The Secret of Eveline House

by Sheila Forsey

  ‘An evil spirit?’

  ‘Yes, so he believes. Mrs Ward, I have heard of strange things that have happened to people throughout the centuries, but I have little or no belief in such claims. I respect the fact he is chaplain of the hospital but your daughter is in my care and I will not have assumptions of some form of religious witchcraft influence my care of her.’

  ‘Do you think someone did this to her?’

  ‘No,. I believe she somehow did this to herself. How? I have no idea. She possibly had some sort of fit. A convulsion. All we can do right now is make sure she is as stable as possible. Some of her injuries right now are inexplicable. But, in my experience, in time we will find the explanation. There are new discoveries all the time. Your child may have an illness that we know nothing of. The child is traumatised, there is no doubt about that. We may need to look at getting some specialist treatment for her. We can see in the next few days how she is, and I can begin deciding. What exactly happened to her? Only time will tell. I will be back to see her later tonight. In the meantime, the Matron will keep a good eye on her.’

  She thanked him but felt her blood run cold as she tried to block the images of her child doing this to herself. The image of the blood on the walls and on the mirror flashed before her. Her beautiful little girl. It was too horrific to deal with. She hoped she was strong enough to try. She remembered her mother’s faith in God. She wished she had it. Was this something to do with her? When she was young, they said she was not normal. Had she somehow transferred something terrible to her daughter? Were the people of the town right, had she been cursed for writing what she had written? Was she being punished in the cruellest way?

  Now she was in the car with Henry driving home. Home without Sylvia. She could not trust herself to speak. A sense of unreality overcame her when they arrived back. Could all this really have happened only that morning? She looked at the door, the same door through which Henry had carried out Sylvia in his arms, not knowing if she would live to make it to the hospital. Her legs gave way and Henry caught her and helped her into the drawing room where Betsy had lit a fire earlier.

  It was late and Betsy had gone home. She wished that she was still here. Betsy was the nearest thing she felt she had to family.

  Henry was looking at her. He too seemed to have aged since morning. He looked like he was about to talk. There was so much to talk about, but her voice seemed cut off from her throat. The image of her child lying on that bed with those horrendous marks and blood oozing from her little body came flashing like pictures in a film.

  Flashes of her own childhood began to form images in her brain. She could see herself as a child, kneeling, inhaling the incense, the aroma of the wax candle, the slow swish of the vestments of the priest on Good Friday and the carrying of the Cross. Good Friday, when they were in the cold confines of the church and the only light was like a prism through the stained glass. At four o’clock, they were told the day would go dark, the earth would blacken at the death of Jesus. Violet was always in the church when this happened, but her mother had assured her that it did just that.

  Guilt almost overpowered her. Why had she ever returned here? What had she exposed her child to? How she had at first agonised over leaving Ireland! She had missed the air, that clean air that could only be found there. She had missed the music, the haunting music that carried the voices of the ghosts of the past. She had missed the landscape even though the hills and the rivers at times seemed to chime with a melancholy and a dark brooding. Most left Ireland for a new life, but she left it because she wanted to always love it, her true love, but if she stayed it would surely suffocate her. She knew that, even if she lived away, she could never truly leave Ireland. It would be forever with her, every day of her life. She must love Ireland from afar.

  Religion had been the tapestry of her childhood – it was how her childhood was played out. Heaven and hell were words that she was familiar with. Hell where the devil awaits for all the sinners. She knew her people believed this. She did not know what she believed. Did hell really exist? Did the Devil and demons exist? Was that what was at play here? But never had she or her kind witnessed anything like what had happened to Sylvia.

