by Cross, Amy
I wait.
Silence.
Maybe this guy is a real loner. Maybe he's some kind of weird reclusive super-surgeon who lives alone in an abandoned house, fixing up people who happen to come climbing through his window after getting stabbed.
Well, that explanation's no more crazy than anything else I can come up with right now.
“I'm sorry I broke into your house,” I continue. “Well, I didn't break in, not technically. The window was already broken, and I didn't think anybody lived here. There was such a bad storm last night, I was worried I was going to catch pneumonia out there. I know it was wrong to come in without asking, but I really didn't think anybody was here. Please, accept my apology about that. I didn't mean to disturb you at all.”
I watch the doors, but there's still no sign of anyone. Maybe there's a figure hiding just out of view, listening to me, or maybe I'm talking to myself.
“Okay, then,” I add, figuring that I should just take the cue. I turn to head back down. “I'll get going and -”
Suddenly I hear the bell ring again.
I freeze, and this time the sound continues for several more seconds, long enough for me to look back up and realize that it seems to be coming from an open doorway just to the left at the top of the stairs. I watch the doorway until the bell stops, and then I wait in case I hear any further sign of movement.
Footsteps, maybe, or even a voice.
All I hear, however, is silence.
I don't want to go any further up these stairs. If there's somebody up there, and if they helped me during the night, then it's clear they don't want to talk now. Even if this person fell asleep, I'm sure he'd have woken by now; after all, I've been calling out for several minutes. Maybe the bell is somehow his way of answering, although after a moment it occurs to me that he might be in trouble. There are so many possibilities, but I'm starting to think that I should at least check to make sure he's okay. After all, a psychopath would have just killed me already when I was unconscious.
What if he saved me, and then I leave just as he needs help in return? I should at least check that he's okay. Assuming, that is, that there's anyone else here at all.
Cautiously, then, I start making my way up to the landing. And just as I reach the top, and just as the floorboard creaks beneath my right foot, I hear the bell ring out again.
Chapter Eighteen
Doctor Charles Grazier
Sunday September 30th, 1888
Catherine's bell rings, and I immediately open my eyes.
Silence.
No, the bell didn't ring.
In my fevered, barely rested state, I must have imagined the bell just as I was in danger of falling asleep. After dealing with Catherine's illness for so long, I have become accustomed to listening out for the bell at all hours. I have even been woken in the dead of night by the sound. I almost believe that if that bell rang, it could wake me from death itself.
I have been sitting here in my study for several hours now, ever since I left Catherine in her bed. My original plan had been to let her rest down in the basement, on the operating table, but I felt that she should be given a little more comfort, and that she should have the dignity of recovering in her own bedroom. This is why I carried her back up the stairs, taking care to not disturb her stitches, and it is why she now rests in her own bed, in her own room. When she eventually wakes, she will be in familiar surroundings, and she will feel as if she has emerged from a long nightmare.
The basement is a place of work, not fit for a lady.
I wanted to sit with her all night and all day, of course, but in truth I needed to come down here and get something to eat. There was some old bread in the kitchen, and the bread has been chased down with a glass of whiskey. The light at the window might tell me that morning has arrived, but in my heart I feel as if I am simply one more hour into a relentless night that has lasted several years. There will be a few more sunrises, I am sure, before I truly feel the darkness begin to lift.
Finally, exhausted in a way I have never felt before, I close my eyes again.
Catherine will be fine.
Suddenly I hear the bell ringing again, and my eyes immediately flick open. I wait in silence, convinced that I must have misheard, that perhaps one part of my mind slipped into a dream before the rest. After all, the only bell in this house is the one that rests on the nightstand next to Catherine's bed, so that she might call for me. Since Catherine is deep in sedation, I know full well that she cannot possibly be calling me, yet even now the echo of the bell seems to fill my mind.
I look over at the open doorway, toward the hall, but the house is once again so very quiet.
There is only one possible explanation. I must be so utterly wracked by lack of sleep, I have begun to imagine things. My senses are not quite right, yet I cannot afford to sleep just now. I must remain awake for the next few days, so that I can be constantly available to tend to my darling Catherine. As I turn and look back toward the window, I remind myself that for now I am my wife's servant. There will be time to sleep later, when we are both recovered from this ordeal, but for now -
Suddenly the bell rings again.
I immediately rise from the armchair and turn to look toward the doorway.
It cannot be, and yet...
The house is silent once more, but this time I cannot so easily adjudge myself to have imagined the sound. Indeed, as I take a few more tentative steps toward the doorway, I fully expect to hear the bell again. And by the time I get to the threshold and look through to the main staircase, I feel more certain than ever that somebody did indeed ring the bell, which can only mean that my dear Catherine has somehow woken very early from her sedation. She must be in the most awful pain, yet I do not hear her crying out.
And then the bell rings yet again, this time for several seconds, almost as if Catherine knows of my doubts and wishes to affirm that she is indeed calling me.
“Catherine?” I whisper.
I am immediately shocked by the fear in my own voice.
