The Curse of Wetherley House Read online

  “Impressive, aren't they?”

  Turning, I find that Mr. Trin has emerged from his office.

  “I know it probably just looks like glass to you,” he continues, evidently proud of his work here and keen to share his achievements, “but a pane of that size is not easy to create, at least not cheaply. I've almost perfected the method and I believe that by the new year, we should be in a position to go into production.”

  “And this is why you had me come all the way here?” I reply, unable to hide my frustration. “Mr. Trin, if I wanted to admire a piece of glass, I could simply look through any window in my home.”

  “Step into my office,” he says, gesturing for me to go through the door in the corner.

  Sighing, I go into a small, cramped room that contains several overflowing desks. There is paperwork everywhere, along with design drawings and other assorted documents. The place smells rather foul, like a mixture of vinegar and something even more astringent, and I am minded to walk right out of here. However, it has been several months since I last came to check on the state of the business in which my late brother owned a share, and I suppose I should keep an eye on things so that this Mr. Trin fellow does not run everything into the ground. After all, the business is now half mine, and I have need of the income.

  “I am working on another new technique,” he says excitedly as he shuts the door and hurries around to the other side of the main desk. “I hope to produce sheets of glass that are just as large, but also much thinner. However, they must also be strong. Now, to this end I have developed -”

  “I do not need to know the ins and outs,” I point out, interrupting him. “Is the business financially viable?”

  “Might I explain the bonding process that I think will produce best results?”

  “How are the finances, Mr. Trin?”

  He hesitates for a moment.

  “I believe there will be a substantial profit by the end of the year,” he says finally. “I told your late brother that I expected to be ready for production next year, but I think now we'll be ready a whole twelve months early.”

  “That is fine,” I reply, “and -”

  Before I can finish, I hear someone whisper in my ear. Startled, I turn to see who has dared sneak up behind me, but all I see is the dingy corner of the room with nobody present. I turn the other way, filled with a sense of anger at the thought that somebody sees fit to trifle with me, but after a moment I realize that Mr. Trin and I really do seem to be alone here in the office.

  “Mrs. Carmichael?” he says cautiously. “Are you alright?”

  “The business is doing well, I take it?” I reply, turning to him. “And if -”

  Suddenly the whisper returns.

  “Who is that?” I hiss, turning once more but still seeing no sign of anyone. “Who keeps whispering into my ear in such a manner?”

  I head over to the nearest desk and check that no fool is hiding on its other side, and then I turn and see that Mr. Trin is staring at me with a rather puzzled expression. I want to push the whisper out of my mind, but on this occasion I am sure I felt somebody's breath against my ear, and I am not minded to chalk the whole thing up to an excitable imagination. A moment later, I spot something rather unusual on a table by the window, and I wander over to take a closer look at what turns out to be a child's shawl.

  “My wife and I are expecting again,” Mr. Trin says nervously. “It's due in March. Twins and triplets run in the family, so we might be getting a real brood. We already have three girls, as you might recall.”

  “I do recall,” I reply, “and might I add, they play rather too close to the house for my liking.”

  “They do enjoy the forest.”

  “Tell them to keep away from my land.”

  “Of course. I'm sorry if they've intruded.”

  “Your apology is accepted,” I mutter, staring at the shawl for a moment before turning back to him. “I do not wish to be called into town again unless there is something very important for me to deal with. Is that understood? My time is valuable and I do not wish to be dragged away from my home just so that you can show off some pieces of glass.”

  “I'm sorry,” he replies, “I just thought that you'd like to see how we -”

  “Well, I wouldn't.”

  He opens his mouth to reply, but then he falls silent and I can tell that I seem to have made my point.

  “I can have financial statements sent to you at the house,” he says finally, “if that would suit your needs?”

  “That would be fine. And if there is nothing else for me to be doing here, I think I shall take my leave. Good day, Mr. Trin. I wish you luck with whatever processes and other experiments you're carrying out here. Just don't forget that this is not a hobby. It is a business.”

  With that, I turn and head toward the door.

  “Give my regards to Mrs. Cruikshank,” he says suddenly.

  I freeze in the doorway, before slowly turning and seeing that the wretched man is sorting through the papers on his desk.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  He glances at me.

  “I heard that your cousin, Muriel Cruikshank, was staying with you for a few days,” he tells me.

  “You heard that?”

  “I believe she was in town before she went to your home. She spoke to quite a few people. By all accounts, she was rather excited to be seeing you again after such a long time.”

  “People... know she was staying with me?” I stammer, feeling a rush of panic as I realize that at some point I might face questions, once Muriel's disappearance has eventually been noted.

  “That boy of hers is rather ill-disciplined,” he continues. “Sorry, perhaps it's not my place to say so, but he was running around in the town square and making the most frightful racket. I honestly don't remember the last time anyone attracted so much attention. I'm afraid to say that people won't forget their brief visit in a hurry. I hope they're not causing too much trouble for you at Wetherley House, Mrs. Carmichael.”

  “I...”

  Taking a deep breath, I quickly realize that I must not let my discomfort show.

