Stephen Read online

  “But did she...”

  I hesitated, before telling myself that I had to keep trying. I had come too far to stop now.

  “Did she hurt Stephen?” I asked finally. “Is that how he ended up like this? Did she do something to him?”

  I waited, but she did not reply.

  “Perhaps you want to tell me,” I continued, stepping closer. I watched as she drove the needle through the boy's skin, and then as she pulled the thread through. The sight made me feel utterly sick to my stomach, but again I forced myself to remain at her side. I knew that I had to say the name again. “Mrs. Brooks, Hannah Treadwell -”

  Suddenly Mrs. Brooks lashed out at me, stabbing me in the hand with the needle.

  I let out a gasp and pulled back, and when I looked at my hand I saw that the needle had sliced straight into my hand between the second and third knuckles. Horrified, I turned my hand over and saw the needle's tip poking out through the other side.

  “Get out!” Mrs. Brooks screamed, getting to her feet and stabbing at me with another needle.

  As she got up, Stephen tumbled from her lap and slammed against the ground. Gasping, she reached down and gathered him into her arms.

  “Get out!” she shouted. “Now! Get out! Get out of my sight!”

  Startled, I stepped back, still staring at the needle in my hand.

  Suddenly Mrs. Brooks came at me again, using the second needle to stab the air. I backed away to the door, then out onto the landing. A moment later she dropped Stephen again, and this time he landed hard on the bare floorboards.

  To my horror, I saw that part of his left arm came away, exposing more wriggling maggots in the decomposing flesh.

  “Get out!” Mrs. Brooks screamed, and I turned to her just as she lunged at me again.

  I pulled away, and I am certain that this time the needle missed my eye by mere millimeters. And then, before I could even begin to work out what I might do next, she slammed the door shut and I heard the key being turned from the inside.

  “Mrs. Brooks?” I called out, trying the handle but to no avail. “Mrs. Brooks, might you let me back in?”

  I waited, but all I heard was the sound of her speaking soothingly. At first I thought she was speaking once more to Stephen, and it took a moment before I realized that she was in fact speaking to herself.

  “You'll fix him,” she whispered, her voice filled with sorrow. “It's nothing too bad. He'll be a happy little boy again.”

  Realizing that something very bad was happening, I hesitated for a moment before looking down at my hand. I winced as I saw the needle, but I knew that I had to slide it out, so I took hold of the eye and began to pull. To my surprise, it took real effort to pull the needle free, and now two trickles of rich red blood were running down to my wrist. I stared at the wound for a moment, trembling with shock, before suddenly turning and running along the landing. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, I knew that I needed help.

  “Doctor Brooks!” I called out. “Please, Doctor Brooks! It's your wife!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Open this door!” he called out, trying the handle again and again. “Severine, listen to me! You will open this door at once, do you understand? I will not be shut out of a room in my own house!”

  He waited, but the only sound that came from the room was a very faint, unintelligible murmur.

  “Open the door!” Doctor Brooks continued, banging his fist harder than ever against the wood. “What is wrong with you, woman? Open the door this instant!”

  Staring at my bloodied hand, I watched as another bead of blood formed on the wound and then began to run down to my palm. I hesitated for a moment before holding my hand up and licking the blood. There was pain too, but now the shock had worn off and the pain did not seem so troubling after all. In fact, I think I even found the pain familiar in some way, and comforting.

  “SEVERINE!” Doctor Brooks shouted. “OPEN THE DOOR! RIGHT NOW!”

  “I think she wants not to be disturbed,” I told him, somewhat unnecessarily.

  “How did she get like this?” he asked, turning to me. He looked briefly at my hand, then at my face again. “What did you say to her, to make her act like this?”

  “I was only trying to help! She had...”

  I paused, wondering whether he wanted to hear the details.

  “Tell me!” he sneered.

  “She had opened the child,” I explained, “to remove some maggots. She had open Stephen up.”

