It just had to be the medication. Only, if that was true how could she trust anything she did? Right then she wished more than anything that she could speak to Amy. Maybe she should walk across to the priest's house and ask if he could give her a lift to town. Yet, she felt so tired and decided all she could do was relax in the bath and get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow things would be better.
Chapter 8
It was only three in the afternoon and yet, the thought of a bath drew her like a hungry dog to a bone. Maybe it would help her relax and she could get some sleep afterward. Maybe that was what she needed and all of this foolishness would drift away.
Hoping that she was right, she made her way back to the sumptuous bedroom and then into the bathroom. It was a small but lovely room. The walls were half paneled and painted in a battleship gray. A cast iron roll top bath stood on claw feet and dominated the room. The bottom was painted to match the walls, the floor covered in gray quarry tiles. It all gave the room a somber feel.
The sink and toilet looked old and antique and stood like soldiers supporting the bath. Next to them was a rack with towels, it all looked like a posh hotel room in some bygone age. Waiting for her, a lady, to enjoy the waters.
Quickly she turned on the taps and was pleased that the water ran clear. For one awful moment she imagined the black gunk that had come out of the kitchen taps the first time she used them. Luckily, that had gone.
As the water ran, she sat on the edge of the bath and poured in some bath salts. They turned the water almost blue, but again, it seemed to match the gray of the rest of the room. It amused her and yet also felt a little threatening.
What was wrong with her?
Even the color of the bath salts could make her ill at ease. Maybe she was having a breakdown? Maybe she should get help?
As the water ran, she pulled towels from the rack and put them to her nose. They smelt of mildew and rot and when she opened them up she could see where mold had grown in black dots across the cream thread. Dropping them to the floor she pulled back with disgust. Could things get any worse?
Tears formed in her eyes and she wanted to sink to the floor but she would not. She was stronger than this, so she went to the bedroom and pulled a towel out of her case. There was always a way around things and the easiest way here was to bleach the towels... or bin them.
That sounded like a good choice so she scooped them up and went to the back door. It was unlocked.
Had she left it so?
Unsure, she took the towels out and threw them on top of the rotten food. The bin was almost full and she had only been here such a short time.
For some reason that made her chuckle. What would her employers think? Here she was throwing away such a large amount of their stuff? There again, what should she think... when everything in the house was rotten? It seemed sinister and yet maybe it was just that Matron had been ill for longer than they realized. She had simply let things get on top of her.
Locking the door, she went back to the bedroom and stripped off her clothes.
Stepping into the bath, she sank down into the luxurious heat of the water. It cradled her in soft warmth that lulled away the stresses of the day. Closing her eyes she slipped even lower and let her body almost float. The water caressed her shoulders and eased out the knots she hadn't even realized were there. Bit by bit, she began to relax and let go of all the things that had happened. It was foolish to dwell on them when they were probably all in her mind. It was time to recuperate and start again.
Before long, her mind wandered back to her book and the up-and-coming scene she was about to write.
Henrietta was preparing for a ball where she would have to dance with the mule of a Duke. Suddenly, she imagined the animal all dressed up for the ball. He would be wearing cream breaches with black boots and a crimson tailcoat. An extravagant cravat hung around the jackasses’ neck and he batted his eyelids and twitched his big, brown and furry ears as Henrietta walked in.
She found herself laughing. It was good to escape into fiction and maybe she could use this scene to add a little humor to her book. Only it was time to get serious. The ball scene was one that needed careful thought and so she relaxed back and emptied her mind. Gradually, she worked her way into her character and became Henrietta. With her maid, she had chosen an empire gown in a royal blue with metallic trim. With the extremely high waist and narrow shape it would suit her perfectly and would be matched with long white gloves that came past her elbows and a necklace of large stones that matched the color of the dress.
Rosie concentrated on creating a picture of the gown in her mind. Committing it to her memory so that when she returned to her writing desk she could describe it perfectly.
Henrietta was excited about the beautiful dress and going to the ball, but at the same time she wished she could share it with her secret pen pal. That, she would not have to spend time with the jackass.
Rosie laughed again and almost opened her eyes. The house was perfect for her writing and in between the patches of madness she was having so much fun. Maybe it was the atmosphere of the house. Or maybe she was just relaxing more but her mind seemed more creative and the words were flowing quicker than ever. If she could just keep control of her paranoia and these annoying hallucinations then she would soon finish this book.
It was only two more days until Amy arrived. Surely, she could hold it together until she did, then all of her problems would be solved. Amy had promised to stay for a few weeks. In that time, surely she could chase away these nightmares and return to some semblance of normality.
Dragging her mind back to the story, she began to plan the carriage ride to the ball.
She could almost hear the footsteps of the footman as she waited in the carriage full of excitement.