  She had heard of such a thing, small snippets of such a thing. The fear of the Devil getting into you. She remembered Confession in that dark wooden box when her heart would almost stop beating at telling the priest of how she had forgotten to say her prayers at night or given her mother trouble by disappearing to the lough. But as much as she feared the priest and all that he said, she was not sure what she believed. How could this good God that they talked about allow something like this to happen to an innocent child? They said he was all-powerful. Where was he now? Or was he there and just punishing her? Then he was surely a cruel God. What did it mean for her child to have such wounds? Henry had wanted Sylvia baptised and brought up as a Catholic. She had mixed feelings about that. She knew that her family would condemn her even more if she did not raise her as a Catholic but that hardly mattered now as they seemed to have washed their hands of her. But she had gone along with it for Henry’s sake. Was this God’s way of teaching her a lesson? Putting her in some kind of purgatory on earth? She had heard plenty about purgatory where Catholics were purified of their sins before they could enter the Kingdom of God. But if she was in some kind of purgatory on earth, where was her child? In a hell on earth?

  She had brought Sylvia to Mass in London. She had made her First Holy Communion there. But theirs was not a very religious house. She had a holy picture in the hall. A holy-water font at the door and a small crucifix that was in the house when they had bought it. She never liked looking at the crucifix. Why stare at his ravaged body? She had put it in a drawer in the kitchen. They had stopped going to church altogether now and had rarely gone in London. Not like when she was a child. The missions and the rosaries and the prayers. There was a large picture of Jesus in the kitchen of her childhood – a picture of the Sacred Heart. Her mother had a blessed candle underneath and it was lit for prayers. Was this her punishment? How could a good God punish her through her child? But this God had sacrificed his own child so that the sins of the world could be forgiven. His son was crucified on the cross so that his followers could go to heaven. What was he doing to her child? She felt she was going mad. She pulled at her hair, bringing away clumps of it in her hand. What was happening to her child? How could she stop it?

  Oh, how she wanted to run all the way to her home and beg her mother to help her! What would her mother say? Would she tell her that she had brought this on herself, by living the sinful life that she had and betraying her family by running away and bringing shame on them? Or would she be forgiving? If her mother denied her and shut the door, that would be too much for the heart to bear.

  The nuns in the hospital had said little. But they had been kindly to her and made her drink some hot sweet tea. The wounds were bandaged now and they had left Sylvia sleeping peacefully, drained of everything.

  Violet looked at Henry who was sitting opposite her at the fire. He was about to speak when there was a rap on the door. They both jumped. Henry got up to see who it was.

  She recognised the priest’s voice. Father Quill. Henry brought him in. Father Quill looked at Violet with deep concern etched on his face. Suddenly she wanted to rush to him and beg him to help her. There was an air of calm that emanated from him that she craved. She was hungry for that calmness.

  ‘I heard what happened,’ he said softly, his brown eyes searching her face. ‘I needed to check you were alright.’

  Violet looked away. His concern was enough to undo her.

  ‘What did you hear?’ Henry asked warily, standing behind him.

  Father Quill turned around to face Henry. ‘I heard that Sylvia is recovering but that she is very ill.’

  ‘Were you told what happened to her?’ Henry asked, his voice heavy with mistrust.

  ‘I was told assumptions, that’s all, Henry,’ he replied careful
ly.

  ‘By whom?’ Henry asked accusingly.

  ‘By Father Keogh – he called down to see me.’

  Henry banged the mantelpiece with his fist. ‘Oh, for the love of God, what did he say?’

  ‘I think you know what he said, Henry. He believes something happened to Sylvia almost not of this world.’

  ‘What do you believe – do you think that can happen, Father?’ Violet whispered.

  Father Quill looked back at her. ‘I think that no one should jump to conclusions. We know little of the mind, especially here in Draheen. You hear of psychological problems, ones that we know little about. Tell me, was the child worried about anything in particular?’

  ‘Hold on,’ Henry said, pointing to a chair for him to sit. He went out of the room.

  ‘Violet, please, know I am here for you,’ the priest said. ‘I am so sorry that this has happened.’

  Violet looked away. His kindness was tangible. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Henry returned with the most recent letter that Betsy had found. He showed it to the priest while filling him in on the previous letter.

