Stephen Read online

  It had been several minutes since I had thrown myself through the window. At first, upon landing on the other side, I had tried to pick the glass from my body, but I had quickly realized that this was a hopeless task. I had thus set off, dragging myself down the steps and across the garden, struggling to get over the deep divots and cracks in the frozen ground. The black iron gate lay ahead, so close yet so far, and I was terrified that at any moment Mrs. Brooks would catch up and start hauling me back into the house. And then, I was certain, I would be unable to fight back.

  So far, however, there was no sign of her.

  Turning, I looked back toward the house. I was convinced that I would see her rushing after me, perhaps with the whip still in her hand, yet all I saw was the house itself with its candlelit windows and locked doors.

  “Please God,” I stammered, turning and preparing to drag myself forward yet again, this time across a particularly deep crack in the ground, “deliver me from this place...”

  I hesitated for a moment, before reaching out again. Several shards of glass were embedded in my arm, and I am certain that I felt their sharp tips scratching deep against the bone, but I could still use my fingers and that was all that mattered. I clutched another patch of mud and steadied myself again, and then I dragged myself forward. This time I made it a full three or four yards, before stopping and preparing for the next step. I was whimpering uncontrollably and sobbing like a child, but I told myself I would be okay so long as Mrs. Brooks did not catch up to me.

  Where she was, I did not know. Nor did I understand why she had not already come after me. All I could think was that I had to get away.

  As I tried to summon the strength to keep going, however, I happened to glance down into the crack that lay beneath me. I do not know exactly how a patch of moonlight came to brighten the scene, but for a moment the darkness lightened to a nocturnal blue and I stared deep into the crack, and at that moment I saw something that has stayed with me all my life.

  Down in the crack, several feet below me, a woman's body lay twisted and crushed, partially caught up in so many tangled roots. And with a growing sense of horror, I realized that I recognized her face.

  It was Hannah Treadwell.

  Her dead eyes stared straight into the mud, and her mouth was open as if in a silent, broken-jawed scream. One of her hands was visible, clutching the roots as if at some point she had made some futile effort to pull herself free. After just a few seconds, the moonlight was blocked by another cloud. I still stared down into the crack, and while I could no longer see the woman's corpse, I knew full well that she was there in the darkness.

  And then I heard the scratching sound.

  Something seemed to be moving down there in the pit beneath me, and in my mind's eye I imagined Hannah's corpse starting to twist and writhe amid the roots. Looking back now, I am of course certain that this was all a figment of my imagination, but at the time I was utterly convinced. Filled with panic, I reached forward and gripped another section of mud, and then I hauled myself across the crack. As I did so, however, I sobbed louder than ever, and I was sure that at any moment I would feel an icy hand reach up and grab my belly.

  Once I was clear of the crack in the ground, I looked over my shoulder again. The house was still visible in the darkness, but I had to squint as I looked around at the garden. There was still no sign of Severine, but I felt certain that she would come after me soon. After all, she could not fail to have noticed me crashing through the window and escaping the house, and I was terrified that at any moment she would grab the back of my collar and haul me back inside. Then I would be lost to her forever, and she would be able to do whatever she wanted to me.

  I would be utterly at her mercy.

  For a moment, I imagined the true extent of that horror. I imagined her breaking yet more of my fingers, bringing both pain and pleasure to my body. I imagined her knowing exactly where and when to hurt me, drawing pleasurable sensations bubbling to the surface. All my sureties would be undone and the deepest knots in my soul would be untied. She would find every passion that I held, and she would make me feel my true self without any limitations, without any filters, without even any ability to hold it back. I would have no control. I would simply be myself, unrestrained and without anything to tie my passions together.

  She alone would know how to do that to me.

  So it was, driven by this fear, that I continued to drag myself across the garden. Yes, I had to stop after each effort so that I could search for the strength to carry on, and yes I felt several times that I was surely doomed. Yet somehow I hauled my broken body yard-by-yard closer to the gate, until finally by some miracle I was able to reach out and touch the cold metal with my shaking hand. I remember thinking at the time that I had been granted some kind of miracle, that the Lord had looked down upon me and chosen to protect me on my path. With the benefit of hindsight, I now know the real reason I was able to get all the way to the edge of the garden, but as I grabbed the gate and began to pull it open I could not help reciting a few prayers of thanks. I truly believed that I had been blessed.

  Even with the gate open, it took me several attempts before I was able to drag myself through. I was utterly exhausted, and only fear got me going. Yet I did get through, and finally I pushed the gate shut again and rolled onto my back, staring up at the starry night sky. I was desperately short of breath, and I could feel trickles of blood running from wounds all over my body. I also knew that the journey from the house to the gate was as nothing compared to the journey that now lay ahead of me, and the town of Bumpsford seemed so terribly far away.

  After a few minutes, I rolled onto my side and looked back toward Grangehurst. I still expected to see Severine coming after me, to spot her silhouette rushing across the frozen ground with the whip in her hand. I imagined her forcing the gate open and grabbing me, hauling me up and forcing me back into the house. I also imagined her using the whip, driving me back as if I was a common dog. Yes, she would be able to lash me as much as she wanted. For a moment, I thought of all the pain that would come with the splitting of my skin, and I felt a rush of pleasure spreading out from between my legs, tightening knots all over my body. I held my breath, trying to force the pleasure back even though I had never succeeded in this before.

