"At first she stared at me angrily, as if I was accusing her of doing something terrible. But she knew I knew what she was capable of doing. Her angry stare turned into an evil smile. She said 'that's what happens to people I don't like'. At that moment I realised my poor mother also lay at the bottom of the well, as I'd suspected." He shook his head again. "Of course she started the usual threats of if you tell on me, they'll hang you too."
I told my grandfather that I'd seen the terrible murder of his mother on that parallel supernatural plane as he'd described it.
"But the events didn't end there," he said. "That time when you'd first arrived, I wasn't exactly truthful when I told you Emily left the house one day and never returned."
His eyes clouded into distant memory again.
"A few days before I was due to marry Mary, I was in the garden trimming back some shrubs, when Emily came up to me. She asked, 'are you certain about getting married?' I told her I loved Mary and it was my dearest wish. Her expression turned grim."
My grandfather reached out for the glass of water I now held for him, his own grip too weak to grasp it for long. He took another sip, pausing again before continuing.
"She said to me, 'if Mary comes here to live, I will make life hell, and won't be held accountable for what else I might do'. I knew exactly what she meant about not being accountable, and that Mary's life would be in mortal danger. Emily then walked off towards the gazebo, confident I think that her threat would make me change my plans and that I'd call off the wedding. I was furious."
Now my grandfather paused for breath, the memory of harrowing events was rapidly tiring him. I told him to rest, but he insisted on continuing.
"I went back inside the house and to a cupboard where my father had kept his old hunting guns. I chose one and loaded it with a cartridge," he paused for more breath. "I went back into the garden and walked across to the gazebo where Emily sat enjoying the warm summer sunshine. She saw me carrying the gun and stood up, starting to laugh. 'You're not going to shoot me, are you? You're too weak to have the courage,' she goaded me. I knew that as long as Emily remained here, my life would always be unhappy. She was domineering, unhinged, without any feeling for others. She would murder Mary, I had no doubt."
He reached out to me for another drink of water. He could see I was about to advise him to rest, but shook his head insisting on continuing.
"I raised the gun and aimed the barrel at her. She laughed again. I said if you even harm a hair on Mary's head, I will kill you. She laughed even more, calling me pathetic, that I didn't have the courage to shoot a rabbit. My mind blanked out for a moment. I was only aware of a loud blast. Then in front of me red started colouring the chest of Emily's yellow dress, surrounding a large hole blown into it. She was falling backwards, a look of amazed horror on her face." He lowered his head for a moment.
"Strangely, I should have felt terrible, but a wave of unbelievable relief coursed through me. An evil that had polluted all of my life was gone. I stood over her, relishing that surprised look etched in her face as she lay there stone dead."
My grandfather looked at me, I think expecting I should be shocked. It was another shocking revelation, but I understood why he would have been driven to that extreme.
"In a final irony," he said, "I disposed of her body down the old well, then not long after demolished the wall and capped that awful abyss, saying a prayer for the innocents, but hoping Emily would descend into the depths of hell."
He grew more breathless, struggling to continue. I strongly insisted he should rest. Again he asked me to stay.
"The secret of what you did will remain only with me," I promised him, worried that he thought I would expose his confession.
"No, I want it to be known by the authorities," he said. "I'm probably not long for this world. I don't wish to go to my maker unforgiven for not confessing my sins. And it is the only way of laying the curse of my sister to rest. To exorcise the evil that hangs over the house."
"I don't think the police would believe what happened there all those years ago just on your word or mine," I told him.
"I've written everything down in a dated locked diary that I keep in my bedroom," he replied.
I remembered seeing the diary, wondering what was inside.
"The key is kept in the bottom drawer of my dresser, underneath some papers. Give it to the police."
He was putting me in an impossible position. The revelation wasn't going to bring back the dead. It could only result in my grandfather spending the remaining days of his life in prison after he recovered. He saw the dilemma in my eyes.
"Please do this for me," he pleaded. I nodded agreement, but still felt unsure of carrying out his wish. I was about to insist again that he must rest, when the nurse entered and saw him.
"You've exhausted the poor man," she harangued me," how's he going to get better? Come on, say goodbye and go." She stared sternly at me to make sure her order was obeyed.
"See you tomorrow," I said, lightly clasping his shoulders.
"So glad you came to stay with me," he raised a smile. "I'm sorry to have caused you so much trouble."
I was about to reassure him there was no need to apologise, but the nurse hurried me out.
CHAPTER 9
I RETURNED to my grandfather's house and warily entered the property, fearful of yet another haunting. Retrieving the diary and key from his bedroom, I quickly made my way back to the front door.
For a moment in the hallway, I was sure I heard a female voice calling my name. Looking behind there seemed to be a figure standing in the corridor leading to the rear garden. Within a split second it disappeared. A shiver ran through me as I left.
Back at Marcia's I settled in the sitting room and read through my grandfather's diary. It recorded all those harrowing murders he'd been forced into as Emily's accomplice, reaching back into his boyhood.
