13 Hauntings

by Clarice Black

  “We’re trapped. It’s like the whole village is there!” Melanie said. It hit her. There was no escape for them. And Robin was as good as dead, and no longer of any help. If only she had told them this sooner.

  “Come with me,” Robin said and led them to the staircase in the entrance hall. As they went by the giant wooden doors of the church, they could hear someone knocking harshly. Robin led them to the basement cellar. It was the only place left untouched by renovations in the church. It was as plain as the day they’d found the church. Most of the contents, which they’d not known where to discard, was placed in there. Ava turned the flashlight of her phone on and her sisters followed suit.

  “Where are we going?” Melanie asked.

  Before Robin could answer, they heard the giant door falling loudly. “They’re in the church!” Ava whispered. From the footsteps that were audible from the cellar, it sounded as if every one of those rabid villagers was scurrying all over the place, looking for the girls.

  “Quick,” Robin said and led them to the farthest side of the cellar. To the place directly underneath the bell tower.

  “The basement! Try the basement!” someone screamed from above. The girls had no time. Robin ran to the corner of the wall and started pulling away at the stuff covering the floor. The footsteps were audibly coming down the stairs. Ava, Claire and Melanie held their breath as Robin found a cellar door on the floor. She pulled it up and shone her light into it. A set of wooden stairs descended down the hole in the ground.

  The villagers had reached the basement now. But thankfully, the clutter of old furniture camouflaged the sisters somewhat.

  “Go now. This tunnel leads out of the village to the main road,” Robin said.

  “Come with us. Save yourself.” Melanie grabbed the woman’s hand.

  “No. It’s too late for me. I must stay behind,” Robin freed her hands and pushed away.

  “In the corner! I heard sounds!” a villager screamed. They swarmed towards the women.

  “Go!” Robin said. Ava was the first one down the hole. Claire followed. Melanie slid down the stairs and looked up at Robin one last time. She was crying. She waved her hand in a goodbye and shut the cellar door slowly.

  “What are you doing here?” one of the villagers asked her.

  “The girls, they were escaping. I tried to stop them,” Robin said. Melanie heard all this while standing directly under the cellar door.

  “Liar! You helped them escape, Robin!” It was Victor Powell’s voice. Before Robin could say anything, Melanie heard a slicing sound followed by a thud. A steady stream of blood seeped through the cellar door and on to Melanie’s face. She put a hand over her mouth to staunch the scream.

  Pull her aside and open the door to see if they’re still there,” Powell said.

  Melanie snapped back into action and ran for her life. “They’re after us!” she yelled to her sisters, throwing caution to the wind. They ran, stumbling and falling in the dark, all the way to the end of the tunnel, with the sturdier villagers still at their heels. Midway through the tunnel, the villagers stopped giving chase. Melanie and her sisters kept running until their feet ached and bled, running even when strength had left their body. After half an hour, they came to a door. Ava pushed at it until it creaked open.

  The Wright sisters climbed out of the tunnel into the cool night, far from the village.

  “Robin…she’s dead,” Melanie said. They all stood on the corner of the main road that led to town, silently mourning Robin’s death. Robin, whom they had only known for a short while.

  “What do we do now?” Claire asked in a trembling voice. She had plopped on the ground and taken off her shoes. Blisters were forming on her feet from the run.

  “I don’t know,” Melanie said. She looked around at her sisters. They looked back. Claire stood up. It was inadvertent. They hugged each other, survivors of a mutual horror, and began crying. They cried for a long while, hugging each other closely, and feeling the intimacy of the moment. This was the last time all three would be together in the same place.

  When Melanie secured the job at Marriot Hotel in San Francisco the following year, she’d celebrate it alone in her apartment. She’d get a text from Ava and a voice message from Claire, and that’d be the end of it.

  When Claire won the scholarship grant that she’d applied for the following year, she’d go out to the bar with the lawyers from her firm. A ‘congrats’ message from Ava and a ‘yay’ emoji from Melanie. That’d be it.

