The Bride of Ashbyrn House

by Cross, Amy

  “I'll ask someone else,” the boy replies, turning and stumbling toward the lawn, as if he means to disturb the guests at the church. “I just need food.”

  “Stop!” I hiss. “You can't disturb my guests!”

  He stumbles again, this time dropping to his knees and letting out a pained gasp. When he tries to get up, he seems to sway for a moment, almost as if he's feeling too weak.

  “Help me,” he whispers, as I pick up a rock and step closer behind him. “Please, I just -”

  Suddenly he turns and reaches out, grabbing my dress with his filthy hands.

  Panicking, I smash the rock down against the back of his head. Whereas I had to hit Pippa several times, on this occasion I make sure that I strike the boy with all the force I can muster, and he duly slumps to the ground. Looking down, I see a faint smudge of dirt on the side of my dress, left by his disgusting little hand. Fortunately, I'm able to brush the mud away.

  On the ground, the boy lets out a faint, gurgled groan.

  I glance toward the lawn, to ensure that nobody can see me, and then I crouch down so I can hit the boy a few more times, cracking his skull a little more with each blow until finally blood and some kind of pinkish material start slopping out onto the grass.

  “As God is my witness,” I whisper, tossing the rock aside as I stare into the boy's dead eyes, “I had no choice. I had to end the poor little wretch's suffering.”

  I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.

  “You shouldn't have come here!” I hiss, watching as more blood dribbles from the boy's cracked head. “And you certainly shouldn't have touched my dress! Whatever were you thinking?”

  As the bells continue to ring out, I find myself momentarily unable to look away from the boy's face. He was just a child, barely in control of his own life, and I feel immensely sorry that his father provided him with such a wretched life. Still, I couldn't possibly allow the boy to disturb my guests, and I know that I did the right thing.

  Getting to my feet, I momentarily worry about what I shall do with the body, before realizing that such things do not matter right now. I'll simply leave him here in the forest, and I doubt anyone will stumble upon him. There'll be time later to bury him, or I could just leave him to rot. After all, this forest will belong to me, so nobody else has any right coming here.

  Putting such worries out of my mind, I step over the corpse and start making my way between the trees, hurrying toward the gate as I hear the church bells ringing out louder than ever. At this rate, my guests might start worrying that I am rather delayed, but fortunately I quickly hear the whinnying of horses nearby, which means that Mr. Hanks is waiting.

  Still holding my dress's weighted hem up from the mud, I reach the gate and hurry through, and sure enough Mr. Hanks is sitting at the front of the carriage while his two horses snort restlessly.

  “Are you alone, my dear?” he asks, stepping down and heading around the side to open the carriage's door. “I was starting to worry that perhaps you were standing me up.”

  “It's quiet alright,” I reply as he helps me up into the carriage. “I'm sorry I was delayed, but I'm ready now. I'm sure Charles is waiting.”

  “You look absolutely radiant,” he adds, swinging the door shut. “Just a moment, and I'll have you at the church. The items you requested are next to you on the seat.”

  “Thank you,” I reply gracefully, as he heads back to the front.

  Looking down at the seat, I see my pot of paraffin. I open the lid and, as the carriage starts to roll forward, I smear just a little top-up of the mixture onto my face, adding to the paste I applied earlier. Perhaps Mother had a point, perhaps I have used a smidgen too much, but at least I know I shall have the most beautiful glow.

  Taking a mirror from the box next to me, I try to look properly at my features, but the light in here is too low. A solitary candle is burning in a holder next to the door, just as I requested, so I take the candle and hold it close to the mirror, so that I can check myself one final time. I must admit, I look absolutely beautiful, more beautiful even than I could have hoped. The paraffin has most certainly made my face appear so much fresher, and if anything I actually look more beautiful than my painting.

  Charles is a lucky man.