  Yet somehow, shivering out there on the frozen ground, I did force the pleasure back.

  I denied it all, and the knots untightened without releasing their bursts of ecstasy. I did not trust myself for several minutes, but finally I realized that I was free. I looked toward the house again, but there was no sign of Severine coming after me. I even looked at the windows, but still I did not see her. It was almost as if she had not bothered with me after I broke through the window, as if – by defying her – I was no longer of any interest.

  Still breathless, I waited a moment longer, still watching the house, before turning to drag myself away.

  And then I saw her.

  She was towering above me, just a yard away, staring down at me through a gap in the gate. The darkness rendered her little more than a silhouette against the starry sky, a dark outline of a woman that blocked out the heavens, yet somehow I could just about make out her eyes glaring at me.

  Flinching, I pulled back, but I felt certain that I was not strong enough to run away. I froze, waiting for her to push the metal gate open, and I swear I could feel her gaze burning into me. She had me. There was nothing I could do, no further fight left in my aching body. She would drag me back inside and have her wicked way, she would be able to do anything she wanted and I would be powerless. I would fight back, of course, but she would control my body and she would do whatever she wanted.

  But then, suddenly, she said something I did not quite hear.

  And then she turned and walked away.

  Still too terrified to move, I watched as she picked her way back across the moonlit garden. Her footsteps crunched against the frozen mud, and her gait was staggered and a little awkward.
She stopped for a moment and looked down, perhaps at Hannah Treadwell's body deep in the cracked earth, but finally she continued on her way. When she reached the house, she simply opened the door and went inside, and then the door swung shut.

  I waited in case she came back, but she did not.

  It took several more minutes before I began once more to crawl away. I started dragging my body along the rough path that led to Bumpsford. The only sounds were my own ragged breaths, along with the rubbing of my chest against the rocky ground. And maybe a series of faint whimpers too. Each moment of strength seemed as if it might be my last, yet somehow I kept going, until finally I was able to stumble to my feet. Had I remained on the ground, I would surely have died that night, but I managed to stand and start walking – however unsteadily – along the path.

  And all the while I tried to work out what I had heard Severine say before she went back into the house. Her voice had been only a whisper, yet I think I may have made out just enough to decipher her words. Indeed, over the past forty years since that night I have often spent time trying to come up with a definitive answer, and I believe I now know – with fair surety – what those three words were; the three words that left her lips as she turned away from me.

  “Such a waste.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  After escaping from Grangehurst, I somehow managed to make it all the way to Bumpsford. This in itself was a considerable feat, given that the road was long and the night cold, and that I was torn and bloodied all over. I only reached the edge of town around sunrise, but there I collapsed. I would have died had Jim not happened to find me, and he saved me by taking me to his home. Somehow he strengthened me and helped me to stay strong, and after six months he asked for my hand in marriage. He said it would be for the best.

  Obviously I agreed.

  How could I not?

  Some may wonder why I did not inform the police about what had happened to me. In truth, I very nearly did, but I told myself eventually that I did not want to reopen that particular chapter. I was certain that I would be safe, and I wanted to focus on building a new life rather than dwelling in the past. Jim agreed, saying that Grangehurst was a kettle of fish that was best left sealed, that there was no point making a palaver.

  And for forty years, I managed to convince myself that these were my real reasons.

  Jim was a good husband, better than I deserved. He was strong and steady and dependable, and he swiftly moved us to London so that he could search for work. A job came and we settled down, and gradually we began to live just like any other couple. He knew to not ask me too much about the pain I had endured at Grangehurst, and I knew to not tell him. He was a man of few words, but in his silence there was an immense strength that supported me whenever I was in need. I honestly do not know what I would have done, had I not been blessed with Jim. Perhaps I would have crumbled, rather than persisting. He was my rock, my strength, for the rest of our time together.

  When people speak of love, I think they sometimes forget that there are different forms in which love comes. Jim and I were never passionate with one another, not really. We kissed meekly at our wedding, but no more. We tried for a family, for a while, but nothing came of that effort and it was not long before we stopped. After that we began to sleep in separate beds, mainly for comfort. And when Jim began to snore as he got older, it was natural for us to start spending the night in different rooms. If our marriage sounds a little sterile, then so be it. I was happy, and so was he.

  Late last year he developed a very nasty cough, and soon I noticed blood in his tissues. He would not go to see a doctor, not at first. Eventually he became too weak to work, and shortly after his sixtieth birthday I found him collapsed on the floor of his bedroom. Finally a doctor came and it was determined that Jim had cancer of the lungs. He did not speak of the pain, but I know he was in agony, and he even had to stop smoking on account of the constant retching. I kept him at home, so that I could nurse him, but we both knew the end was coming. Jim, of course, was stoic until the end, although eventually he had to accept my help whenever he needed to get in or out of bed, and whenever he needed to use the toilet. It was then, as he let me see him in that state, that I knew the end was nigh.

