Hidden Company

by S E England

  As if to enhance the image further, Lavinia House loomed out of the mist in true fairy book splendour and she stopped for a moment to marvel. At exactly the same time several colonies of rooks burst screeching from the treetops. For a good few minutes the cacophony was deafening, raven wings blackening the air, as with beaks full of straw and nest debris, they evacuated the premises with screeching haste.

  The birds gave her a creepy feeling, although she could not say why. Graveyard birds they were, she thought with a shiver, as once more the morning fell to that of a soft, muffled grey.

  The house, as she grew nearer, gave every appearance of being uninhabited, and like The Gatehouse garden, appeared neglected. A thin mizzle coated the stones, and moss clung to the shaded walls. As she climbed the steps to the door she glanced over her shoulder. Fog had rolled off the mountains and settled into the valley behind, enveloping the house and surrounding fields in a thick cloud. That was something, she noted, to watch – the weather changed quickly in mountainous areas like these - one minute sparkling, the next impenetrable gloom.

  She knocked on the door, the echo of iron on wood enough, as her late father would have said, to wake the dead.

  With no answer after several minutes she tried again. Blimey, was no one ever at home round here?

  Still no reply. And no possibility of a passing neighbour to phone the lady of the house this time, either! Hmmm, perhaps the doctor had left for work and his wife was not in residence? Then again, only part of it was lived in so perhaps this was the part that was unoccupied? Oh dear, what to do? In two minds, she retreated down the steps and cautiously skirted around to the west wing. Was this intrusive or…?

  This part definitely wasn’t lived in. The paintwork was chipped and peeling, the gravel was stained green around the drains, and weeds pushed through cracks in a crazy paving path that wound around to the back. Hesitant at first, she walked towards a heavy, wrought iron gate barring entry to what could only be described as a magnificent expanse of gardens. Expecting it to be bolted, it was a surprise therefore, when it cranked open without so much as a scrape of protest.

  “Hello?”

  No, there really wasn’t anyone home.

  But my, what a place!

  Dominating the sweeping lawns an ancient oak stood in the centre. Flower beds to the fore had been arranged and bordered in classic Elizabethan style with little walkways around each one, and a now dysfunctional fountain adorned the terrace. Whoever had owned this house had been seriously moneyed. It did not however, look as though the present occupants were. In fact, on closer inspection it was apparent the beds had run to seed, the grass was mossy and bald in patches, and the outdoor furniture weather-bleached and rickety. Nor were there any curtains at the windows of the house, and as she walked further towards the atrium, something else became clear. At some point the whole place had been badly fire-damaged. Ravaged, in fact.

  She cupped her hands and peered into the darkened interior. Wiring looped down from the ceiling, a staircase hung loose from the wall like a dislocated arm, floors were strewn with piles of plaster and abandoned buckets, glass panes had smashed and the bare walls were blemished with graffiti. Perhaps local kids had broken in? Recalling her own forays into abandoned old houses to play Ouija, she screwed up her eyes to try and read what had been daubed in red and black across the bare walls. Probably something like, ‘Gary loves Tanya,’ she thought.

  Only they didn’t say that.

  She reeled back.

  Lunatics! Mad pigs!

  Oh God, that was nasty. Vile. Was that because this had once been an asylum? It wasn’t like anyone could help being mentally unwell, was it? Bloody hell that pissed her off. Some people were so ignorant and cruel. Frankly, it was a wonder the Fox-Whatelys had left it like this – it hadn’t been an asylum for decades now, not since way back in the eighties.

  And on a purely aesthetic level it was a shame too, because this had once been a stunning house, with French windows opening onto expansive lawns with a view of mountains and forests beyond. This house deserved to be loved and appreciated, did it not? At a guess this room had once served as a ballroom. It would have been magical. A truly beautiful home. She shook her head. What a travesty.