  Suddenly the carriage rides over a rough patch of ground, causing me to drop forward and fall from the seat. I let out a pained cry as I land on my knees, and I feel a flash of heat suddenly ripple across my face. The candle has brushed my cheek, and I fall back against the carriage door as the heat intensifies.

  Blinking furiously, I realize I can't see properly.

  I reach up and touch my face, only for my fingertips to start burning. It takes a moment longer before I realize that the paraffin oil has caught light, and flames are now roaring from my features. I immediately reach out to grab one of the cushions, but the carriage bucks again and I'm thrown to the floor. I let out a pained cry, and now I can feel the heat starting to burn through my flesh.

  “Are you alright in there, Miss Ashbyrn?” Mr. Hanks calls back to me, as the bells continue to ring out. “Not far now!”

  I fumble for a cushion, finally pressing one against my face in the hope that it might extinguish the flames. All that happens, however, is that the cushion itself catches fire, and if anything the flames on my face and neck and stronger than ever. I can even hear them, sizzling against my ears as the paraffin continues to burn.

  “Help me!” I scream finally, although I can barely hear my own voice over the roar of flames that have now spread to the shoulders of my dress. “Lord, somebody, help me!”

  I lunge forward, trying to find the door, but I merely slam into the wall. Turning, I reach out and fumble for some way out of this carriage, but the pain is eating into my face and it takes several seconds before I'm able to push the door open. Tumbling forward, I slip and fall, crashing down onto the driveway.

  In the distance, somebody screams.

  Mother.

  There are voices shouting, but the flames are still covering my face and I let out a pained cry as I stumble forward. Still blinking, I can just about see the driveway ahead of me, and the calm surface of the pond.

  “Somebody get help!” Mr. Hanks cries out. “We need a doctor! Her face is on fire!”

  Pushing past him, I rush toward the pond. All I can think about is diving into the water and cooling my agonized face, although at the last moment I trip and fall forward, crashing into the pond and then rolling onto my side as I start to sink. At least my face is no longer burning, although it takes a few more seconds before I bump against the pond's muddy bottom.

  I try to get up, but my body is trembling and I can barely move at all. Indescribable pain has frozen my joints, and I feel as if the deeper levels of my flesh are still aflame.

  Forcing my burned eyes to open once more, I see nothing but darkness. When I look up, however, I can just about make out the surface of the pond above me, shimmering under an overcast sky. I try to scream, but all that emerges from my mouth is a torrent of bubbles. A moment later, however, I'm able to make out several figures rushing to the pond's edge.

  I reach up, but my wedding dress is weighing me down. Why is nobody coming down to help me? I try to crawl forward across the pond's muddy bed, but the weights sewn into the hem of my dress are holding me back. When I try to scream again, I accidentally take in a big gulp of dirty water, and I feel my belly filling with the muddy concoction. I try again, but more and water water is flooding into my body, weighing me down even further.

  And still I am unaided.

  “Help me!” I try to shout, but still nobody has jumped in to save me.

  I reach my hand once more to the light, but already I am becoming weaker. Charles is up there, surely, yet even he has no leaped in to help. I watch my hand for a moment, before finally letting it fall back down into the mud. When I try one final time to scream, I can feel that my body is already full of water. I bump against the pond's muddy bottom, waiting d
esperately for arms to reach down and lift me up.

  But no arms do.

  My burned eyes remain open, unblinking as I stare into the darkness. Is it the darkness of the pond, or the darkness of my blindness? Or is it the darkness of death? My mouth is open too, half-filled with mud, but I no longer have the strength to fight.

  In the distance, booming above the water, the church bells ring out for a moment longer. Finally they stop, just as my heart thumps one last time.

  And then all is quiet, and I am left un-moving at the bottom of the pond. The water is faintly rippling the edges of my dress, but other than that I am completely still. One of my eyes is now most certainly blind, but the other is just about able to see several figures staring down at me from the edge of the pond. Either they do not see me, or for some reason they do not want to save my life. I think I can even see Charles among them, and Mother too. It is almost as if they have chosen to let me drown down here.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Owen - Today

  The first thing I hear is the sound of flames crackling in the fireplace. After that, I realize the room is warm and calm, and that I'm back in my study. My eyes start to flicker open, but I'm tired and it takes a moment longer before I'm fully aware of my surroundings. I can smell whiskey, and when I look at the desk I see a glass waiting for me.