  “What happens at Wetherley House,” I say calmly, “is none of your concern, Mr. Trin. Nor is it the concern of anybody in this parochial little town. If you hear any further discussions of the house, or of my visitors, I would kindly ask that you tell the local gossip-mongers to mind their own business and find some other topic for their tittle-tattle.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Carmichael.”

  Sighing, I turn once again to leave.

  “Give my regards to your husband, though,” he adds.

  I turn and glare at him, and he quickly looks down at his papers again. Evidently he has realized that he should not be saying such things, and I can only hope that at least this will be the last time he troubles me in such a manner. For the third time, I turn and walk out of the office, although I manage only a few steps before I'm startled by the cries of several men. Looking across the workshop, I see that one of the large glass panels is beginning to topple, and sure enough it quickly falls to the floor and shatters.

  “Careful, lads!” a voice calls out. “These things can kill, you know!”

  “Oh dear,” Mr. Trin mutters, hurrying past me and going over to see what's going on. “What happened? Was it the stress again?”

  Sighing, I turn and head out of the building, and then I start making my way back out of town. People are watching me, but I keep my eyes focused on the road ahead. All I want is to get home and shut the door, and block the world out, and spend the rest of the day with my darling daughter. That is the only world that interests me now.

  ***

  “I think I am getting much better at the piano,” Mary says happily as she spoons some more potatoes onto her plate. “You were right, Mummy. All I really needed was more practice. Thank you for telling me to keep at it.”

  Staring out the window, I watch the lawn with a growing sense of foreboding.
Over the past few days, ever since Muriel and George's brief visit, I have felt unsettled, as if the world beyond the house is starting to shift and turn toward us. The delivery man came yesterday, and I know he sensed my unease. He, like Mr. Thin, made some casual comments about my visitors, and I fear I snapped rather in my haste to put him straight. Now, as I look toward the darkening sky, I feel certain that somebody or something is coming this way.

  “I know I shan't ever be able to play in public,” Mary continues, “but I still like to practice for my own amusement. Why, I can play for hours and hours each day without every growing bored or tired.”

  Why can't the world leave us alone? Why must anyone ever come to Wetherley House again? I would be so very happy to just spend all day, every day listening to Mary as she plays the piano. Instead, however, I know that the brutish world is plotting its next intrusion. Muriel Cruikshank and her wretched son were just the forward guard, the first incursion, but the world will send someone else soon, then more and more, until a rushing tide of visitors threatens to drown us and send our bodies into the depths.

  “Mother?”

  Startled, I turn to Mary and realize that she has been speaking and I have not paid attention. Her voice became a background drone, stifled by my own thoughts.

  “Are you not enjoying our usual conversation this evening?” she asks.

  “Of course, darling,” I reply, trying to raise a smile. “Where were we?”

  “I was asking if I might I play for you after dinner,” she continues, clearly relieved that we're back on track. “Please, Mummy? I don't want to bore you, but I would so dearly love for you to hear how I'm getting on.”

  “I would like that a great deal,” I tell her. “We must -”

  Before I can finish, I flinch as I hear a loud banging sound coming from the basement. A moment later, the sound shifts and slams against the underside of the floorboards beneath my feet, with such brutal fury that I feel the vibrations against the soles of my feet.

  “Perhaps I should play now,” Mary says, already getting to her feet. “To fill the house with a more agreeable sound.”

  “Please do so.”

  Putting my head in my hands for a moment, I close my eyes and listen to the brutish thuds. After a few seconds, however, Mary starts to play the piano in the next room and I listen as the music starts drowning out the thuggishness that seems particularly determined this evening to break through. In fact, after a moment, I realize the banging sound has changed slightly, almost as if a piece of bone is being slammed against the wood.

  Instinctively, I get to my feet and make my way to the doorway, where I stop so that I can watch Mary playing. It takes only a couple of seconds, however, for the thudding to follow me and once again hit the boards beneath my feet. Will that cursed noise never leave me alone?

  “I shall play louder, Mother,” Mary says happily, and that is exactly what she does, until the whole house is shuddering.

  At least now I can no longer hear the bangs coming from the basement, although I can feel the vibrations no matter where I stand. The thing down there seems to be following me around the house.

  ***

  At least the cacophony ends when night comes. Alone in my bed, staring up at the moonlit ceiling, I tell myself that I must enjoy these hours of calm. I dare not waste the peace by sleeping. Instead, I force all bad notions from my head and focus on the thought that I have got what I wanted, and that everything will be alright in the end.

  Just a few hours later, however, the world intrudes yet again.

  Eve

  “Morning, Mrs. Carmichael.”

  Ignoring the trader, I hurry across the street, storming toward the building that houses the infernal Mr. Trin and his glass-making business. I thought I had made him understand the other day that I do not wish to be disturbed, yet early this morning I received another message from him, telling me that I simply must come down here this morning. Evidently there is a matter of life and death for us to discuss, although I honestly find it difficult to believe that it could not wait.

  Unless the man has developed a method for turning manure into gold, I shall consider this trip to be a waste of my valuable time.