  Okay, well maybe the Fox-Whatelys occupied the east wing of the house? They definitely did live here. Perhaps if she left a note to say she’d called and would drop round another time? She’d phone ahead, though, because this did feel uncomfortably like snooping. Walking past deadened windows, her footsteps echoing dully on the path, her full intention was to find a door or letterbox and scribble a note, when the most intriguing sight caught her attention - a small arched gate partially hidden in a stone wall overgrown with ivy. There was just a chance that was an old fashioned walled garden and the pair had moved into temporary accommodation, a static caravan for example, while the house was being renovated? Well it was worth a quick check because frankly the east wing didn’t look inhabited either. Downright scruffy, in fact!

  Walking purposefully now and wanting to head back, she pushed open the gate and stepped through. Ah, it looked as though it had once been a kitchen garden. Segregated into sections it also housed a long greenhouse and several garden sheds. All overgrown, of course, but once it would have fed everyone here – even when it was a hospital. Beyond the far wall fields full of sheep bleated from out of the mist, and fringing the forest a lake rippled darkly.

  Oh, a lake…how wonderful…

  Shielding her eyes to better take in the scene, it was something of a shock however, to notice a figure on the opposite shore looking right back at her. Blinking she shook her head as if to clear it, scrutinising the horizon with renewed intensity. No, there wasn’t anyone there – it had been a trick of light and shadow, a weak February sun pushing through the clouds. This was a painter’s dream - absolutely breath-taking. She smiled - for the first time in weeks, probably months. My God how nature soothed the soul. This really was a little piece of heaven.

  Still, she ought not to linger. It was time to go.

  And was about to do so, when the jewels of a tiny chapel window flashed at the corner of her eye. Her hand flew to her mouth. Oh, my goodness, so they even had their own church! And look at it! The stones shone white in what struck her as a divine glow, a tiny graveyard to the side with ivy-strangled Celtic crosses toppling into weeds. This must be centuries old, built she could see now, over the original foundations of a much larger building. Unable to resist she gravitated towards it, dazzled by the leaded glass which glinted sapphire and ruby red…when a sharp voice cut through the morning air.

  “I say! What the blazes do you think you’re doing?”

  She swung around, lost her balance and almost fell into the overgrowth.

  “Oh no, I’m terribly sorry, I was looking for Lorna Fox-Whately but I didn’t find anyone at home so–”

  “How dare you! Get off my property this instant!”

  The woman had her hands on her hips. An old English bulldog was the phrase that came to mind. Wearing a pleated swing skirt worn with a quilted jacket and wellies, the woman had a frizz of grey hair trapped in an alice band. Not more than forty, Isobel decided, but going on sixty. The accent was pure Home Counties, although there was an edge to it, something she couldn’t quite put a finger on. She looked like a woman who employed others anyway, the sort who terrified Isobel and always had.

  “I’m sorry. Honestly, I was looking for a door to knock on–”

  “Well, you’re a jolly long way from the house to find a door to knock on! Who are you? What’s your name?”

  She held out her hand, feeling for all the world as if she was bowing and scraping to royalty. “Isobel Lee. I’m at The Gatehouse. And you must be–?”

  Lorna ignored the proffered hand, instead looking Isobel up and down with obvious distaste. “Mrs Fox-Whately. Good thing I was back from London this morning and caught you snooping. What was it you wanted?”

  “I erm…well just the hist
ory really, of the area, and to erm…” Her words tailed off. Make a friend?

  The woman stared back. “Surely you could have googled it? Or asked in the village? Frankly, we pay an agency to deal with the tenants.”

  “Right. Well I’m very sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “Follow me for the way out. Come this way.”

  Yes, Ma’am!

  If she wasn’t so mortified she’d laugh, tagging along behind Lorna Fox-Whately’s fat arse. Pity the poor horse, her dad would have said. After a couple of minutes of uncomfortable silence, they emerged by a garage. And from here it was obvious this side of the house was lived in, although for rich folk she despaired at their standards - Venetian blinds haphazardly drawn half way up windows that needed a clean, sills cluttered with empty wine bottles, and paint peeling off the walls. In front of the garage, which had a half-closed door unable to tamp down an overspill of junk, an old Mercedes estate with tape stuck across fractured headlights had been parked at an angle. The passenger seat was littered with sweet and crisp papers and as she passed, two beefy black Labradors sprang at the window in the back, smearing it with saliva.