“Catherine,” I continue, raising my voice a little but still not quite believing what I can hear, “are you in need of attention?”
I wait, but now the house is silent.
Suddenly I realize that this is not the time to hesitate. I hurry to the stairs and up toward the landing, and by the time I'm halfway I hear the bell again. This time the sound lasts even longer than before, as if Catherine's desperation is becoming greater, so I start taking the stairs two at a time until I reach the landing and head along to her room. With each step, I become more and more convinced that she has somehow woken, that I perhaps misjudged the levels of sedation and she has woken in a fit of agony.
“My dear,” I say as I reach the open doorway, “whatever has -”
The bell stops as soon as I see Catherine's body upon the bed.
She is absolutely still. Her neck has been slit, covered in thick red blood, and her face is turned this way. Her dead eyes stare almost, but not quite, into my own.
“Catherine,” I whisper, momentarily stilled by the shock of what I am seeing.
I step forward, although I stop again as I reach the bed.
Catherine's neck has indeed been cut from ear to ear, leaving a thin cut from which a great deal of blood has run. The top of her nightshirt has been stained red, as have the bedsheets and pillows. There is so much blood, in fact, that I already know without any doubt whatsoever that she must be dead. No body could survive such an outpouring, and a moment later I hear a faint dripping sound. Looking down, I see that spots of blood are dripping from the soaked sheets and landing on the bare floorboards.
For a moment I am frozen, too horrified to weep yet also too horrified to cry out. I simply cannot believe that this is real.
“Catherine!” I whisper, finally stepping closer and reaching out, desperately searching for some hint of life. I check her neck, but there is no pulse, and then I reach down to check her wrist. The leather manacles are stil
l in place, since I unhooked them from the chair earlier and did not remember to remove them. I try to force two fingers beneath the manacles, to check for a pulse at Catherine's wrists, but I cannot reach.
And then I see the letter.
A folded piece of paper rests in Catherine's left hand, and my name is written on its front.
Again I freeze, too horrified to believe that any of this is really happening. After a few seconds, however, I reach out and take the piece of paper, and when I unfold it I find that it contains a note written in my dear wife's own hand. The script is faint and ragged in places, but it is most certainly hers:
My dearest darling Charles,
There can be no pain greater than the pain of parting. Yet I know that we shall be reunited some day, long after these mortal bodies have lost their power to make us ache. We shall be together in whatever realm exists beyond the veil of death.
I have experienced so much pain over the past few months, that it was no great difficulty to endure more during the procedure. I do not know how I woke, but I did, and then by some miracle I felt you set a scalpel next to my hand. I hid that scalpel, my dear, and I waited until you had returned me to this bed. And then I did what you see now, and by the time you read this letter the pain will be over. For me, at least. You must not blame yourself.
I cannot stand what my illness has turned you into, and what you have become in your constant search for a cure. I cannot write the words, but I believe I understand what you have been doing, and my heart breaks.
Do not mourn, Charles. Do not follow me in haste. Bury me, my darling, and then live your life. I love you with all my heart, but I could not go on living like this. You have your health, and I implore you to cling to your life for so long as you are fit and healthy. You have my blessing to marry again, and I hope that you do. Perhaps a second wife would be able to give you children, and I know that the lack of a child is your one disappointment in our marriage.
Forgive me for what I have done. I know you did what you did out of love, but I could endure it no longer. The leather manacles prevent me cutting my wrists, so I shall have to work on my throat instead. Do not attempt to clean the sheets. They must be thrown away. Goodbye, my darling. Until next we meet.
Your ever-loving and devoted,
Catherine.
I read the note several times, struggling to make sense of its meaning. I know Catherine cannot have done something so awful, I know that there has to be another explanation, yet the evidence is before me. I left the manacles on Catherine's wrists when I brought her up, simply because I forgot to take them off, so evidently she opted to cut her throat instead. I cannot imagine what she must have been thinking, or how she could have done all of this while I was resting downstairs.
How did she even stay quiet while I was operating? It is inconceivable that she did not cry out, yet I can only suppose that she had endured so much pain for so long, she was able by the end to endure almost anything. Anything except hope.
“I had saved you,” I whisper, as I feel tears welling in my eyes. “Catherine, I...”
My voice trails off, and a moment later the letter falls from my hands.
“I saved you,” I continue, looking at her dead, glassy eyes. “I finally saved you. All you had to do was wait and let me guide you back to health. I saved you, I...”
Again, I cannot finish the sentence. Somehow the words catch in my throat, as I feel a strange tightening sensation in my chest. For a few seconds, I fear that I might collapse in a rush of sorrow, but then I begin to realize that in actual fact I feel intense anger.
“After all I did,” I whisper, clenching my fists tight, “you lost faith. I told you the procedure would work this time. All you had to do was keep your faith in me a little longer, and everything would have been alright. I promise, I promise...”
