The Curse of Wetherley House Page 27
I stare at her face, and she smiles back at me.
“You're not going to get me,” I tell her. “You're not going to get any of us ever again.”
She starts stepping toward me.
“As far as I know,” I continue, with tears in my eyes, “I'm the last in my family's line. It ends with me, so if I don't have children of my own, there'll be no-one else for you to go after. So really, you're not in a very good bargaining position, are you? 'Cause I'm guessing your curse is pretty specific about these things.”
I watch as she takes another step closer, and then I reach up, turning the knobs on the front of the cooker. I immediately hear the hiss of gas, and once all the knobs have been turned I reach toward the button that'll cause a spark. I know I have to wait a little longer, and I know this is going to hurt for just a moment, but at least then it'll all be over. If I'm going out, then at least I'm going to be the one who ends this misery forever. With my finger still poised to hit the igniter, I wait as the old bitch comes closer and closer.
“You don't even know what I'm doing, do you?” I ask, as I start to smell gas filling the room. Not much longer now. “I guess they didn't have gas cookers in your day, huh? Well, you're in for a surprise. And when it's over, there'll be no house and no body for you to take. And no more children.”
I wait, hoping for some kind of reaction, but she's simply grinning as she stops and towers above me.
“I don't know the story of my family,” I sob. “I don't know the details of what you did to them all. But I'm damn well not going to let you do it to anyone else. This is for them.”
I look down at the photo of my parents. I can barely seem them properly through the tears, but for a moment I stare at their smiling faces.
“This if for you, Mum and Dad,” I whimper. “This is to make sure it ends. Right now. No more curse.”
With that, I push the button on the cooker, and I close my eyes as I hear a rush of fire.
Rosie
Six months later
“So how did you get out?”
Sitting on the chair next to the bay window, in Doctor Sutcliffe's office, I think back to that moment when the gas ignited. I can still feel the roar of flames, and I can still feel the immense heat, but after that...
After that, nothing.
“Rosie?” he continues. “The house was ripped apart. The whole story you've told me so far was clearly a figment of your imagination, but the one part that even you can't explain is how you got out of the house with barely a scratch or a mark on you.”
“I don't know,” I whisper, before turning to him and watching as he makes a note on my chart.
“You were found on the side of the road when the firefighters arrived.”
“I know.”
“A group of men from the local town, led by a Daniel Langton, saw the fire and rushed to help.”
“I know that too.”
“But you don't know how you got out of the house?”
“No.”
“And you're sure there was no-one else inside with you? I mean, no-one who could have carried you out?”
“Toby was dead,” I reply, “and the only other person...”
My voice trails off as I see that awful woman's face in my mind's eye. The same face that I see in my nightmares. The face that makes me wake screaming and sobbing every single night in my room, bringing the hospital orderlies rushing to check that I'm okay. I don't think there's been one night when I haven't seen those dead eyes staring at me.
“The police are still looking into the circumstances,” Doctor Sutcliffe mutters, making another note, “but obviously there was someone else in the house. It's just not possible for you to have been alone.”
“I wasn't alone,” I tell him.
“I mean flesh-and-blood people, Rosie.”
“But the house was destroyed, wasn't it?” I ask.
He nods.
“Completely destroyed?”
“Torn down and bulldozed. Mr. Langton and some of his friends bought the ruins and dealt with it. Apart from some little girls who've been seen playing nearby, I hear the place has been left well alone.”
Feeling a flash of relief, I pause for a moment.
“What about the wood?” I ask.
“Rosie...”
“What about the wood from the house? That was all destroyed, wasn't it? Nothing can be allowed to survive!”
Sighing, he takes a moment to clean his glasses.
“We need to focus on your health,” he continues finally. “You remember why you're here, don't you? The court decided that you needed serious help, and in three months' time I'm going to have to make a recommendation about whether or not to keep you here at the hospital for another period, or whether some other option needs to be considered. Now, so far, I'm leaning heavily toward keeping you here. I would, however, like to see some more signs of progress. For example, if you could try to think about what really happened after you and Toby reached the house, I'd -”
“I told you.”
“Well, I'm still not -”
“And you looked into the names I gave you, didn't you?” I ask. “The family names. The history. The witch. They were all real historical people, weren't they?”
“The details check out so far,” he says cautiously, “but that doesn't prove anything.”
“It proves I'm not making it up.”
“You could have read about them before you went to the house.”
“I didn't!”
“This is becoming a rather circular conversation,” he continues with yet another sigh.