  When Ava would write a book about the events that happened in Hallow Church, she’d do it alone, without her sisters’ help. And when it’d become a bestseller, she’d phone to tell her sisters and they’d reply with hearty congratulations. Then they’d make a plan to meet sometime, but they won’t.

  This was the last time all of the sisters were together. And they hugged each other, clung on to each other, in the aftermath of the horrors they’d all witnessed.

  They called the police on their way to the airport and told them what had happened. And from thereon, none of them would talk about this place. As for Hallow Church, it’s blood ministration had been assuaged by the killing of Robin Bennett. For the next year, everything went back to normal.

  The church still stands there to this day, an unkempt, beautiful monument of dense macabre in the midst of the serenity surrounding it. The villagers abandoned the place. The news was ambiguous. Some said that a disease wiped out most of the villagers. Some said they all left of their own accord. Either way, it was a ghost town now. And the apotheosis of that town, the Hallow Church, kept standing, looking unmistakably innocent, looking beautiful. No one apart from the scattered (or dead) villagers or the Wright sisters knew that the beauty of nature and the Romanesque architecture of the place served only to masquerade the evil that lurked within.

  The Haunting of Rutley Mansion

  Clarice Black

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  The Hayward Clinic of Psychiatry

  The blood was a bright crimson with flecks of dull maroon. Grace Hayward stared down at the soiled toilet paper, letting the implications sink in. She blinked slowly, as if teetering on the edge of sleep, the memory of her miscarriage two months before flitting before her eyes. She sighed heavily and fished a panty liner from the small vanity drawer underneath her bathroom sink.

  She ran cold water in the sink and washed her face, enjoying the soothing water on her feverish skin. Opening her eyes brought her face to face with her own reflection; bloodshot green eyes in a narrow face that looked as if it had once been plump, her cheeks were points of stark red in her pale face framed by shoulder length blonde hair, her sharp chin looking more pointed at this angle.

  Grace dried her face and hands, thinking about the slew of appointments she still had to go through. It was only eleven in the morning and she was already done with the day. Smoothing out her slacks, Grace opened the bathroom door thinking to sit behind her desk for five minutes to compose herself before she asked Lilian to send in her next patient.

  “It’s been ten minutes. I hope these ten minutes won’t be taken from my time. I pay for the whole hour, not fifty minutes of it.”

  An irate middle-aged woman sat in the chair before Grace’s desk. She had short hair dyed a bright red, and wore a garish purple cardigan.

  “Of course, Mrs. Barret.” Grace tried to salvage the situation, her cheeks blazing at the humiliation. She had told Carson that Lilian would not work; the girl was too young and inexperienced to handle the receptionist’s job, but Carson had been determined to open in the first week of June, and Lilian had been hired.

  Taking her seat behind her desk, Grace pulled out Mrs. Barret’s file and started the clock. The woman was an old patient with generalized anxiety disorder; when she had first been referred to Grace she had been unable to relax enough to sleep. Now she was much better, sleeping through the night, and had even started exercises to recognize the beginning of an episode and take measures to cou
nter it.

  Once the session was over, Grace walked Mrs. Barret to the door, taking a look in the reception area. The room was unlike the usual waiting rooms in clinics around the country. Grace and Carson had taken great pains to make it a welcoming spot where the patients could relax before seeing their doctors. The walls were painted a soothing lilac, and hung with paintings by Carson’s mother. They could be described, at best, as abstract but they seemed to have the right effect on the patients.

  There was a special play area with a Care Giver for patients who couldn’t find a babysitter in time; a small shelf full of books for those with a mind to read, and the TV was set to a soothing cooking channel. A shelf was dedicated to snacks, so patients could help themselves to tea and biscuits.

  It was cosy, welcoming, and everything Grace had planned it to be; it was a shame she got no pleasure out of it now.