I strained to hold in tears, feeling the guilt and fear he had suffered, laid bare in the intimate emotions of his written words. How he carried that weight for so long without losing his sanity was beyond me. When Marcia returned that evening, she gazed at me in deep concern.
"What's the matter? You look totally drained. Has something happened to your grandfather? Have you seen another ghost?"
I assured her my grandfather was slowly recovering and that I hadn't suffered another haunting.
"It's been a difficult day," I said. "Can we talk another time?" I declined her offer of food. "Just want an early night." She respected my wish.
The prospect of an early night's rest was a vain hope. I wrestled over my grandfather's desire to hand his diary over to the police. I could never forgive myself if he spent the rest of his days in prison.
Lapsing eventually into a light sleep, I dreamt of being in the garden with him. We walked together in warm sunshine. He stopped and turned to me.
"The curse of my sister Emily no longer survives. It has now passed with my own ending. I wish you a happy life." He smiled at me then began walking away, disappearing in the air.
The phone ringing downstairs in the hall woke me. It was four thirty in the morning. The ringing stopped. I could hear Marcia speaking and presumed it was someone seeking her medical advice. A short time later there was a knock at my bedroom door.
"The hospital is calling," she said. "They want to speak to you."
Quickly I put on shirt and trousers and went to the phone.
"Mr Roberts?"
"Yes."
"I'm staff nurse Helen Maguire. I'm very sorry to tell you, but your grandfather passed away half-an-hour ago."
I was totally stunned. The news took me by complete surprise. I knew he still had some way to go to full recovery, but I truly thought he was on the mend. My dream of walking with him in the garden just before the phone call. Had he visited me to bid farewell?
"Hello, are you still there?" asked the nurse.
"Yes," I replied. "I'll come in to collect his belongings and make ar
rangements."
Marcia could tell the news was not good.
"I'm so sorry," she put her arm around my shoulders. We went into the kitchen and she made a cup of tea. I told her about my grandfather's deathbed confession and of his diary.
"I can't imagine anyone could condemn him knowing the full story," she sympathised.
"Yes, but people can be unkind. I'm reluctant to tell the police, to hand over his diary, even though that was his wish. He was well liked. I don't want to taint his good name."
I looked at Marcia for some type of guidance as we sat at the kitchen table.
"That's a family matter for you to decide," she said. "If I told you what I thought, and you later regretted following my advice, I would hate it to cause a rift between us."
She was right, it was a burden for my shoulders.
******
AFTER making arrangements for my grandfather to be interred at the local church in a couple of weeks time, I thanked Marcia for her kindness and hospitality before going home to my apartment in London. I promised to keep in touch by phone until I returned for the funeral.
Back home it was refreshing to be surrounded by the business of city life again, though the rubble of bombed streets still littered much of the landscape.
I visited my father and mother. She was not in good health, but her spirit was raised by seeing me again. Wheelchair bound, she looked pale and had lost more weight. My father was totally dedicated to her. It made me feel guilty that I couldn't do anything more for her. Except when it came to my grandfather's house.
"I know your granddad is leaving the old house to me in his will," my father explained. "I plan to sell it and split the money three ways between you, your brother and me."
"No, keep my share," I told him. "Put it towards mum's nursing care."
"It'll be a great help to you," my father insisted.
"No, I'll get by."
We left it there.
Over a whisky in the familiar floral wallpapered living room of my parents' home, adorned with ornaments on shelves, I told him of my unearthly experiences at the house and gave him grandfather's diary to read. When he'd finished, he stared ahead in deep thought.
"Interesting," he said after a while, closing the diary.
"Is that all you have to say?" I was shocked and surprised by his reaction.
"I know exactly what happened. It's true your grandfather was forced into helping his sister." He stared into the distance again, as if there was something else he wanted to say, but remained silent, handing the diary back to me. I told him grandfather wanted me to inform the authorities.
"You do as you think fit," he replied. "As far as I'm concerned it's history. Grandchildren often get on better with their grandparents, than children with their own parents."
With that he dropped the subject, leaving me wondering about another family story which I'd probably never know. Maybe my grandfather's guilt had strained his relationship with my father when he was growing up.
In the fortnight leading up to the funeral, the sadness was eased a little by visiting friends and the freedom of just being able to go to the pub, see a movie, and generally not being tied to a rigid routine of duty. But behind all that was a prevailing sense of loneliness. I missed Marcia's company. I rang her a few times and we chatted about things we'd been doing. I wanted to tell her how much I missed her, but couldn't find the words. I was still unsure of her feelings for me beyond just friendship.
All the while I continued to wrestle with the decision of informing the police and handing over the diary. No-one could harm my grandfather now, and it would only be right for the unfortunate souls, only bones by now I imagined, to be retrieved and given proper burials. Even Emily. Despite my grandfather's understandable wish for her to be in the depths of hell. If there was a life beyond the shadows of ghosts, hopefully it would be more forgiving for all our sakes.