  ‘Well, this certainly explains that she was deeply upset,’ said the priest. ‘Have you any idea who could have written such vile letters?’

  ‘No, but I will find out, Father, and I will have no mercy in my heart when I do,’ Henry replied.

  ‘Henry, I know how angry you must feel but I think you’d better let the gardaí handle this,’ Father Quill said warily.

  ‘I tell you, Father – someone wrote that poison and almost killed my child. I will not rest until I find them and, when I do, I hope God has mercy on them because I certainly will not.’

  Violet looked frightened at the outburst. She had never known Henry to have such anger.

  ‘What should we do, Father?’ she implored.

  ‘I don’t think there is much you can do. Hopefully the child will forget this in time and the wounds will heal. I gather this has never happened before?’

  ‘Never,’ Violet replied. ‘Sylvia is a very sensitive little girl. It’s unimaginable that such a thing could happen to her.’

  ‘I think the worry of what was going on may have somehow brought it on,’ Father Quill said.

  ‘I’m frightened for her, Father.’ Violet’s voice was barely audible. ‘When we went into the room, it was shocking, absolutely shocking.’

  ‘I think you need to go to the gardaí with these letters, Henry. I beg you not to take this into your own hands,’ Father Quill implored.

  Henry stubbed out his cigarette, a flash of anger crossing his blue eyes.

  ‘That I cannot promise you, Father. However, I will let them know. But my child is sick and I don’t want to hear any more about evil demons. Do you hear me, Violet?’

  He strode to the door and opened it. ‘I think you should leave, Father.’

  Father Quill got up and went towards the door.

  ‘Very well, but if you need me you know where I am.’ He looked over at Violet.

  ‘We won’t need you, Father.’ Henry retorted. ‘You can be on your way.’

  ‘Goodbye, Violet. I will pray for Sylvia’s recovery,’ Father Quill said softly.

  Henry banged the door after him.

  Violet began to cry.

  ‘Can we go back to London, Henry? I can’t stay here.’

  ‘Christ, Violet, now is not the time for this!’ Henry shouted, walking up and down the drawing-room floor.

  ‘But we can’t stay here. In this house. What if there is something evil? How can you even suggest that we stay here? And if it is an illness they will know more about Sylvia in London than here in Draheen.’

  ‘We are not running anywhere. Do you hear me?’ Henry shouted.

  ‘Well, I have no intention of staying here once Sylvia can move,’ she shouted back. ‘I will take my child away!’

  Henry grabbed Violet from the chair, pulling her up close to him. The alcohol from the night before was rancid on his breath, his blue eyes full of wrath.

  ‘You are not taking my child anywhere without me, do you hear me? I am still boss in my own house!’ he bellowed. His fingers dug into her arms.

  Violet barely recognised Henry. His grip was so tight she winced in pain. She could almost feel the black anger emanating from his body. Terrified, she broke away and rushed upstairs.

  She ran into the guest room and locked the door.

  After about half an hour there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Violet, I’m sorry. I am tormented with what has happened. I should not have spoken to you like that. I know I frightened you. Please forgive me.’

  Violet slowly opened the door. Henry was sitting on the floor, weeping.

  ‘You know how I feel about going back to London. I can’t bear it.’

  ‘What about Sylvia?’ Violet cried.

  ‘You can’t blame moving here for everything that has happened. There is no evidence that this will all go away as soon as we leave.’

  ‘Henry, you are my husband and I am begging you to leave here with me as soon as Sylvia can travel. I cannot stay here. I simply have to go.’

  Henry got up and wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tight that she felt she could barely breathe. At last he let her go. He cupped her face in his hands. But instead of comforting her it made her feel even more on edge.

  ‘We will talk tomorrow – try to get some rest,’ he whispered. He kissed her lightly on the lips.

  She could taste the stale whiskey and tobacco.