  “Mr. Penn is next, Dr. Hayward.” Lilian chirped from behind her desk. A toothy girl of twenty-one, she had the high breasts of youth, and the slim waist to go with it. Grace found her overly cheerful nature grating.

  “Thank you Lilian, but can you wait ten minutes before you let him in. I must still finish Mrs. Barret’s notes.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t have just sent her in, should I?” Lilian’s wide smile fractured a little and it made Grace feel better. “I’m sorry. I’ll bring you some tea.”

  Grace watched the girl spring up on feet that were attached to impossibly long legs. Tiring of watching Lilian, Grace turned to go back in her office. A gash of red caught her eye. A man in a red clown suit stood in the waiting area, his back turned to her. He was looking at a particularly horrid painting of greenish yellow flowers, his red hair ringing his balding pate. The suit itself was a raggedy ensemble of red and white, weatherworn and torn in places.

  “Carson gets all the interesting ones,” she mused and went back into her office, mentally counting the time till she could go to bed.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Rutley Mansion

  “How are you feeling today?” Carson Hayward rubbed Grace’s shoulders. She tensed at his touch. He reluctantly let her go and turned back to the stove where he had two steaks cooking. “Dinner will be ready in five minutes. I thought we’d celebrate the first week of our venture.”

  “That’s nice.” Grace’s smile was lank and her eyes unfocused.

  Carson tried to ignore his disappointment at her lack of reaction. He tossed a clove of garlic and a few sprigs of rosemary in the pan. A hand touched his arm.

  “I’ll get the wine to go with that delicious steak.” Her smile was apologetic, trying to make amends, and Carson felt the worse for it. He shouldn’t expect her to be chipper and enthusiastic after what she had recently gone through.

  What kind of psychiatrist are you, Carson thought dejectedly, to be so oblivious of your wife’s emotional needs?

  They have both been through a tough few months as a couple. Firstly, they had invested their entire life savings in purchasing and renovating the old Rutley Mansion into a home and their very own private clinic. Then, as soon as the construction had started, Grace had made her exciting announcement: she was pregnant. It had felt like their life was taking a wonderful turn, everything was falling perfectly in to place.

  However, two months ago, a week before they were set to move in to their new home, Grace had lost the baby. The experience had been all the more traumatizing since Grace had been alone and unable to reach Carson or any of her friends. She had called an ambulance but before help could arrive the loss had occurred. They had found her sitting in a pool of blood in the bathroom, her hands cupping the small gelatinous body of their dead child.

  Now, where Carson had thrown himself in his work to drown out the grief of loss, Grace had fallen into depression. She had lost weight, her hair grew lank, and the medication prescribed by her doctor made her sleepy. From his professional view point, Carson could recognize which stage of grief Grace was at, but as a husband he often lost patience with her.

  “Lilian told me about Mrs. Barret.” Carson said when they were finally seated at the dinner table. The sound of cutlery on china in the silent kitchen grated his nerves. “I guess you were right. Lilian is a bit young.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I was pleased with the turn out this first week. It looks like 80% of our patients have decided to follow us to the new clinic. Pretty soon we’ll be getting new clients.”

  “Hmm.”

  Carson watched Grace playing with her food. His instinct was to grab her by the shoulders and shake her out of her gloom, but another part of him, the saner part, knew that he was just converting his own grief into anger and projecting it on her. He went back to his food.

  “You did have a new client today, didn’t you?”

  Carson’s head snapped up, not by what she had said but by the fact that Grace had offered anything to the conversation at all.

  “I did?” Carson sipped his wine.

  “I saw them in the reception area. I must say I was a bit jealous. You get all the interesting patients. So, tell me,” Grace asked looking him in the eye, with genuine curiosity, “what was with the clown suit?”

  It had been weeks since they had enjoyed proper dinner conversation like they used to, discussing patients, possible treatments and referrals, and it was a breath of fresh air to see Grace even slightly animated. As much as Carson missed it, he was a little perturbed by what Grace had said.