However, one obstacle remained standing in the way of a final decision, and that was Marcia.
On the day of the funeral I left early for the drive to the church. Marcia had generously offered her house to hold the wake after the service. I was deeply impressed by the large turnout of villagers for the occasion.
Marcia was there elegantly dressed in a long black dress and hat, my father beside me as the coffin was lowered into the ground. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw someone familiar standing a short distance away behind the assembled mourners. Was it my grandfather smiling at me? Perhaps a trick of the light. As I blinked the image was gone.
My father had to leave after the service to get back to my mother, and with Marcia as host back at the house, I was regaled with stories by the villagers of what a wonderful man grandfather had been. When everyone had left, Marcia invited me to stay the night.
"Your room's ready if you want to," she said. I was grateful for the offer. It had been an emotionally tiring day.
Together we cleared up the plates and glasses left by the guests, then stopped for a break, pouring some wine left over from the wake and resting back on the kitchen counter.
"I'm still trying to make a decision about releasing the diary," I told her.
"Why not?" she asked. "It's your grandfather's wish."
"I know, but I'm worried about you."
"Me? Why?"
"When I hand over the diary to police, there's likely to be a lot of publicity around removing the well capping and searching the waters for remains," I explained.
"Are you sure they'll take the diary seriously? They might think your grandfather made it all up," Marcia didn't seem convinced.
"I'm sure there are past records of those disappearances from the house. They'll probably start putting two and two together."
Marcia accepted the reasoning.
"So why are you concerned about me?" she asked.
"Well I've been staying here, and I know from looks and comments made by the milkman and postman that the locals think our relationship is more than..." I paused, feeling a bit embarrassed to finish the obvious sentence, "... that it's more intimate than it really is. The publicity will associate me with you, and you'll become the gossip of locals. I don't want your reputation as the local doctor to suffer."
Marcia gave me a stony look.
"And you, of course, like the Prince of Knaves will run off back to London and leave me to face them all alone," she angrily accused. I felt terrible. Then she broke into laughter.
"Don't worry yourself, it would take a lot more than that to stop me working here," she said with iron determination. Relief swept over me. I'd have felt totally lost if she really had been casting me out in anger.
"Talking of London," I said, "I've been wondering about a change in my life."
"A change?" Marcia sounded intrigued.
"I was wondering if that position coming up with the local solicitor is still a possible option?"
"You want to live in this area? Surely not in your grandfather's house?"
"No. I never want to go in that place again." The thought chilled me.
"Well yes, the job is still open. Can't guarantee it for you though, but I'm sure you'd stand a good chance. If not, I'm certain you could find work elsewhere in the town."
"Maybe I could start looking for somewhere to live in the area sometime soon," I said, "and if you wanted, we could keep on seeing each other."
"And maybe if you stayed here, we could really give the locals something to gossip about," Marcia smiled.
We kissed, taking the first step together on that uncharted journey ahead.
*********************************
REVELATION
IT was nearly a year later before I learned the results of the police investigation into the remains found at the bottom of the old well.
They were pieced together revealing the bones of three women and a man. That was strange, because I thought there would be the remains of four women. The governess, Victoria, the mother Vera, and Emily. And none of the three women's skele
tons showed evidence of rib cage wounds inflicted by gunfire, which would surely have been evident from when my grandfather shot Emily in the chest.
Did he actually shoot her? What happened to her if she wasn't in the well? Did she just leave and never return as my grandfather had first told me?
My father was always tight lipped about his relationship with my grandfather. Was that because he knew the truth?
It was a mystery that continued to vex me, so I contacted my father to try and see if he could shed any light.
At this time Marcia and I were soon to marry, and I'd got the job with the local solicitor who was looking for a new business partner.
My father was reluctant to talk about the past, but agreed to meet me at his house in London. I put the mystery to him as we sat in the living room with cups of tea. My mother was resting in a bedroom along the corridor.
"I'll talk to you about it now," he said, "but afterwards I never want to hear a word about that past again." I agreed to his wish.
"Emily did decide to leave before the marriage," he explained. "Stayed somewhere in the north with an aunt for a number of years. Then one day she returned to the house and obstinately said she was going to stay. I was six years old at the time." He took a sip of tea.
"My mother by now knew the terror that Emily had forced upon my father, and decided to do what he could never have brought himself to do. Later that day I was playing a ball game with Emily in the garden when my mother approached and ordered her to leave. Of course, domineering as ever, she told my mother where to go." A troubled frown formed on my father's face.
"Furious at being insulted, my mother went back into the house and returned a few minutes later holding a shotgun, warning Emily to leave immediately. Once again Emily threw more insults at her and defied her to use the gun. At that moment my father came rushing out the house towards them trying to defuse the situation. But my mother raised the weapon, and in the next second it blasted. Emily flew backwards, falling dead on the lawn."
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