  “Dear God,” he replied, turning away for a moment before turning back to me. I could see the shock in his eyes, and it was as if he knew not what to do next. Even at his worst points, even when drunk, he had always until that moment seemed as if he had some degree of control over the situation. Now he appeared to be utterly lost. “How did things come to this?” he continued. “I tried everything to help her. How did it go so wrong?”

  “But it is normal, is it not?” I asked. “This is part of... What did you call it, again? The grieving process?”

  “She has the only key,” he said with a sigh, taking a step back from the door as if he meant to try breaking his way through. At the same time, he seemed to be losing his strength, and his shoulders were starting to slope. “It's hopeless. There is no other way in or out of the room.”

  “Perhaps she can be reasoned with,” I suggested, “or perhaps she only requires a little time.”

  “This is my house,” he replied, turning to me. “I am the master of Grangehurst and I will not be prevented from entering one of its rooms. Surely she understands that she has no right to do this? Perhaps there is another key after all, I must search the study.”

  “And what shall I do?” I called after him, as he hurried to the stairs. “Doctor Brooks? How can I help?”

  He said nothing, merely rushing down to look in the study for a key, leaving me all alone in the corridor. After a moment, I stepped closer to the door and tried to listen for any hint of what Mrs. Brooks was doing on the other side. I waited patiently, hoping against hope that I might hear her coming to turn the key, but a few seconds later I realized I could just about make out a very faint splitting sound, accompanied by the sound of her muttering to herself. She was most certainly up to something, but I could not imagine what.

  No sane, decent person could ever have imagined what she was doing in there.

  “Mrs. Brooks?” I said cautiously, supposing that I had to try to do something. “Can you talk to me? Can you at least tell me what you see when you look at Stephen?”

  There came, alas, no reply.

  “I'm so dreadfully sorry if I said anything to upset you,” I continued. “If this is in any way my fault, please accept my apologies. Tell me what I can do to make it better. That's all that matters to me, Mrs. Brooks. I am here to help you, so you only have to let me know what you need.”

  Again, I waited.

  Again, there was no reply.

  Kneeling, I tried to look through the keyhole. The key was in the way, however, so I could see nothing. Leaning down, I attempted to peer through the gap at the bottom of the door, but this too was fruitless. As I tried, however, I realized that a kind of tearing, slurping sound was starting to get louder in the room, and I must confess that I froze at the thought of Mrs. Brooks still trying to sew her poor dead son back together. The very idea made me feel sick to my stomach, and in one way I was glad I did not have to witness such horror. In another way, however, I desperately wanted to get to her so that I could help.

  “What do you see?” I asked. “Please, Mrs. Brooks, I know you must be able to hear me. Just tell me what you see when you look at Stephen.”

  The sound continued.

  “I'm sure it's alright to feel sad,” I continued, attempting to understand her emotions. In truth, I was ill-equipped to understand anyone's emotions, let alone a woman who was so deeply out of her mind. Still, I felt compelled to try. “It must have been awful when you lost him,” I added. “I do not know prec
isely what happened, although I have seen certain marks on his neck. Whatever caused him to leave you in this manner, I am sure it was not your fault. You were surely a very kind, very loving mother. Stephen was very lucky, and I'm sure he loved you very much in return. One day, perhaps one day soon, you will have moved past all of this. Perhaps you can even have another -”

  Suddenly I heard a single, brief, loud cracking sound.

  I froze.

  I had never heard bone crack before, but somehow I knew that that was what I had heard. It was clear to me now that Mrs. Brooks must have finally reached her tipping point, and that there was no way back to her earlier life of fantasy.

  “Lord give me strength,” I whispered under my breath, “so that I might help this woman. Guide me so that I can reason with her, and so that I can calm her troubled thoughts. Please, Lord, show me the way.”