  And then, slowly, I begin to realize that someone is with me in the room.

  A hand is resting on my shoulder.

  “Work,” a voice whispers. “I can look after the house. Your work is important.”

  I open my mouth to ask how I got here, but the words catch in my throat. I feel nauseous, although after a moment I spot the painting on the far wall. I remember being out in the forest with Vanessa, and I remember us trying to climb over the wall, but after that...

  The hand on my shoulder starts moving to the base of my neck. I feel cold, sharp fingertips dragging against my skin, and a moment later the fingers start ruffling through my hair and pressing against my scalp.

  “You must work, darling,” the voice continues. “That's what matters to you, isn't it? I've watched you work so many times already. You always look so important. So intelligent and respectable. Noble, too, like Father. People always respect a man who writes.”

  I try to look up at her, but I feel strangely dizzy and my vision is slightly blurred. Instead, I turn and see that the fireplace is roaring.

  “Vanessa,” I whisper, “where...”

  “Don't think of her,” the voice replies, interrupting me as another hand slips onto my shoulder. “This is your home now. You don't need anyone else. Just you and me, forever. Husband and wife.”

  “I have to find Vanessa,” I stammer, starting to rise from the chair, only for the two hands to push me back down. I'm too weak and groggy to resist. “Where's Vanessa?”

  “There's just us,” the voice says calmly, despite the firmness of her hold on me. “Remember how much work you got done when we were alone together, my darling. You worked all day and all night, and I took care of you. That's what you want, isn't it? A wife who'll look after the home while you do all your important things. That's what I'm here for.”

  “But Vanessa...”

  “She's gone now. It's just you and me.”

  “But...”

  “You,” she purrs, stroking the side of my neck, “and me.”

  A moment later, I feel her gently kiss the top of my head.

  I want to ask about Vanessa again, but suddenly I see that the laptop is open and waiting for me. When I came to Ashbyrn House, I just wanted to get away from the world and focus on my work. The world followed me and tried to drag me away, but I can't deny that when I was alone here I was at least able to get a lot of work done. More work, in fact, than I ever expected to manage in my entire life. Slowly, even though I'm worried about Vanessa, I reach for the laptop and enter my password, and then I find that the document from earlier is still open.

  Waiting for me.

  “My writer,” the voice whispers behind me. “You should write.”

  “I should ,” I reply, staring at the blinking cursor. “It's what I came for.”

  “No-one will ever trouble us again,” she continues. “I'll make sure of that. No-one will ever even set foot through the door.”

  I start typing, and the words come easily. So easily, in fact, that I quickly become engrossed in the story I'm writing, and I barely even notice the sensation of a tender kiss on the side of my neck.

  “I'm busy,” I mutter, as I type faster and faster.

  “I'll let you work, husband,” the voice replies, and a moment later something moves past my desk.

  I don't look up. I don't even acknowledge her as she leaves the room. Instead, I focus entirely on my work, although after a little while I take a sip of whiskey. Later, once the glass has emptied, I find that it's swiftly and miraculously refilled. I think someone came into the room just now and poured from the bottle, but I was too focused on my work to really pay much attention. My entire focus is on the laptop screen, although I'm vaguely aware of morning sunlight streaming through the window, and later I notice the light fading as night returns. Later still, there's more sunlight, which begins to fade as the next day draws to a close. Finally night comes yet again, and I take another sip of whiskey as -

  Suddenly I let out a cry of pain as my fingers seize. Leaning back in the chair, I see that my hands are shaking, and it's clear that all this typing has started to cause damage. My knuckles are red and swollen, and I can't quite manage to straighten my fingers properly. The pain is intense and sharp, rippling through the tendons of my hands, and I simply can't type another word.