“I don't know how I got out of that house,” I tell him, as I grip the arms of the chair in sheer desperation. “Believe me, if I knew, I'd tell you. But ever since that night, I've felt like... I can't explain it, but I've felt like something's protecting me. I know how that sounds, but it's the truth. Even right now, sitting here with you, I feel as if there's someone else in the room with us. Even when I have the nightmares about the old woman, that witch-like creature from the house, I can tell that something's holding her back. It was holding her back in the house, and it's holding her back in my dreams. I can't explain it, but I know it's real. And I feel safe.”
“Hmm.”
He makes another note. Probably something about how I'm delusional, and about how I need my dosages upped.
“We'll talk some more tomorrow, Rosie,” he says finally.
“We're done for today?”
“We're done for today. It's a nice afternoon, though. You should try spending some time outside with the other patients for once.”
“Maybe later,” I tell him, as an orderly comes into the room and I get to my feet, ready to be led away. “I want to sleep for a while first.”
“I thought you had nightmares when you slept?”
“I always know they're nightmares when they're happening,” I reply, heading over to the orderly. “I'm more scared in the daytime, when I can't see her. Because that means she might appear at any moment.”
“But you just told me you feel safe.”
I open my mouth to reply, but the words catch in my throat.
“I do,” I say finally. “I can't explain it, but I do.”
I turn to leave.
“Oh, Rosie? You received another letter from Mr. Langton. Perhaps you feel ready to speak to him now?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I see that he's holding an envelope with my name on the front.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “Not ever. Burn it. Burn all of them.”
A few minutes later I'm back in my room. There's not much in here, since I'm not allowed anything I could use to hurt myself. I have some books, and some paper, and some pencils that I have to give back every night. I don't mind the sparse decoration, though, and to be honest I feel pretty calm when I'm in my room. I can't explain that feeling, but I was telling the truth to Doctor Sutcliffe earlier. Ever since I woke up after the night at Wetherley House, I've felt like I'
m protected, like something's watching over me. Although I like to tell myself that the old witch was probably burned up with the house, I'm not entirely sure that it works like that. If she could reach out before, she can probably reach out now, but something feels different this time. Something I can't explain.
I know one thing, though.
Mary wasn't the monster in that house.
The monster was someone else, someone who must have hated my family for some reason. Maybe I'll never find out what really happened, but I'm certain the woman was some kind of witch.
Settling on the bed, I turn and face the wall. I can hear the other patients talking outside in the garden, but I don't feel like joining them right now. Instead I stare at the beigeness and wait for sleep to crawl over me. At the same time, I still feel as if someone is here in the room with me, and after a moment I turn to double-check that I'm alone. Once I'm sure, I turn back to the wall. I start to close my eyes, but at the last second I spot a faint scratch on the wall, poking up from behind the crumpled bed-sheets. Reaching out, I pull the sheets aside, and finally I spot some crude, barely legible letters carved into the surface.
They were there yesterday, and the day before too. But each day, four more words appear is from nowhere, and I can just about make them out. Even now, as I reach over and run my fingertips against the scratches, I feel certain that something is watching over me. And I read those four words again, words that must have been her way of making sure she finally remembered herself after she died.
“My name is Mary.”
Epilogue
Four hundred miles away
“Mr. Patterson? Is this okay?”
Glancing up from my marking, I see that Mikey Spode has brought his latest creation from the workshop. He's an eager kid, always trying to please, but he's never really shown any great talent in my class. This time, however, I can't help noticing that he's actually done a pretty good job.
“Let me see.”
I reach out and take the carved wooden tiger from him, and I've got to admit that it's not bad. He's managed to get a lot of detail, and I reckon I'd be pretty chuffed if I made something like this myself.
“I like it,” I tell him, and when I turn to him I see that he's grinning. He's proud of himself. “It's a real improvement, Mikey. This must have taken you a long time.”
“Will I get a good grade for this unit now?” he asks. “I'm averaging A's in everything except woodwork.”
“Well, no promises, but I predict great things if you keep this up.” I continue to turn the tiger around in my hands for a moment. It feels light yet sturdy, and the grain of the wood has a very appealing quality. “What did you make this out of ?” I ask after a moment. “It's not material from the wood-box, is it?”
“I took some wood from that new pile that came in this morning.”
“There's a new pile?”
“Mr. Garlinge said it had arrived and that we could use it. I'm not in trouble, am I?”
“You're not in trouble,” I reply, setting the tiger on my desk as I get to my feet. “I'm very impressed, Mikey. You've obviously put a lot of effort into this, and I can see a real improvement in your skills.” I lead him out of my office and into the main workshop, where the rest of the Year 11 students are hard at work on their own carvings. “Now prove to me that it wasn't a fluke and see what else you can come up with.”
