I know whose baby it is, Frances.
Was Hugh sceptical of his wife having an affair with his secretary Paul? I couldn’t imagine doing such a thing to George, carrying his friend’s child. It makes me question how lady-like this Frances might have been.
Spectrum of Disbelief
I’m pregnant. Four months to be exact. It has been apparent that, though the pills might have worked, I do not feel ready to bring life into this world. Ever since I had that dream, ever since I started digging deeper into the history of this house, this house seems to come to life even more. My showers are short because a shadow of someone, other than George, stands behind it and watches me until I turn off the water. I can’t garden anymore because my tools are missing, besides which the roses bloomed and died just hours later; nothing I plant remains alive longer than a day.
I’ve been stuck with writing until George comes home, which went from horrifying to depressing. Not once can I write without a chair moving, or a bang on the wall, or footsteps running up the stairs, or the windows and drawers and doors and cabinets opening. Not once. There is always something, and I’ve tried to convince George that we should move, that I don’t and haven’t been feeling well living in this house, and that my comfort should be his number one concern so we can bring a healthy life into this world.
Well, lately, it seems my comfort comes second to his job.
SWOOSH! The couch lifts off the floor. BANG! Then smashes against the living room wall, leaving a huge dent in the plaster. I get to my feet from behind the table and step away from the chair, keeping my eyes on the living room. The harder I blink to convince myself that I must be dreaming, the more I realize that I’m indeed awake.
Then, one by one, the paintings lift away from the wall and smash onto the hardwood floor. Closer and closer the destruction gets as I hurry through the dining room towards the kitchen. The vase on the table hovers. I steady myself in place. It then lunges at me and I duck my head as the vase shatters into bits of pottery and droplets of water and dirt above me.
The kitchen! Go to the kitchen and out the back door! I scramble to my feet, but the dining room table slides across the floor and tackles my legs, flopping me onto my back. As all becomes still, I try to recover, rubbing across the bruise on my hip from the corner of the table, staring into the chandelier above me. I must get out of this house.
Taking a deep breath, I notice an oddity above with the chandelier. Its jingling jewels sway back and forth like those wind chimes you hang outside. It sparkles of white and gold, but I sense a rather dark presence within them. SNAP! I roll off the table and smack onto the floor as the chandelier shatters onto the table. That could have been me. And, what’s that smell?
It’s…food. Eggs. Toast. Bacon. Perhaps.
After finding the strength to lift myself from the floor, fear overwhelms me as I get to the doorway. Hovered over a knife, chopping and dicing peppers while eggs and bacon simmer in a hot frying pan and bread pops up in the toaster, his anger and frustration growing with every drop of the sharp, silver shining blade, a man glares at me over his shoulder. His dark, blackened eyes see right through me as if he were looking into my soul, wanting it. The horror. The reaping bits of horror and his maniacal grin as he turns around, I can’t take it. I should say something…Anything…Just, something, at least.
“I— “
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” he yells, as the wind bursts through the windows and the backdoor, as the jewels of the chandelier in the other room roll and clink and clash along the floor, and as my heart leaps out of my throat and into his hand as he grips and squeezes it. And before I collapse under my legs, I am at least able to see who the man is: Hugh Luciano.
~
“You did it again, Eva. Why did you do it again?”
“For the fifth time, George, I’ve done none of this! Why would I destroy our house and bruise my neck?!”
“Maybe you’re bored, lusting after more attention. None of this recklessness is good for the baby.”
“Maybe something is in this house as I’ve been saying from the beginning.”
He picks the paintings up off the floor and examines the damage.
“This was one of my favourites.” He shakes his head.
As we continue to clean throughout the evening, George has done nothing but protest and discount my claims. He thinks I blackout. He thinks I have some sort of mental illness. He thinks I’m ‘delusional.’ I’m none of those things. In his defence, ‘why does this stuff only happen when I’m gone?’ I don’t have an answer for that just yet.
I’m still fighting to get any sleep at night, so I envy him. He seems to have it easy. He’s given breakfast, goes to work, comes home for dinner and a shower, then lies in bed, falls asleep almost immediately, and leaves me to myself and my thoughts all through the night. I thought I’d hear that baby crying again, or see my window bust open or worse, see Hugh again. He looked ghostly and full of rage, but despite his looks, and despite George’s perfect schedule, I am unsure of how much more of this I can take.
I stand at the bottom the hill, looking up at George and my house, but it’s different, much older, more grotesque. The house looks alive beneath an overcast sky and shadows cast against candle lit windows. Vines run along the front and sides of the house as if the house grew from the ground, rooted with evil.
I open the front door and, instead of finding myself downstairs, I’m looking into our bedroom. Hugh stands at the end of the bed, staring down onto Frances, drenched in rain. Frances crawls to the headboard, clutching the blankets and sheets to her neck.
“Hugh! What did you do?!”
“What did I do?!” He yells. “You made me do this?!”
Frances shakes her head as she cries, though a sound doesn’t leave her throat.
“It was because of you I had to do what needed to be done!”
“Why, Hugh?! Why?!”
“I know the truth Frances!”
