The Ghosts of RedRise House

by Caroline Clark

  Suddenly she wanted to call Amy and she knew she had to get home. If she was found in this state then she would be taken to a hospital, or arrested. Until she knew what had happened that wasn’t a good idea.

  The street was dark and dreary. The buildings rundown and uncared for. There were no lights on in any of the windows, but the sun would soon be over the horizon. It was rising behind her and it always rose to the front of her property. Instinct told her to go toward it and so she turned around and headed off down the street.

  When she got to the end she knew where she was and so she turned left and quickened her pace. It would take her a good half hour to get home and if she didn’t hurry, she would start to meet people.

  The more she walked the more panic took over, and soon she was running along the street as if the very devil were on her tail. At last she was on her own road and she raced down it and up to the door. Reaching into her grubby and crusty pockets, she felt a knife in one! From the other she pulled out her keys and fell through the door.

  Nausea overtook her. She had to get out of these clothes. Bounding up the stairs, she ripped off her coat and threw it onto the bathroom’s beige tiled floor. The room was poorly lit as the sun had only just risen, and yet she could see the blood caked into her fingers and nails. Holding her hands out, they shook as she examined them. Thick red lined her nails and coated her fingers. It ran across her hands and up her arms.

  Dropping her hands, she ripped off her fleece and t-shirt. Even her bra was coated in blood. It must have soaked right through her clothes.

  Panic spurred her on and she pulled off her jeans. Flakes of dried blood dropped to litter the tiles as she pulled the stiff denim down her legs.

  Naked, except for her necklace, she wanted to curl into the corner of the room and hide but she stepped into the shower.

  At first the water was cold and the shock helped to clear her head. There was something controlling her. Though she knew it, it sounded crazy in her mind and she couldn’t remember what it was.

  Who? The voice in her mind asked. Yes it was a who. Someone had done something bad and it wasn’t her.

  Finally the water was warm and she reveled in its cleansing power. Filling her hands with shower gel, she lathered all over her body. Then she washed her hair and more red ran from her skin and dirtied the white shower. Letting out a cry of despair, she grabbed the back brush and she began to shrub.

  The water ran red as the blood sluiced from her and dribbled down the drain. More and more she scrubbed, her hands, arms, back, legs, everywhere she could, she scrubbed until the water ran clean, and then she scrubbed some more. Soon she was red and sore but she couldn’t seem to stop.

  Why couldn’t she remember?

  How had she gotten to that street?

  What was wrong with her?

  Tears began to fall, and she dropped the brush to the base of the shower and let them come. Hugging herself she rocked beneath the hot water and just let go.

  It was only when the water turned cold that she came out of her despair.

  Reaching up, she turned it off and stepped from the shower. Grabbing a towel she wiped the tears from her face and went into her bedroom. Sitting down on the bed she pulled the towel tight. It was so cold. Her breath misted before her.

  Rosie dried quickly as the water turned to ice on her skin.

  Dressing in jeans and another fleece she towel-dried her hair. It was stiff as if it was starting to freeze.

  Rosie shook her head and walked to the door. The thermostat was downstairs and she planned to go put on the heating. As she stepped onto the stair, a shadow passed the front door.

  Freezing on the spot, she let out a breath. It misted before her.

  What was going on? Was someone in the house?

  “Hello!” she called, and then wished she hadn’t. If someone was here she would be best to hide. But, she had to know.

  Slowly she walked down the stairs, and the lower she went the colder it got.

  Rosie turned the thermostat but it was over 25 before she heard the boiler burst into life. Why was it so cold? It made no sense. The sun shone through the window and the day looked nice. There could be a touch of chill but not this much.

  Turning to her right, a shadow crossed the room.

  Rosie stepped back as the skin prickled on her arms and her chest tightened.

  A smoky mist swirled before her forming into the shape of a person. Within the smoke a face appeared. The mouth torn open in a scream. Its eyes were wild. But just as soon as it happened, it was gone and so was the mist.

  29

  Rosie sank down into an easy chair, a cheese toasty and a cup of tea precariously perched in her hands.

  Her heart was still beating too quickly and there was a sense of something wrong that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Of course, she had come home covered in blood with no memory of how it got there. That was enough to start with. Now she was seeing things... misty shadows with faces in them.

  What she wanted to do was ring Amy, to ring her friend, the one who always seemed to know what to do. The one who could cope with anything. But she couldn't even bring herself to do that.

  There was a deep fear inside of her. What had happened last night? What had she done? What was she seeing? What were the shadows, were they really there? Maybe she was going mad. Something told her that to call Amy would be wrong. It didn’t make sense.

  The cheese toasty was cold, stiff and congealed—she couldn't face it. So she picked up the tea, and clinging to the cup like a security blanket, she took a long sip. It was hot, strong, black, and it warmed her as it slipped down her throat.

  She needed to get some perspective. Maybe if she relaxed, and let go, then her memories would come back. With that thought in mind, she flicked on the television.

  It was on the news channel. An overly cheerful man was making a meal of the weather. Cold, cloudy, some sunny spells, and the chance of some rain. It almost made her laugh as he seemed to have covered every variable.