  “Promise me one thing, Berry,” he groaned one evening, as I sat reading at his bedside. Berry was his nickname for me, a rare case of intimacy now that we were so old. “Promise you won't do anything stupid after I'm gone.”

  “Let's not talk about that,” I replied.

  “But it's important. Promise you won't ever...”

  I remember the way he stared at me. I remember the fear in his yellowing eyes. He was a man who never usually showed fear at all. Like a dog, he always hid any weakness until it threatened to engulf him entirely, but at that moment he appeared utterly terrified. I knew it was not death that scared him so. In truth, I knew the real cause.

  “Promise you won't ever go back to that place,” he said finally.

  “What place?” I asked, although I knew. I merely wanted to feign innocence, to pretend that it had not been on my mind.

  “Just promise me,” he continued. “I beg you, leave it well alone.”

  “I wouldn't dream of going back,” I told him. “I am not a complete fool, you know.”

  “Promise, Berry. Promise me this one thing.”

  “With all my heart. I would never lie to you.”

  “But Berry -”

  “Let us speak of it no more.”

  “But -”

  “No more.” I placed a finger against his chapped and bloodied lips, to silence him. “No more.”

  James Robert Mallin died later that night. I squeezed his hand tight as he passed, and he squeezed my hand in return for a moment before letting out his last breath. Once his suffering was over, I sat with him until sunrise, still holding his hand. I did not cry, and some might think me uncaring, but in truth Jim and I were not the kind of married couple who ever showed much emotion. I was, however, deeply and profoundly saddened by his death, and I knew instantly that a very important part of my own life had gone with him. And when – two weeks later – I stood beside his freshly-covered grave, I felt certain that I would not be far behind.

  How right I was.

  Within just weeks, I too had begun to weaken. Unlike Jim, I was willing to see a doctor, but only so that I could get confirmation of what I already felt. I had a different type of cancer, something fast-acting that was spreading from my pancreas. I took the news stoically and I did not cry. In truth, I was extremely exhausted, and I felt that my life was over anyway. A few days after receiving the news, I spent my sixty-first birthday all alone at home, working on some embroidery and then later reading in the evening. I knew it would be my last birthday.

  I also knew, or rather I was beginning to realize, that I had lied to my husband as he lay on his deathbed.

  A sin?

  Maybe.

  I was going to say that after Jim died I began to think more of Grangehurst. That, however, would be another lie. I did not admit this to myself for a long time, but in truth I had been thinking of Grangehurst every single day over those forty years. Sometimes these thoughts were idle, sometimes they were more serious, but I honestly believe that not one day passed without me thinking back to that place and wondering what had become of Severine Brooks. Was she still alive in the house? What had she done, after I departed? Was she alone? How did she live? While I was with Jim, I tried to suppress these thoughts, but once he was gone I felt them start to fill my mind.

  What would have happened, I kept wondering, if she had dragged me back into the house?

  Finally, last week, I decided that I had no choice, that I must come back here. Perhaps I had actually made the decision much earlier. Perhaps last week was merely when I admitted this to myself. Perhaps I always intended to return.

  So that is why I sit here now, at a table in the saloon bar, with morning light starting to wake the small town of Bumpsford. It has ta
ken me all night, but I have set out in great detail my account of what happened at Grangehurst all those years ago. I have left out nothing that was important. Indeed, some might wish that I had left out certain parts, but I had to be scrupulously honest. I was such a young girl back then, so naive and innocent, and it might be difficult for some readers to have any sympathy for me. But I was that girl, and now I am this woman, and all I can say in my defense is that I am no longer a fool.

  I thank the Lord daily that I am now such a wise person. Indeed, I am completely in control of myself, and in control of my emotions. I have come a long way.

  But there is still a short distance to go.

  After forty years, this morning I shall finally walk again the path that leads to Grangehurst. I shall go alone to the house one last time and I shall see for myself what I find there. It would seem that the house itself still stands, but what of Severine herself? She will be at least eighty years old now, if she is alive. It seems scarcely possible that she could have survived out there alone for all this time, especially if people here in town have seen neither hide nor hair of her. Then again, perhaps she found a way. Perhaps that remarkable woman somehow found a way to keep going. If anyone could, it would be her.

  Indeed, perhaps she has been waiting for something.

  Or for someone.

  I can hear the pub landlord upstairs. Soon he will come down and make small-talk with me, and offer me some breakfast. I have no appetite, and I intend to be on the road within the next half hour. I am old and the walk to Grangehurst will no doubt be arduous for my aching legs, but I wish to make the journey unaided. I certainly do not intend to ride in a motor car. I shall walk, the way I walked when I was younger.

  In closing, let me say this: I know that as a young girl, I was foolish and naive. One might even say that I was blind to the world. The reader might think that I was utterly unlikable, in which case I can only apologize. Nobody forced you to read my account, and you can take your righteous anger elsewhere if you are offended. Yes, I was a flawed girl, but I am now a strong and wise woman. I am completely in control of my emotions in every possible way, and that is something of which I am immensely proud. I will apologize for who I used to be, but not for who I am now.