“What truth?!”
“I know I’m not the father…Paul is…”
“You’re right,” she says.
“I’m right?” Hugh repeats.
“You aren’t the father…”
“I’m not the father.”
“Paul is…”
He shakes his head, and before I can call out to him, he begins to beat Frances to the floor and drags her across the floorboards, as she cries for him to stop. I then notice a lifeless body cast to the side of the bed, on the floor lying in a pool of blood, a bullet in his head. Is that Paul?
As they struggle and fight on the floor, Hugh wraps his hands around Frances’ neck. She kicks and fights as much as I kick and fight this invisible border that will not allow me to step into the room. Hugh then removes a handgun from his waist as Frances lies there, practically lifeless looking up at him. He holds the barrel of the gun at her head. BANG! Frances’ head plops back to the floor.
I cup my hands over my mouth not to scream. When Hugh turns to me in the doorway, he’s dressed in an orange, prison jumpsuit. He’s talking to himself, though its indistinct, but I do hear him say, “I will end this. All of this. I’m tired of it,’ as he fiddles with his boot.
He stands to his feet, looks me in the eye, then slits his throat with a rusted nail.
***
“George, listen to me!” I plead with him as he heads for the front door. “We have to move! I don’t feel safe in this house! I haven’t felt safe since we moved in!”
“We’re not going anywhere! We have a baby on the way, I have a great job that is paying off the mortgage, and besides, Eva, we do not have the funds for another move! We’ve spent it with the advance, buying this house! Now, do your work, do not trash this house again, and please, try not to hurt yourself!” He slams the door.
I don’t think there’s anything I can say to that man to get him to believe me. I’m just flesh and blood and insanity to him. How did things get like this? On the posi
tive side, my friend is visiting me from the States. I’ve been telling her the happenings of this house and how it squeaks and cries at night, while tormenting and destroying my kitchen and living room during the day. If there’s anyone who has been listening, it’s her.
“And it’s getting worse?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, after taking a sip of my coffee. “Look.” I pull my hair back. “I wake up with them.”
“Jesus Christ, Eva,” she says placing her coffee on the table then examining my bruises. “These look horrible. You have to see a doctor.”
“I can’t,” I say, hopping to my feet.
“Well, why not?”
“Because of George.”
“What do you mean because of George?”
“No doctor will believe my story, and if I show them the bruises they’ll think there’s some domestic violence going on in this house.”
“Well is there?”
“No! Of course not! George may be a little short-tempered lately, but he has never put his hands on me.”
Beth studies me for a bit as she drinks her coffee. “You’re really sure about all this? That it’s…this house, some ghastly, malevolent spirit?”
“Yes. I really am.” I take her hands into mine. “Believe me.”
She nods her head. “Alright. I believe you, but Eva, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “I thought maybe we’d be moving by now, but George is so into his work he doesn’t want to leave. I don’t know what else to do.”
I slouch to sit on the couch as Beth moves some of my hair from my face.
“What else have you learned about this place?”
“Besides what I researched? Nothing really, I mean. From the reports it says that Frances died during childbirth, Hugh killed Paul, then Hugh committed suicide while he was in prison.”
“No record of anything else? Just that?”
“I’m afraid so, but I’ve been having some weird dreams.”
“I thought you haven’t been getting any sleep?”
“I haven’t been, but when I do, these dreams, or visions, or whatever, they seem so real.”
“What do you see?”
“Well, the first time it happened was before I was pregnant. I was Frances, pregnant with her children. Her husband came home and seemed upset and started talking about a man named Paul.”
“Hugh’s secretary, right?”
“Yeah. Then next thing I know, he’s beating me; and like another instance I was watching it happen, between Hugh and Frances. I witnessed her murder and Paul was there too, but he was already dead. He was on the floor.”
“Jesus,” she says, dragging the word out. “What the hell do you think happened between those three?”
“Really want to know what I think?”
“Yes, tell me.”
“I think Frances and Paul did have an affair, although she did love Hugh. It was like some random fling maybe, like most people do when they feel disconnected from their partners. I think they had an affair because Hugh was probably beating on her all the time, so she felt alone and betrayed and like—she didn’t exist. Paul was close with Hugh and apparently had to be a nice guy, but I guess any man would be better than the man beating on you. It just so happened that Frances fell pregnant, knew Hugh was this ticking time bomb that finally went off once he found out, and boom, shot and killed them both.”
“Wow…that’s…horrible. You really think that happened?”
“Yeah. I can tell just based on those visions alone. Was Frances wrong in cheating on her husband? Of course. But Hugh, come on, he was beating on her.”
I take a sip of my coffee.
“Besides, if I was Frances and my husband was beating on me and some nice guy just came swooping in wearing a cape, I’d probably sleep with him too.”
I’m lifted from the couch, gripped by some force that suspends me in the air.
“Eva! Oh my God!”
“Beth!”
“What’s happening?!”
My feet flop beneath me, hoping to touch the floor. The windows and doors burst open and wind blows through the living room.
“Eva! Grab my hand!”