  Lorna didn’t pause, strutting briskly out towards the drive, before pointing to the distant road. “That way! Anything you need in future, I’m sure you’ll find help at the shop or the public house. Do you know the way to the village?”

  “Yes, I found–”

  “Jolly good.”

  Lorna was already stalking back towards the frantic dogs, and since she didn’t fancy being mauled, she hurried away. So much for finding a friend. More like a fiend….She grimaced at her own joke, muttering to herself about manners and the woman being right up her own arse. Her heart, however, was jabbing in her chest, thoughts in turmoil. Okay, it was true she shouldn’t have been in the garden…

  But for God’s sake, did you have to be so bloody rude, you rotten cow?

  It was only when she was almost level with The Gatehouse again that her indignation subsided enough to process something that didn’t sit right, a scene that had been unfolding just before Lorna interrupted. And which now replayed in slow motion.

  With every step nearer to the little church more details had come into focus - a kaleidoscope settling of coloured glass in the lead-crossed windows…of gargoyles sculpted into faces with lentoid eyes, protruding irises and sinister, upturned lips…. and the family coat of arms placed above the arched oak door.

  Nothing was quite as it should have been. The images on those windows were not of roses or of Christ or of saints. But of those same wizened creatures hanging on the walls of the inn. And the lions were not lions on the coat of arms either….

  She stopped walking. They had been altered. Smudged into different shapes.

  To that of pigs.

  ***

  Chapter Seven

  1893

  Flora George

  So then, I am still here.

  A single gaslight on the ceiling throws the walls into folds of darkness, and from that central point a long, jagged crack splinters outwards. It fascinates me as cracks in ceilings and walls are wont to do. That is where the weakness lies you see, where the spirits of a place can push through. And if you stare long enough the gap will widen sufficiently for them to reach in and…

  I cannot move.

  The realisation comes with a wallop to the chest. Christ, help me! It is true - I really cannot move an inch. They have tied my wrists to the railings of a crib. The restraints are rigid cuffs of leather. And my legs too… tied together at the ankles.

  The panic that rises is blackening, deafening and all consuming.

  Screams rip through the air. Mine. Oh God, they are mine!

  Alas, it is a huge mistake. The hum of the dormitory - of snoring, muttering, sniggering and restless pacing….all ceases in a heartbeat, the atmosphere throbbing now with the glee of watchers in the dark. They know, of course, that the quickening footsteps outside in the corridor are not coming for them this time. But for me.

  Myra Strickland. It is night. Of course. It will be her.

  And now she stands over the bed once more, candlelight flickering over the gaunt contours of her face, hollowing the sockets of those deadened eyes.

  Utterly at her mercy, my throat scraped raw from the tube she rammed down it, I shake my head, tears coursing down to my hairline, drops rolling into my ears. I cannot even swipe them away. “No-”

  “Be quiet! This is the second time I’ve had to get up in the middle of the night to attend to you. Be sure I will make sure you pay for this, my lady.”

  Her withering glare is filled with such a loathing as to send a shaft of coldness through to my very core. This woman is merciless. Without soul. Her stare travels the length of my body as if she finds what she sees disgusting.

  “Doctor Fox-Whately was good enough to take you into his home to help you recover from your folly and your weakness. Good enough to try and teach you the ways of the Lord and this is how you behave. You must be fed. You have to be tied to a crib to stop you scratching off your own skin. You are a disgrace, Flora George, and make no mistake you will stop waking me in the night and disturbing my sleep. I shall most personally see to that.”

  From out of her apron she takes a bottle. And before there is time to protest, one of her great hands has the opiate down my throat. And thus she floats away like a dark queen, with a dance of princely shadows in her wake.

