keep walking for another fifteen minutes then this would all be over.

  What are you doing? Matron asked inside her head, but the voice was weak and somnolent-sounding.

  I just feel like a walk, Rosie replied, and then shut her thoughts down. She filled her mind with the old woman’s face and the bird-like hands that clawed at her chest. They were so small and insignificant, so ineffectual in a fight. Just like those of a dinosaur she had once seen, and it made her feel so sad.

  She wanted to ask why. Why had they done this? Why couldn’t Matron just be happy with her life? But she already knew. The spirit had been getting weaker since they left RedRise house. There was something wrong with her chest and Rosie thought that it would kill her if it was left. For a moment that was what she wanted. To end this. To end the pain and the fear that she would kill someone again, but she didn’t know if she could.

  Maybe she could step in front of a truck? If she timed it right then it would be instant death. Maybe that was a better way to end this, since Matron always seemed to control her physically when she tried to end her own life.

  Never, the lethargic voice said in her mind, but right now it wasn’t very convincing.

  Rosie knew she just had to bide her time, for she was close now. Excitement caught her breath in her throat and she fought it down. She must not let on about what she was planning.

  Just one more street and then she could walk into the police station. They would take one look at her and know that things were bad.

  Her clothes, hands, and no doubt face and hair, were covered in blood. They would arrest her and even if Matron took over—if she couldn’t tell them what happened, they would put it together when the body was found.

  28

  As she turned onto the street the light outside the police station filled her with hope. It was hard to hide her thoughts. Hard to keep her pace even and to control her breathing, but she must.

  Matron was tired, resting. No doubt building up her strength. This might be her only chance to do this and she had to take it. The station was close now and her heart kicked up a beat.

  Inside her head Matron stirred.

  Rosie quickened her pace and whistled in her mind. It was a Beatles melody, but she couldn’t think of the title. Maybe that was a good thing. She searched her memory as she quickened her pace. A car pulled past and around the side of the police station. Rosie kept her eyes low and whistled away.

  What was that darn tune called?

  The police station was four stories high and looked modern and efficient. The entrance was just another thirty yards along the building. Like a beacon in the darkness, it called to her. There were double sliding doors and behind them, a reception area. It looked as if no one was there, but then she saw movement.

  A uniformed officer walked past and disappeared through a door. The urge to run, to shout, was strong, but she fought it down and kept walking.

  Taking a breath she whistled some more, that stupid song with no name. All cheery melody with no substance, it felt just like she did.

  Letting out a breath she gasped for another. She could do this and she turned toward the door. The reception was empty but she could see a bell on the counter. Just five more steps and she would be through that door and Amy would be safe. The world would be safe.

  A knife sliced through her left temple and embedded in her brain. Or at least that was what it felt like.

  Staggering she kept moving forward, just a few more paces and she would be home, free – or at least clear of the fear that she would kill again. The police would know what to do. They would stop her, lock her up.

  What are you doing? The voice pushed the knife deeper. Did you really think you could get away with this, that you could turn me in? You are weak, my servant, and you will worship me before the year is out.

  Rosie bent over and clenched her fists so tightly that they ached, but the pain would not ease up. She wanted to scream, could swear that she had, and yet she knew her mouth never moved.

  All that existed was the pain; like a sea of molten lava it engulfed her brain in its fiery heat and seared away her intentions, her will, and her consciousness, and then there was nothing.

  The deep searing pain woke Rosie, and she knew instantly that something was wrong. It was almost light and even the gloom hurt her eyes. Screwing them shut, she fought back the tears and dragged in a breath, trying to stop the pain.

  It was too much.

  Something was crushing her brain.

  A gasp escaped her and she forced her eyes open bit by dreadful bit. The hand on her brain tightened until she was sure that her head would simply explode. Instead, the pain ea
sed a little and began to dissipate.

  What she was lying on was hard and cold, and a bitter wind whipped around her. She tried to sit up. A wave of nausea rushed over her and dragged her head back to the ground. The ground!

  As the vomit spewed from her she realized that she was outside. Lying in a back street.

  As her surroundings slowly came into focus she let the tears fall.

  What had happened? Where was she?

  Confusion was like a heavy blanket, like a dark fog. It clouded her thoughts and each time she tried to peer around it, the fog swirled and coalesced and her memories were buried.

  But something was dreadfully wrong. Something awful had happened. Rosie could see that her clothes and hands were covered in something brown and dried. The material was stiff and as she moved bits flaked off.

  Was it mud?

  Maybe she had fallen and hit her head. It made sense and would explain the pain and the filth. Only it didn’t explain how she got here or where she fell, more than that it didn’t feel right.

  There was a deep hole in her stomach. That feeling of impending doom, or the one you get when you have done something terrible. Something you never intended, something you regret.

  What had she done?

  The sun was rising and as she looked at her hand, she realized that it wasn’t mud… it was blood. Her hands and clothes were soaked in blood. She was covered in it.

  Why? How?

  Something also told her that she had to move. She must get home and change. She must get out of these clothes before she was caught. Or maybe she should go to the hospital.

  Rosie jumped to her feet as another thought hit her. What if this was her blood? Had she been hit by a car, or attacked by a madman?

  For a second, adrenaline chased insects up and down her arms, raising the hairs and prickling her skin. The idea was plausible, only the sick feeling in her stomach told her that it wasn’t right. Even though her body ached as if she had been hit by a truck and her head was now simply throbbing, she knew that wasn’t it. Something had happened, something bad. Why couldn’t she remember?