As Mikey heads back to his bench, I wander over to the wood-box. Sure enough, next to the usual supply of cheap balsa and off-cuts, there's a large stack of new wood. Eric Garlinge is always buying cheap consignments of wood from local merchants, usually just stuff that would've been tossed if the school hadn't taken it. As I pick a piece out from the box, I can't help thinking that this time he's struck lucky. The wood looks like old house timber, and this particular piece has a couple of dark patches, as if maybe it was lightly burned at some point. Frankly, I don't want to know exactly where it came from, but it's good quality wood and when I look across at the kids, I see that they're almost all using it. I guess I taught them well, and they recognize decent wood when they find it.
“Ten minutes to the end of class,” I remind them as I head back to my office. Reaching the door, I turn and look at them again, and I can't help noticing that they seem very quiet and absorbed in their work. In fact, there's no chat at all.
I wait, but they're all just getting on with their work.
This is a miracle.
“Ten minutes,” I mutter again, before heading back into my office.
Taking a seat, I'm just about to get on with the marking when I glance at the tiger again. It really is a great piece of work, although something about it is starting to feel just a little odd. I stare at the piece for a moment longer, before realizing that I really should finish up what I'm doing. Looking back down at the essay I'm currently checking, I spend a couple of minutes reading through the pages, and then suddenly I spot something moving at the edge of my vision.
A maggot.
“What the hell?” I mutter, before seeing another, and then another.
Half a dozen maggots have crawled out of the wooden tiger. I use a piece of paper to squash them, and then I toss them into the bin before peering closer at the tiger. Sure enough, yet another maggot is starting to wriggle out. For a moment, I consider going into the workshop and telling the kids to down tools and toss their pieces away, but then I figure that there can't be maggots in all the chunks. I'm sure it'll be fine, even if the wood's clearly from some reclaimed dump.
I'll let the kids take their work home. After all, what harm can it possibly do?
Also by Amy Cross
The Murder at Skellin Cottage
Skellin Cottage is an oasis of peace and tranquillity. Miles from the nearest town, nestled far out in the English countryside, it's the perfect place for visitors who want to get away from the world for a while. And then the cottage's latest tenant, Deborah Dean, is found brutally murdered.
After several months of police inactivity, the cottage's owner Lord Martin Chesleford decides to take matters into his own hands. Hiring former police officer Joanna Mason, who now works alone as a private investigator, he demands that Deborah's murderer is brought to justice.
But while Deborah had tried to isolate herself at Skellin Cottage, she'd already begun to attract attention. And as the ongoing investigation uncovers old secrets and new rivalries, another murder is right around the corner.
Also by Amy Cross
The Ghosts of Hexley Airport
Ten years ago, more than two hundred people died in a horrific plane crash at Hexley Airport.
Today, some say their ghosts still haunt the terminal building.
When she starts her new job at the airport, working a night shift as part of the security team, Casey assumes the stories about the place can't be true. Even when she has a strange encounter in a deserted part of the departure hall, she's certain that ghosts aren't real.
Soon, however, she's forced to face the truth. Not only is there something haunting the airport's buildings and tarmac, but a sinister force is working behind the scenes to replicate the circumstances of the original accident. And as a snowstorm moves in, Hexley Airport looks set to witness yet another disaster.
OTHER BOOKS
BY AMY CROSS INCLUDE
Horror
The Bride of Ashbyrn House
The Body at Auercliff
B&B
Laura
Asylum
Meds (Asylum 2)
Annie's Room
The Farm
The Haunting of Blackwych Grange
The Devil, the Witch and the Whore (The Deal book 1)
The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories
Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories
Twisted Little Things and Other Stories
The Disappearance of Katie Wren
The Horror of Devil's Root Lake
The Ghosts of Lakeforth Hotel
The Printe
r From Hell
The Nurse
American Coven
Eli's Town
The Night Girl
Devil's Briar
The Cabin
After the Cabin
Last Wrong Turn
At the Edge of the Forest
The Devil's Hand
The Ghost of Shapley Hall
The Death of Addie Gray
A House in London
The Blood House
The Priest Hole (Nykolas Freeman book 1)
Battlefield (Nykolas Freeman book 2)
The Border
The Lighthouse
3AM
Tenderling
The Girl Clay
The Prison
Ward Z
The Devil's Photographer
Thriller
The Girl Who Never Came Back
Other People's Bodies
Dystopia / Science Fiction
The Dog
The Island (The Island book 1)
Persona (The Island book 2)