  Next came the headlines. Normally she liked the news, but today she just couldn't concentrate. It all blurred in her mind and she looked down to see her hands shaking and covered in blood.

  "No!" She stood up, the tea spilling. Putting the cup down, she held her hands out before her. They were clean. There was no sign of any blood.

  A breath came out of her in a long sob. What was happening to her?

  Back in the chair she picked up the tea and took another sip. Closing her eyes, she savored the tea. It would calm her, it always did, and yet today not even that seemed to help.

  A flash of red spliced through her mind. A face contorted in terror and so much blood. Rosie gasped. The images had come so quickly, and were gone just as soon. They made no sense and yet they scared her. Was this a memory? What had she done?

  As if in answer, the local news broadcaster's voice boomed out of the television. He caught her attention and she turned to look at him. He seemed to be staring right at her as he read the news. Was there accusation in his eyes?

  “A brutal murder, of a sweet and well-loved local resident took place sometime last night.”

  The sickness inside Rosie grew until it was everything. What had she done?

  The report continued, the crime had taken place not a mile from her home and the police were asking for witnesses.

  Rosie heard it all and yet she was not there, not present. It was as if she were peering out of a window, looking on at the scene of an accident. None of it made sense and she wanted to scream out her frustration and fear. What was happening?

  The picture changed as the camera went live to the location. Shocked neighbors were interviewed and all the time Rosie felt the sickness inside.

  She recognized this place. She had been there. Again blood filled her vision and she bit her lip to make it go away.

  They were showing a picture of an old lady, Mary Price. She had long gray hair and was wearing a threadbare pink coat.

&n
bsp; She had seen that coat before, but where?

  A smile graced the woman's wrinkled face and all the neighbors told of what a nice lady she had been... always friendly, always helping.

  "This is just such a terrible shame," a woman said as she hugged her child to her knees. "Who would do such a thing?"

  Deep inside her head Rosie could hear laughter. She shook her head to try and drive the sound away, but it just got louder.

  The television crackled, the lights flickered, and in the corner of the room a shadow appeared.

  Rosie shrank back into her chair and clutched onto her head. It hurt, ached, and that laugh just wouldn't stop.

  The voice sounded old; maybe it was the voice of the woman, of Mary. Had she killed her? Was she being haunted?

  It made no sense. Why would she hurt anyone? Yet deep down inside she had this cold, oily, dread. She knew that she had done something terrible.

  You did kill her.

  The voice was inside her own head, and yet it was not her voice.

  A shadow appeared in the corner.

  "Stop it," Rosie shouted, but she didn't know who she was shouting at. Was this her own voice, her own madness? It made no sense.

  The light continued to flicker and the room chilled. Her breath steamed before her and in the corner of the room the shadow deepened, thickened. What was once translucent gained shape and form. A smoky figure appeared: a frail, small, human. Then it was gone.

  Remember.

  The word was said inside her head, by that same old and dreadful voice. Everything came back to her. It was like a whirlwind of sounds, shapes, smells, sensations, and emotions. She dropped to her knees, and before she could stop it, vomited the tea onto the floorboards.

  "You did this," she said the words aloud. "You killed her. You killed Mary. Why?"

  Because I needed power. Now I have it, and soon I will have more, Matron answered back.

  It was such a strange sensation. Her own mouth opening and closing and speaking a voice that was not her own.

  "No, oh my God no! You killed her, you killed her. How could you, how could you do this. You killed the woman in the pink coat. I won't let you do this again, never again."

  I will do it again. I will kill anyone I want and I will do it whenever I want.

  "No, no, not with me. I will stop you. Even if it kills me, I will stop you."

  No you won't. You will worship me and I will kill your friends, every single one of them, including Amy.

  Rosie let out a scream of anger and despair. Now she remembered everything. How she was conned in RedRise House. How she was taken over by the spirit of Old Hag, who now called herself Matron. She even remembered last night. The excitement as they stalked Mary down the street. The fear in the old woman's eyes. How her bird-like hands had clawed at her throat and how wonderful it all felt.

  It hadn't been her excitement, her wonder, no, it was Matron's, but feeling it now turned her stomach.

  Would she be able to stay in control? Would she be able to prevent this creature from killing again? Would she be able to save Amy?

  A knock on the door sent a jolt of fear down her spine.

  "No!" she screamed, for she knew it was Amy coming to check on her. How could she drive her friend away?

  Amy skipped down the street looking forward to seeing her friend. Only she was worried about Rosie. Something had been dreadfully off the night before. It was almost as if her friend wasn't herself.

  Of course, she had to realize that Rosie had been through a lot. Maybe sending her to that remote house had been a mistake. Well, she was back now. Clive was locked up, and Rosie could start to rebuild her life.

  Amy walked up to the white door and was about to knock. The sound of shouting froze her in place.

  Rosie never shouted. She also had no other friends. Clive had managed to isolate her from everyone. Had driven them all away, all except her. It made no sense that Rosie would be talking to someone, shouting at someone.

  Worried, she was about to burst in, but something stopped her. Was it fear?