  I waited, hoping that somehow I would be filled with some new sense of purpose. Nothing came, however, and I was left kneeling on the floor as I listened to a series of faint slurping sounds coming from inside the room. Finally, not knowing what else to do, I leaned back against the jamb and waited for Doctor Brooks to return with a key.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It is now almost an hour since I wrote that last line:

  I leaned back against the jamb and waited for Doctor Brooks to return with a key.

  I should move along and set down the words to describe what happened next, but in truth I have reached the part of this story that I have been dreading all along. My hand is shaking and the pen feels heavy, and the rest of the page remains blank. Oh, it was relatively easy to write about my first encounters with Doctor and Mrs. Brooks, and with Stephen, even the attack in the alley. But this next part, the chapter that follows this one, fills me with the most profound sense of dread.

  I can't do this.

  I just cannot.

  No matter how awful my story might seem to this point, it is as nothing compared to what came next.

  Getting to my feet, I close the book. I have told enough of the tale, and it will do nobody any good if I go on. Suffice it to say that Mrs. Brooks had descended to a level of madness that even now seems impossible. I remember the nausea I felt forty years ago, and I feel that same nausea now when I even try to contemplate the horror that occurred in that nursery, and the sense of despair I felt when I got through the door and saw what had happened next. I had hoped that as I wrote this account, I would somehow find the strength to write about that moment, but I cannot. Such strength is beyond me.

  “Finished?”

  Turning, I see that the barman is standing in the doorway. It has been some time since he retired for the night, but he very kindly told me to take all the time that I require down here. He even left me fresh candles, should I require them. Now, looking at the clock on the wall, I see that it is almost 3am. The night is more over than begun. I am running out of time.

  “You look pale,” he continues, coming into the saloon. The floorboards creak beneath his feet. “You're not feeling unwell, are you?”

  I shake my head.

  “You look scared, too. Has something happened?”

  “No,” I reply, perhaps a little too quickly to be convincing. “I mean, not now. Not tonight. I just...”

  I hesitate for a moment, before looking down at the book. How could I ever explain to this kind, honest man that my story is too awful to be told? How could anyone understand what I experienced at Grangehurst, if they had not been there themselves? Why, the whole terrible history must be utterly unbelievable to anybody but myself. The only person I ever told it to was Jim, and even he seemed troubled by what he discovered. And in truth, I left out the absolute worst part. I never told him what I found when I finally got into the nursery that night, what I saw had happened to Mrs. Brooks and poor Stephen. I never told another soul.

  “More tea?” the barman asks.

  I pause, before shaking my head.

  “What's wrong?” he continues. “Can't sleep?”

  “I have a lot on my mind,” I tell him.

  “I know that feeling.” He turns and heads toward the kitchen. “I need a cup, so I'll put on enough water so there's some for you if you change your mind.”

  “That's very kind of you,” I reply, although I feel a pang of fear as I realized that he is leaving again. I open my mouth to call after him, to ask him to sit with me awhile, but then I simply watch as he disappears from view.

  I am left alone.

  After a moment, I look down at the book again and I feel something stirring in my chest.

  I cannot stop where I have stopped.

  I have to write this. The whole story, including the very worst part.

  As sick as I feel at the thought, I have to set down everything that happened at Grangehurst. For too long, I have hidden from the awful truth, but I would be doing everybody a great disservice if I were to hold back. The world is full of horrors, and the most terrible of them often go untold. Besides, when the sun comes up I intend to walk out to Grangehurst again, for the first time in four decades, and see what has become of the place. How can I do that, when I cannot even bring myself to set down a true account of the horror that took place in that house?

  Mercy, how has it come to this?

  Slowly, then, and with a tightening knot of fear in my belly, I retake my seat and open the book. I take a moment to find the page where I left off, and then I pick up the pen.

  First, however, I must warn the reader. It is my duty to be clear. The events of this history so far are as nothing compared to what comes next. Indeed, I do not think that any decent person should read this next section. I imagine that the reaction of any right-minded reader – man or woman – to the next part of my account will surely be revulsion, perhaps even hatred. I shall be accused of writing the most disgusting, perverted, inhumane things, and it shall not matter that they are true.