  There is no way of knowing how long I have slept or whether this is still a laudanum-laced dream, but a ghostly creature in a white nightdress paces continually past the blue mist of the windows - up and down the length of the dormitory, back and forth, wringing her hands, muttering incessantly. Repeatedly she gets into her bed, only to hop out again moments later. Someone else moans and whimpers in the darkness, another quietly sobs as if her heart will break. Another is laughing, not a nice laugh, but one of cackling spite, the sound of drawers opening and closing and contents thrown about. I suspect this is the same creature who scampers around like a dog, the one who jumps on and off beds, pinching and pushing. It is a bizarre carnival indeed, and one which comes alive at night. There can be little rest in a place such as this.

  Perhaps I have drifted away a little, slipped into dreams once more, but suddenly I sense a presence at my bedside and jump awake.

  A child stands there as silent as a spectre, watching, waiting…and my heart almost stops with the shock. No ordinary child this one – her complexion is ghoulish white, eyes those of a quick and clever monkey. Beneath the feeble gaslight it looks as though half of her face has melted and been left to set in dribbles of candlewax. Searching my face with fervid intensity, her whole expression switches to something else entirely on gaining my attention. Our eyes lock. She smiles. A demonic hobgoblin full of mad mischief.

  Let this nightmare end. Please dear God, let me never wake up again in this hellish place.

  She sniggers, strokes my head as if I am a pet, examining every aspect of my face; now pushing fingers into my eye sockets such as an errant toddler might. Determinedly I keep my eyes closed and pray she will grow bored.

  “One day I will poke out your eyeballs,” she says in a sing-song voice. “And we will have them in a pie.”

  Do I scream again and risk the wrath of Myra? Or dare hope this demon child will stop at stroking and refrain from digging her thumbs into my sockets? Oh God, make this terrible hallucination stop…please make it go…

  Suddenly there is a clatter from outside the dormitory. Instantly the nocturnal antics freeze, before dying back in a hissing cackling recoil, vanishing into the shadows as if they had never been. Someone is there - the disembodied giggles of a young woman, a maid perhaps, and the low murmur of a man, reeling drunkenly along the corridors. Lord, my eyes are so heavy, body sinking through the mattress into a crazy jigsaw of fractured memories and dreams.

  Is there a baby crying somewhere? Is it mine? Yes it must be. I have found him then. He sleeps in the cradle beside m
e, does he not? In the chamber…in the dark where the drapes are drawn, and the flocked wallpaper shimmers with flickering faces in the candlelight. Whispers fill the room, those of the wood spirits residing in the bedposts… We had the oak most intricately carved from our woods…it is how they got in... This is what I told my husband. Yes, I told Samuel that the wood sprites still live in there, but now they’ve taken form, you see. Why will he not believe this? Can he not hear them too? Listen…listen…I tell him to press his ears close to the wallpaper, to the whorls in the wood…

  Samuel’s face looms in and out of focus. There is a change there, a darkening behind the countenance that once shone with pride and desire. He wanted me dead, I could see it the minute I told him what I knew. Even as I lay there bleeding. The sheets were soaked crimson. The blood ran like a tide to shore, dripping over the sides of the bed, rippling across the floor, oozing underneath it to surge down the hallway and plop-plop-plop down the stairs. So everyone knew I was bleeding to death. Everyone in that house knew.

  There is a weight on my bed.

  It is akin to looking though a muslin cloth. Where am I? This is not my bedchamber. My arms are held tight. I’m coated in cold sweat, heartbeat speeding up and up…something here in the dark, next to my head…breathing quick and sharp…

  Through bars on the window a full moon bathes the walls in a grid of black and silver. And now, eyes adjusted, there is just enough light to see what it is. The delighted demon with bright black eyes I hoped had been a hallucination is not, after all, a figment of dreams. A sliver of moonlight catches the waxy distortion of molten skin on the side of her face as she begins to bounce on her haunches. A gleeful troll waiting to poke out my eyes with a stick.