  It sounded as if Rosie was shouting at herself. The second voice was different but it was still Rosie's. She was shouting something about killing and stopping. Amy pressed her ear to the door.

  "I will kill your friends, every single one of them including Amy."

  Amy stepped back. Had she really heard that? It had to have been a mistake. For a moment she stood there, her hand poised on the handle. Muttering came from within but she couldn't make it out. Part of her wanted to leave but she would never do that, so she knocked, and taking a deep breath, walked in.

  The door opened into a small entrance hall, with just enough room to close the door. The stairs were in front of her, to the left the kitchen, to the right the living room. The shouting had been coming from her right but Amy couldn’t move.

  Right in front of her eyes, on the pale cream wall leading up the stairs was a bloody handprint.

  30

  Rosie heard the door open. What could she do? Inside her head Matron was shouting.

  Kill her, kill her, kill her now!

  "No I won't."

  Pain filled her mind. Like molten lava, it seared through her brain and it was everything. Amy was forgotten. Matron was forgotten. Her whole world was pain and fire.

  Against her will, her body moved. The motions jerky and robotic as Matron tried to regain control.

  Rosie knew she had to do something. She knew it was something important, but she couldn’t get past the pain. In her own living hell, she floated on a sea of agony. It consumed her mind, her body, her everything.

  Matron smiled. She was gaining control. Unfortunately, Rosie was stronger than she had expected, and the woman was fiercely protective of her friend. It didn't matter. Matron's strength would grow with each kill, and soon she would be in total control. Getting rid of Amy was only the beginning. Without that tie to her humanity, Rosie would fail.

  Matron lurched toward the knife. She had heard Amy come in but had heard nothing since. Where had the infuriating woman gone?

  The knife was on a coffee table. Just five steps away. With the pain she was inflicting on Rosie it should have been easy, and yet her host fought it. Every step was difficult and she needed to hurry. The fight continued, but she was winning. The pain was wearing Rosie down, and with every step, Rosie's resolve failed. It would take just one more and she could reach down for the knife.

  Her hand moved out and she bent to clasp it.

  "No," Rosie screamed.

  The voice was strong in her head. Much too strong. Sending another wave of pain weakened her, but it drove the voice away. Confident now, she reached down to grab the knife.

  The touch of the knife gave her strength. The familiar feel of the damp leather. The weight of the blade and the way it glinted. Catching the nearest bit of light and reflecting it, magnifying it, not with brightness but with darkness and despair. Euphoria went through her as she imagined slashing Amy's throat. She could feel the splash of warm blood, could taste the salty goodness and feel the strength it gave her.

  Where was her visitor?

  So far Amy had come into the house, but where was she?

  Matron walked toward the entrance. Her footsteps loud on the old floorboards. If Amy was there she knew she was coming. A snarl started in her throat but she bit it down. Amy was not expecting trouble, she had come to see her friend. Forcing a smile on her face, she walked forward more confidently. It was difficult, Rosie was still fighting, but she was getting weaker. The voice inside her head fading while the screams grew louder. That brought a genuine smile to her face. Rosie was inside her own hell. Forced to burn for as long as Matron kept the pressure on. It took a lot out of her. Sweat was running down her back, and down her forehead, but for now it was worth it.

  "Amy is that you?" Matron called in a voice as light as she could manage.

  There was no answer. Did the woman know? Was she waiting? Was she ready for her?

&
nbsp; It didn't matter. Matron needed more souls. Fighting Rosie was harder than she could ever imagine, and she knew that Amy was the key to her success. Her death would be the end of her friend.

  That thought brought a feeling of warmth to her and the smile on her face was once more genuine.

  Matron rounded the corner to see Amy staring at the wall. The shock on her face was pure and laughable. Matron's eyes followed Amy's. There on the insipid cream wall was a bloody handprint.

  Matron clenched her jaw. It was a foolish mistake. Why had she left it? Damn Rosie, she was hiding things from her. This had to stop.

  The knife was held behind her back. Weighing it in her hand she approached. This was the part she loved. Stalking the victim. Knowing that she would take their life in an instant. Keeping a smile on her face, she watched her prey for any sign of panic.

  Amy just looked shocked, as if she didn't know what to do.

  This would be easier than Matron had hoped.

  It would take just two more steps. She hefted the knife in her hand. Getting ready to move forward. One step with her left foot and then she would swing the knife as her right foot traveled forward. The arc was perfect. The knife would slash right to left, severing the jugular and spraying her with blood. It would be messy, but that didn't matter. Rosie lived like a recluse. No one was going to see it.

  Amy turned. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  Matron congratulated herself. This was perfect. Should she allow Rosie to see? Should she reduce the pain?

  For a moment she wavered on the spot, hesitating, trying to decide if she should inflict this greater torture. No. Rosie would see it through her eyes for years to come so there was no point in taking the risk now.

  She smiled a crocodile smile and stepped forward with her left foot.

  Amy returned the smile and looked a little better. A little more relaxed. Matron began the final assault and could feel her victory. She stepped forward with her right foot and began to swing out her arm with the knife.