I try to reach, but I can’t. I’m lifted higher. The furniture shakes, I hear dishes in the kitchen shatter on the floor, and Beth covers her ears. In what felt like a second, I’m launched towards the wall and my body ricochets like a tennis ball.
Perfect Mistakes
A beep wakes me, but I’m not in my bedroom. The room is white. The bed is white. My gown is white, yet my bare back and butt lie on the cold bedding.
“You’re awake?” Beth says, wiping her eyes.
“Where am I?” I ask her.
“The hospital. You had quite a fall. Well,” she shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t know whether to call it a fall; it looked more like a push, but…I don’t know.” Her eyes get teary again. “You were right. I don’t know what it was that I saw, but you were right. You have to get out of that house.”
“Where’s George?”
A knock on the door startles us, and it opens.
“George.”
“Eva,” he says out of breath, as he hurries to my bedside. “I came as soon as I heard.”
“What exactly did you hear?”
“That you were here…in the hospital. What happened?”
“I— “
“You need to believe her, George,” Beth blurts. “There’s something wrong about that house.”
“Not you too. What hilarity have you been telling Beth?”
“She didn’t have to tell me anything. I saw it for myself!”
“Saw what?”
“Guys,” I intrude.
“She was lifted off the couch and thrown against the wall!”
“Ghosts?!” George says. “Ghosts!...Pfft. I’m tired of hearing this nonsense. My wife is ill.”
“Guys.”
“She’s not ill, George! You’re just naïve and stupid! You didn’t see what I saw!”
“You’re just as delusional as she is!”
“Guys! Please!”
They silence themselves.
“George,” I say, holding my hand out. “I don’t know how to get you to believe me, but we need to move.”
“Eva, I— “
“If you can’t move, then I’m leaving.”
George stands to his feet and steps back. “Leaving? You wouldn’t do that to me…”
“I would, George…and I will if you can’t do this for me.”
George looks at Beth and thinks to himself. He shakes his head. “I’m not moving.” As he walks out of the room, the doctor walks in.
“Mrs. Luciano,” he says.
“Greene,” I say.
“That’s what I said…How are you feeling?”
“I feel alright, I guess.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” he says.
“How’s my baby?” I ask him.
He sighs and takes a seat. He then grabs hold of my hand and the look in his eyes tells every detail of what he is about to say.
“This is difficult for me to say.”
“Then just say it,” I respond, trying to hold back my tears.
“You had a miscarriage.”
“Oh God,” Beth whispers harshly to herself, turning away, fighting her tears. I nod my head.
“You would have had twins…I’m so sorry for you and Mr. Greene’s loss.”
I nod my head, trying not to choke, but instead, every tear inside of me floods from my eyes. He takes me into his shoulder and coddles me.
~
“I don’t know what to say,” Beth says as our taxi pulls into my driveway.
“Frances was going to have twins, too. She lost hers as well.”
“I remember…Before you left, I must honestly say I wasn’t too fond of you coming all the way over here, across the world.
I was happy for you…and George, but you’re all alone here.”
“I’ve never felt more alone in my life.”
“So, what do you want to do? My flight leaves tonight. I can get you a ticket.”
“Well, seeing that George isn’t going to change his mind about how he feels, I think it would be best if I left. I can’t spend another day in this house.”
The horn beeps.
“Hey!” Beth says to the taxi driver. “Just keep the meter running, okay? I’m paying.”
“Fine, fine,” he says.
“Okay,” Beth says, caressing my shoulders. “You get your stuff ready for tonight. I’m going to head to my hotel and check out, and I’ll be back this evening to get you.”
“Okay,” I try to smile. “Thank you, Beth.”
“Of course. Of course. What are friends for?” She hugs me tight. I step out of the taxi and watch until it disappears down the hill.
As I walk up the steps, it feels as if the house is watching me. Not another night will be spent here, and perhaps my last time seeing George and being able to say goodbye, was back at the hospital.
I pack as many clothes as I can possibly fit into my bags; two suitcases. For every minute that goes by, I’m growing impatient, hoping to hear a car horn outside and Beth calling me to come down. Nothing yet. As the sun begins to depart over the horizon, rain clouds gather and darken our hilled-neighbourhood. Would I miss this house when I leave? No. But will I miss living in London in general? Indeed. But back to the States I go, back to where my real home is.
My stomach growls and I realise I haven’t eaten at all today. I wish Beth was still here to cook something for me. My back hurts and, after going through the miscarriage procedures with the doctor, I am rather exhausted. I then hear the front door open downstairs and the rain drops are much more clear. I hadn’t realized it was almost eight and usually, George is home by six at the latest.
“George?” I call, from the bedroom. The front door slams shut. My phone vibrates and I check. It’s Beth. “Leaving the hotel now. Sorry, they had trouble with my card. On my way. Love you.” I close my phone and exhale. Then, footsteps begin to approach the bedroom door. I look out the window to see if George had pulled in, but he hasn’t. The car isn’t there. I turn back to the door and begin to dial George’s number, hoping he will be on his way here, hoping the ghost that has been tormenting me hasn’t returned.
Haunted House Tales Page 9