  Rounding the corner, I slow as I see that all bedlam has broken out in the vicinity of the factory. Scores of rough-looking workers are using joists and ropes to lift a series of large glass panes onto the back of a carriage, and the scene has attracted gawping spectators from nearby buildings. Some children are playing nearby, letting their laughter ring out across the town square as if they have no self-control whatsoever. I have half a mind to turn right around and march right back to Wetherley House, although after a moment I spot someone waving to me and I feel a shudder run through my chest as soon as I see the grinning face of Mr. Trin.

  “I'm so glad you could come down,” he beams as I reach him. “I know you said you didn't want to be disturbed again by business matters, but I really thought you should witness the proudest moment in our company's history.”

  “Are you a cretin?” I spit.

  He turns to me, and now his smile seems a little frozen and uncertain.

  “Dear Lord, man,” I continue, struggling to keep from screeching at him, “did my words yesterday pass into one of your ears and straight out from the other? Do you think that I was speaking simply so that I could listen to the sound of my own voice?”

  “But -”

  “Glass!” I hiss, looking toward the latest large pane that is being lowered onto the pile. Several meters wide and several long, the pane is certainly large, and I can't help noticing that it's dangling rather precariously from the ropes that are being used to maneuver it toward the carriage. “You brought me down here so that I could look at glass? Again? Glass is something that one looks through, Mr. Trin. Not at!”

  “I thought -”

  “Did you?” I ask, turning back to him. “Did you really think, or did you simply let your excitement get the better of you? I am sorely tempted to believe, Mr. Trin, that you are a man of very limited intelligence.” Sighing, I realize that he looks utterly crestfallen. “Evidently you have some ability when it comes to this particular line of business, but in other matters you must be sorely lacking.”

  Suddenly something bumps against me, and I turn to find that one of his three little girls has stumbled into my side.

  “Dolly, be careful,” Mr. Trin says, reaching out and taking her hand, before gently pulling her away from me. “You mustn't play too close to people.”

  “I'm sorry,” the little girl says, staring up at me with a smile. “I won't do it again.”

  “See that you don't,” I say firmly.

  She narrows her eyes, watching me as if she's curious about some aspect of my manner.

  “Can we play in the forest?” one of the other girls says as she comes over. At this rate, I shall soon be surrounded. “Please?”

  “No,” I tell her.

  She turns to me, as her sister finally arrives and I find myself facing these three identical-looking children. They look to be no more than five or six years old, each wearing a rather fancy little white dress complete with unnecessary red ribbons.

  “Mrs. Carmichael,” Mr. Trin says after a moment, “I don't believe you've met my girls. This is Dolly, this is Molly, and this is Holly. Holly's the oldest, by three minutes. Dolly's the youngest by two.”

  “One and a half,” the girl replies, evidently having the audacity to correct her father.

  I open my mouth to tell Mr. Trin that I have no interest whatsoever in his sniveling little family, although for a moment I can't help but notice that these three girls make a rather unusual sight. For one thing, they honestly seem to be utterly indistinguishable from one another, and for another they're all staring at me as if I'm quite the most unusual person they've ever seen in their lives. Finally, all at once, the three of them look down toward my skirt, as if they're curious about my damaged body.

  “Let me be perfectly clear,” I t
ell them, “that you are not to play in the forest anywhere near my home. You are not to play within earshot of Wetherley House, in case your laughs and screams reach my property. Is that understood?”

  The children stare at me for a moment longer, before two of them turn to their father as if they seek his answer. The third child, whose name I have already forgotten, continues to keep her eyes fixed on my dress.

  “I'll make sure they don't bother you again,” Mr. Trin says, sounding a little deflated as his workers continue to yell at one another.

  “See that you do,” I reply, “because otherwise -”

  Suddenly feeling something tugging at my skirt, I look down and see to my horror that one of the little girls has crouched down and is trying to lift the hem so that she can see my legs.

  “Stop that!” I shout, reaching down and striking her across the face with such force that she falls back and immediately starts crying.

  “Dolly!” Mr. Trin says, helping her up and giving her a hug. “You mustn't do things like that! It's rude!”

  “I only wanted to see!” she bawls.

  “I have had quite enough of this madness for one day,” I say firmly, feeling as if these infernal children are going to drive me out of my mind. “Mr. Trin, if you call me back into town one more time on a matter of such trivial un-importance, I shall withdraw my support from this business venture entirely and leave you to go it alone. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Carmichael. I'm sorry, Mrs. Carmichael.”

  “And the same goes for your children in the forest near my home,” I add, as the three little girls hurry away to play nearby in the street. “I do not want to so much as hear their laughter drifting onto my land. I would consider that to be a gross invasion of my rights.”

  “I'll talk to them later,” he continues. “They're such lively, happy children. They love nothing more than to play, but I'll find a way to make them understand.”

  “See that you do,” I mutter darkly, “or perhaps I shall have to investigate the construction of one of Mr. Twain's electrified fences. If that's what it takes to keep intruders off my family's land, I don't see that I have a choice.”