  “Clown suit. What clown suit?”

  “The man in the clown suit. He was standing in the waiting area when I said goodbye to Mrs. Barret. I assumed he was there to see you.” She frowned. “Or did you hire a clown to entertain the kids?”

  “I did not.” Carson set his knife and fork down. “Honey, are you sure…”

  “Yes.” Grace snapped. “I know what I saw. I’m not hallucinating.”

  “I never said you were.” Carson touched her hand. “I know how drowsy the medication makes you. Maybe it was just a… a…”

  “A what?”

  “I don’t know. I can ask Lilian if she saw a clown. It might have been a friend of hers come to visit, with all the getups these young folks get in to these days, it just might be.” He laughed lightly trying to diffuse the situation, but Grace had gone back to playing with her food, the moment lost.

  Carson sighed and resigned himself to a painfully quiet dinner.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Nightmares

  “Clean up on aisle 3.”

  Grace clutched her lower belly and sunk to the floor, bags of crisps raining down around her head. The floor tiles were cold against her naked skin.

  “I like this brand.” Lilian had her hair in messy pigtails. She ripped open a bag and began to eat one crisp at a time, her eyes on Grace. Rows and rows of salsa dips were stacked behind her. “I don’t think you should hold on to it.”

  Feet pattered down the aisle. Carson, dressed in the grocery store apron, was dragging a bucket and mop behind him. He came to a stop beside Grace, bent down, resting his arms on his thighs and studied her with detached curiosity.

  “Looks like you’ve had a nasty spill.” Carson dipped his chin.

  Grace felt warmth pool beneath her. She looked down. Blood was seeping between her thighs. Grace cried out and scuttled back from the blood, her back hitting the racks. A trail of crimson followed her.

  “It’s coming.” Lilian sang.

  Pain wracked Grace’s body, as if her lower half were being severed from the torso. Blood gushed forth, as did something of flesh and bone; an impossibly small thing, lifeless and fast turning blue.

  Grace held her dead baby in the palm of her hand, her naked body going suddenly cold.

  Someone laughed; a sudden, irreverent chortle. Grace looked up. Carson and Lilian were kissing. Their lips were passionately locked to each other’s. Lilian moaned, her lithe young body writhing under Carson’s hands. Lilian bucked suddenly, her mouth opening wide, revealing sharp little teeth.
She tore the flesh off of Carson’s face and began to eat ravenously.

  Carson turned slowly, his torn face a mess of gristle and blood. He smiled.

  “Ah, to be young again.”

  Grace woke from her deep drug-induced sleep. There was a moment of complete disorientation where she didn’t know where she was, her body still riding the terror of her nightmare. She groped for her bedside lamp and turned it on, the large room in elegant creams and blues illuminated with the little light.

  It was her new bedroom.

  Carson snored lightly beside her, one leg sticking out of the covers. There was spittle on his chin.

  Grace sat there a moment just looking at her husband’s face, the sick taste of betrayal still on her tongue. Her throat was as dry as parchment and she had forgotten to bring a glass of water to keep by her bedside. Granted, the prescription pills she took at night knocked her out till dawn, but today she had woken with a deep thirst.

  Shuffling into her house slippers, Grace trudged towards the bedroom door. It opened directly on to the small sun room which looked over the sprawling back lawn. Moonlight suffused every surface. Grace didn’t bother looking out; they had spent every penny on the mansion, none was left for landscaping. The most they had done was to hire a local boy to mow it once every month for £15.

  Steadying herself with her right hand, Grace maneuvered around the furniture in the living room. The kitchen was directly opposite the staircase, and was the first room one reached in the upper apartments. Grace filled a glass with tap water and drank it down in three large swallows.

  It was a nice place. The contractors had done well. It struck her as ironic that the Haywards had taken an abandoned place like Rutley Mansion and given it a new lease of life, yet their own lives had come to a morbid standstill. Sometimes Grace felt that her marriage was rotting from the inside out. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.