  The night passed with no sleep. As soon as dawn broke, Violet dressed in a warm cashmere jumper and high-waisted tweed trousers. She grabbed her jade-green coat. She had to get out of the house to think straight. Panic had set into her body since she’d seen Sylvia in that terrifying state, a panic that was not subsiding. She grabbed a red beret and fixed it on her head, tying a green silk scarf around her neck.

  She walked out of the house, shutting the gates behind her.

  She walked up the road and into the town and then up towards the woods. There was hardly anyone about. In the woods it was slightly darker, the mist rising from the small brook. Violet breathed the air, the smell of decaying leaves, the choking feeling that she had easing. She found a spot where the violets grew wild. It was barren now, but she knew that once the spring would come, it would be a burst of colour. She sat listening to the gurgle of the brook and the morning call of the corncrake.

  Eventually she walked back, eager to get to the hospital as soon as they would allow her in. She would have to walk past the church entrance.

  There was the usual group of women gathered outside the church – the same group of women that Betsy had talked about. They were all about the same age, possibly in their late fifties, They were heading in for morning Mass. They eyed her warily, as if she were a young wolf who was slyly watching their fat chickens. She could feel the hatred from them. What on earth had she done to deserve so much hatred?

  ‘How is your daughter?’

  Violet stopped and turned to a small woman with a headscarf tied tightly on her head and a dark bottle-green coat with large buttons, her cheeks full of red lines like spider’s legs spread across her face. Her eyes had a yellow tinge to them. She recognised her from Betsy’s descriptions as Nelly Cooke. The others were dressed similarly with heavy coats in shades of brown and black with their heads covered in dark-coloured headscarves.

  They eyed her warily, waiting for her to pounce.

  ‘How do you know about my daughter?’

  ‘It’s a small town. I believe they had to call the priest. Never before has the likes of this happened in Draheen.’

  ‘I suppose you will be leaving as soon as you can?’ Molly Walsh spat, her eyes examining Violet from head to toe.

  Violet thought of the letter. It had to be one of these. But how on earth could she know which one? She studied them all.

  The two Grey sisters that Betsy had told her about looked awkward and avoided a
ny eye contact with her. But the other three stared at her without blinking.

  ‘Are you happy with yourselves?’ she said. ‘You got what you wanted.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ one of them said.

  She was a large woman wearing a navy coat that was bursting at the seams. Her grey hair was pinned up and her ankles were so swollen that they were falling out over her shoes.

  Violet knew she had to be Agnes the Cat. Betsy had described her well. She looked at Violet as if she had crawled from the rat-holes of the woods. She knew instantly what Betsy meant about her having a look of pure evil about her. There was a terrible aroma of stale cat urine off her that made Violet want to retch.

  ‘My daughter almost died, is that what you wanted? Is that what you wanted, answer me? Shame on you, shame on all of you!’ Violet wanted to claw at their faces and watch the blood fall down their pious cheeks.

  The woman she knew must be Agnes the Cat pushed the others away. She came within an inch of Violet’s face, the stench of her so overpowering it almost made Violet throw up. But Violet held her ground and stared right back at her.

  Agnes’s eyes bore into Violet’s, making her flinch.

  ‘You brought this on yourself. You are not in London now. There are rules to live by when you live in Ireland and don’t forget it,’ she threatened. She pointed a finger in her face.

  ‘If you know what is good for you, take your child and go back to London. We don’t want your kind here.’ She stepped back. ‘Come on, ladies, Mass is about to start. We can pray for that poor child – she needs every prayer that she can get with a mother like hers.’

  The others looked less venomous than Agnes, but they turned on their heels to follow her.

  ‘Well, what a fine Christian act this is!’

  Betsy was suddenly at Violet’s side.

  ‘Shame on you is right! I heard every vicious word. Go on in and pray! Pray that God and his Blessed Mother will find it in their most blessed hearts to forgive your evil ways. Shame on you! Go in and fall on your bended knees!’