  I need to rest, even if it's only for a few minutes. Nobody can just sit and write for so long without taking a break. Not even me.

  Getting to my feet, I feel a twinge of pain in my back. I don't know exactly how long I've been at the desk, but I think perhaps I've been working for a couple of days. I try to tell myself that such a thing is impossible, that I couldn't possibly stay focused for so long, but my mind is racing and I have a vague memory of the sun rising and falling several times outside the window.

  “Sit,” the female voice says suddenly from behind me, and I feel hands resting on my shoulders again, trying to force me back down into the chair. “It's what you do best, my husband, and I so like to watch you work. I've been watching you for days now. Let's continue.”

  “My hands...” I gasp, looking down and finding that I still can't straighten my fingers properly. “I need to stop for a day or two.”

  “Don't be silly.” She laughs, but it's a fake, forced laugh that peters out as she tries but fails to make me sit. “You just need to start again. You'll lose yourself in your work soon enough. I'll make sure of that.”

  “I need food,” I whisper, stumbling around the side of the desk and heading to the door. “I need...”

  Stopping in the doorway for a moment, I feel a little dizzy. I look around, half-expecting to see Bob, but then I remember that he's gone. I also remember the sound of his neck crunching as he was killed.

  “I need to take a break,” I stammer again, limping out into the corridor and making my way slowly toward the kitchen. “I can't just sit and write like that, all day every day.”

  “Of course you can,” the voice replies, still behind me. “You have my full support. As your wife, I'll do anything to keep you going.”

  “I don't have a wife,” I whisper.

  “Yes you do. You have me.”

  “I need to walk,” I gasp, steadying myself against the wall for a moment.

  The hands are still on my shoulders, still trying to pull me back to the study. I push onward, determined to keep going, but the hands are slowly starting to drag harder and harder.

  “Leave me alone!” I gasp.

  “Why are you being like this?” she asks. “I'm doing everything for you. No man could ask for a better wife.”

  “I need a break,” I reply, b
efore stumbling slightly and almost falling. Grabbing the edge of a table, I haul myself back up and make my way into the kitchen, although I'm already feeling dizzy again.

  “I want you to work!” the voice says firmly. She sounds annoyed now, as if my refusal to sit back down at the desk is needling her. “You're only happy when you work!”

  “Leave me alone,” I stammer, “I just -”

  Suddenly I stop as I see Vanessa's bloodied body on the floor. Frozen by the horrific sight, I realize that not only is there a heavy bruise on the side of her forehead, but a thick slice of glass is embedded deep in her face, slicing through the bridge of her nose between her dead, glassy eyes. Her mouth is wide open, with more blood caked all around the edges, while red spatters mark a path all the way over to the broken window.

  “She came back for you,” the woman's voice whispers in my ear. “It's okay, though. I took care of her. I didn't let her disturb your work. Please, don't give the matter a second thought.”

  “Vanessa!” I shout, stumbling over to her and dropping to my knees. I reach down and check for a pulse, but her body is already cold and blood has dried all around her mouth.

  “She didn't understand you,” the voice continues, as I feel another hand brushing against the back of my neck. “She wanted to interrupt you, to stop you working. She was angry and noisy, and I was worried you might be disturbed, so I dealt with her. She won't be getting in your way again.”

  “Vanessa, you have to listen to me,” I stammer, shuddering with shock as I try desperately to find some hint of life. A twitch, perhaps, or a hidden heartbeat.

  But there's nothing.

  “This isn't real,” I whisper. “This is like Charlie. I hallucinated Charlie, and now I'm...”

  My voice trails off as I hold Vanessa's cold, dead hand for a moment. Finally, I set her hand on her chest, and deep down I know that this is no hallucination.

  “Why did you come here?” I sob, as tears stream down my face. “I never wanted you to come. I wanted you to stay away.”