  I shall be vilified.

  You, reader, will think me a monster.

  Yet I cannot hide what really happened to Stephen.

  Let me state this, then: I, Beryl Seaton, write the next chapter only because it is a true account of what happened. I take no pleasure in the telling of this tale, nor do I in any way recommend that anybody should read the following chapter. I shall set down the events entirely within a chapter of their own, so that any right-thinking reader can simply skip that chapter and go on to the next, and I shall ensure that the tale is written in such a way as to not deprive such a reader of any sense of the story's broader narrative. Certain details shall be lost to that reader, but the price of learning those details would be too great.

  Some readers, I know, will choose to read chapter twenty-eight.

  They will think that it cannot be that bad, that a sixty-year-old widow in the year 1939 cannot possibly write anything too shocking. They will think that I am merely adding hyperbole upon hyperbole, and that the chapter will be, at most, a little disconcerting.

  They will be wrong, and I pity those readers, for by the end of chapter twenty-eight they will know the awful truth about what happened to Mrs. Brooks and Stephen on that afternoon.

  I implore my readers, then, to skip straight on to chapter twenty-eight. Oh, perhaps I am going around in circles with this warning, saying the same thing over and over again. If so, it is only because the warning is so very important.

  However, if you do decide to read chapter twenty-eight, then do so on the understanding that you forfeit all right to judge me. I am a good woman, I have lived as decent a life as I could manage, and I have held my faith all these years. As a girl, I was pious in a different way, but as a more mature woman I have come to better understand my faith in the Lord, and I have found this faith to be a strength rather than a burden. I do not deserve to be mocked or pilloried, just for setting down the truth.

  If you read on, then, do not complain afterward that you are revolted, that you were somehow tricked into reading something you did not intend to read. Do
not complain that you are horrified, or that what you have read is somehow beyond the pail, or that the writer is foul or disgusting or perverted. In all my life, I have never spoken of this to anyone. Why, I can only imagine how furious Jim would have been if I had told him.

  If you abhor the human body, do not read chapter twenty-eight.

  If you abhor the female body in particular, move directly to chapter twenty-nine.

  The same if you have any love for the natural world, or any belief in the sanctity of human life. Especially of children.

  I shall write soberly, and without lurid detail. I shall not embellish the text or use purple prose, and I shall write strictly what happened and nothing more.

  And if you do decide to read on, and if at any point you begin to feel that you have made a mistake, then I implore you to skip the rest and go to the following chapter.

  But I have spent enough time warning you. Do as you choose.

  Dear Lord, how can I write these words? Then again, how can I not? May I be forgiven for setting down the truth, but I plead that the horror was not of my making. I was merely there when it happened, and now I set it out for thee.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It was after sitting on the floor for some time, outside the nursery, that I all of a sudden had an idea as to how I might get inside. The more capable reader might have already guessed my method, but I confess that it took me quite some time.

  Shifting onto my knees, I took a pin from my hair and began to slide it into the lock. I was not entirely certain that the scheme would work, but I wiggled the pin for a moment before pushing harder. For some minutes, the task seemed impossible, but then somehow – miraculously, it seemed at the time – I was able to push the key out, and I heard it fall down onto the floor on the door's other side.

  Somebody smarter would have already placed a cloth or a piece of paper under the door, so as to facilitate the easier retrieval of the key. I was not that clever, so I was forced to lean down and use the hairpin to try hooking the key. This proved difficult, but again by some miracle I was finally able to start sliding the key through. Yet another miracle meant that the gap under the door was just large enough, and eventually I was able to pull the key all the way, at which point I picked it up in my trembling hand and slid it back into the hole. I turned it and heard the locking mechanism shift, and then I turned the handle and found that the door now opened.