As my anger builds, I have to hold back the urge to grab Catherine's lifeless body by the shoulders and shake her violently. I want to shout at her, to scream that she has left me too soon, yet at the same time I cannot possibly bring myself to hurt even one hair on her head.
Finally, looking over at her bedside table, I spot the bell. Filled with a sudden burst of fury, I reach over and knock the bell away, sending it clattering to the ground.
I had done it.
I had finally saved her, and all was set to be good again in our lives.
I lunge at the bedside table again, this time grabbing it by its sides and then swinging it around, pushing it over so that Catherine's reading glasses and cups and trinkets are scattered across the carpet. And when even that does nothing to disperse my fury, I turn and grab the curtains, pulling them away with a furious cry and bringing the rod down as well, before finally I turn once more and – without thinking – smash my fists against the mirror on the dressing table, breaking the glass and cutting my hands.
Why couldn't she believe in me?
Why did she give up, just as I had finally found a way to cure her?
Chapter Nineteen
Maddie
Today
This is the room where the ringing sound came from, but it's empty now.
Standing in the doorway, still hugging the blanket tight, I look through into a large, gloomy room. The walls are cracked and peeling, and the floorboards have been left uncovered to rot. There's a large bay window at the room's far end, with wooden boards covering the glass and only a crack of light managing to break through, but the curtains are on the floor and the rod looks to have been ripped down. There's a kind of old-fashioned dressing table against the far wall, although I can't help noticing that the glass has been smashed.
Stepping closer, I see faint dark stains on some of the glass shards. I feel more pieces of glass crunching beneath the soles of my shoes, and then I see that various cups and old plates have been left on the carpet. Even the chandelier appears to have been partially ripped out from the ceiling, although it was left half-dangling as if somebody's fury finally faded.
It looks like someone went pretty nuts in here.
Making my way around the glass, I head over to take a look at the old metal bed. There are old, stained sheets still covering the mattress, and I can't help but notice a stale smell in the air.
I look down at all the junk on the floor, hoping that perhaps I'll spot a bell and that – at the same time – I'll find a breeze that might have caused the bell to ring. There's no bell on the carpet, however. I look at the bed's metal posts, but there's no bell there, nor is there one anywhere near the window. Opposite the bed there's an old fireplace, but I still don't see a bell. By the time I get to the center of the room and look around, however, I'm starting to feel a little uneasy, almost as if somebody is watching me.
There's no-one here, of course, and finally I find myself staring down at the empty bed.
I've never felt this sensation before, but I swear I can feel a pair of eyes looking straight back at me from the darkness. I can see the wall, so I know without a shadow of a doubt that there's nobody sitting on the bed, but at the same time I feel completely certain that there's a presence looking at me. This sensation is so certain, in fact, that I finally make my way around to the side of the bed and look closer, even resorting to waving my hand through the air to make absolutely sure that I'm not somehow missing a person.
I guess I'm just losing my mind.
After all, this is a pretty creepy house both inside and out, so it's not too hard to believe that the atmosphere has affected me. I reckon pretty much anyone would start getting jumpy in a place like this.
Still, I wave my hand above the bed a couple more times, just to make myself feel a little better, before finally taking a step back. I don't know what caused the bell sound, but then I guess I don't really need to know. In a big old house like this, with so many rooms and probably plenty of holes and cracks in the walls, there are lots of things that could cause a sound that seems like a bell. I've never been the kind of person who leaps to believe in the supernatural jus
t because she can't find an explanation for something, so I'll just have to be content with not knowing.
Still, the sensation of dark, staring eyes is enough to give me the willies.
And then I spot the bell.
Resting on the edge of the bed's frame, there's a small golden bell.
Stepping closer, I look down at the bell and see to my surprise that – like everything else here – it's covered in dust. There's so much dust, in fact, that there's no way it could have been rung any time recently. Picking the bell up, I watch as some of the dust falls away. I hesitate, wondering whether it'd be right to break the silence of the house, but then I tell myself to stop being so superstitious.
So I ring the bell.
Just for a few seconds, just long enough for me to tell that it works. It sure sounds like the bell I heard earlier, but of course it can't be the same one. Figuring that there must be another bell somewhere, I set it down and step back, taking another look at the bed.
I still feel as if somebody is watching me, but I guess I'm just letting myself get a little spooked. It's funny how easily that can happen.
I head back out to the landing, intending to go downstairs, but then I stop again as soon as I see that the opposite bedroom door is wide open. Maybe I wasn't paying attention earlier, but I swear that door was shut. I limp over and swing the door partially shut, mainly to reassure myself that I'd have heard a creaking sound if the door had moved. To my surprise, however, I find that this particular door – unlike all the others in the house so far – moves silently.
I look through and see that this room is fully furnished. There's a much nicer-looking wooden bed, along with wardrobes and chairs and even a desk next to the boarded-up window. Honestly, apart from the thick layer of dust that I quickly find coating the top of a chest of drawers, it's almost as if somebody has been living here recently. I step into the room and look around, before heading to the desk and seeing all sorts of beautiful old jewellery arranged on various stands.