Something cold touched her head. At first she thought it was in her imagination but before she could react she was pushed beneath the warm water. Taken by surprise she opened her mouth to shout and hot water ran down her throat. Instantly, she was transported back to the present and a world of terror. Her lungs contracted and forced her to cough. At the same time she kicked against the bath trying to find something to push against. Her arms flailed against the side. Her legs against the base of the slippery tub as she tried to force herself upward and out of the water. It was all to no avail. Her lungs were bursting as she tried to keep her mouth closed all the time struggling against the force that kept her down.
The hand on her head was so cold. Ice traced down from that touch and threatened to send her into shock. Yet, she must not let it. Thrashing and kicking, punching and clawing she held her breath for her life and yet she knew at some point she would have to breathe in. When that happened her lungs would be flooded with warm scented water and she would drown.
At some point she opened her eyes and she could see dark figures above her. They surrounded the bath.
Kicking with all her might, she managed to raise her head above the water. At first she coughed and spat out a great stream of hot liquid. They were coming back at her and she knew she would be pushed beneath the surface so she drew in a long breath and held it.
Before she was pushed back under she could see they were wearing dark gray hooded cloaks and they were chanting. She could not understand what they said but she remembered it from her dream. She tried to see their faces but just before she was plunged back beneath the hot water she could see that there was just a dark hole beneath the cloaks. Fear squeezed her heart and filled her veins with ice just as she was forced back beneath the surface.
Once more, she was in a fight for her life. Thrashing from side to side kicking and clawing at the hand that held her. Nothing seemed to help, nothing seemed to work and the lights were growing dim. Her nails clawed at the heavy cloth but to no avail and despite her best efforts, she drew in a lungful of water. As it hit her lungs her body spasmed and tried to expel it. This was it! She was drowning. Her lungs screamed, her muscles ached and terror clenched tight on her heat
.
Hot water filled her lungs and eased away her panic. Instead, she felt warm, as if she was floating. Was this it? Would she die here in this bathtub not knowing why? Not knowing if this was real or all in her mind?
The pressure was released and she floated back to the surface coughing and sputtering. The bathroom was empty. There was no one there.
Rosie sat up and leaned over the side. Retching so hard it felt like her lungs would come out with the water. All she had swallowed streamed out of her and onto the floor. Tears were running down her face as she coughed and spluttered and tried to draw in precious air. Gasping desperately, she leaned on the bath. Though she couldn’t see. The room was black and filled with terrors. It took a moment or two before she could pull in enough air and the gasping slowed down. Gradually her vision returned and she searched the room.
It was empty, she was all alone.
Exhaustion took over. The adrenaline that had kept her alive was gone and she was beat.
Had she imagined this? There really was no one there.
As soon as she felt able to stand she climbed out of the tub and grabbed her towel. Stumbling, she ran to the bed and threw herself on it. Leaning back, she looked up at the ceiling. What was wrong with her? Had this happened? No, it couldn't have... there was no one here. Then something came to her mind. Was this a haunting? Was she just attacked by ghosts? For a moment she contemplated such a thing and then she began to laugh. It had to have been a hallucination. After all, it was still daylight. If these were really ghosts then surely they would wait until nightfall. Hot tears streamed down her face as she wondered if she really was going mad.
Part of her wanted to run from the house. To do anything to get out of there and yet she was so tired. Before she knew it, she had fallen asleep and for the first time in a while she did not dream. It was an exhausted, deep sleep and she woke a few hours later hungry and feeling refreshed.
At first she could not remember what happened, but it soon seeped back into her mind. As it did, she heard something above her. The sound of whispering, of soft footsteps. Was someone up there? Were they playing tricks? It seemed the obvious answer and she knew she had to find out. Part of her still wanted to run but she wouldn’t. If someone was there then she would confront them and she would find out what was happening once and for all.
As she pulled on her clothes, her thoughts turned to Clive. Was it him? Had he found her somehow and was he trying to drive her mad? It was the sort of thing he would do and she knew that she should run. Only she had run enough. If this was Clive, then she would face him one last time, and God help her, she would win.
Chapter 9
Rosie left the bedroom and the sound of whispering drew her towards the stairs. It was almost too quiet to hear and yet seemed to lead her on. Was she being sensible? She remembered the instructions from the Duncan’s. That she should not go upstairs. Sensibly, she should not want to. If someone was up there, she should walk to the priest's house, Nicholas Aubrey, and get him to call the police and yet she felt compelled to go look.
Her shoes clicked as she walked down the hard wooden floor towards the entrance hall and the stairway. The noise made the house seems so empty, so hollow and her breath caught in her throat. What was she doing?
It didn't matter, still she was pulled towards the stairs and when she arrived at the hallway the black cat sat on the bottom step barring her way. Its orange eyes seemed to warn her away more than the crimson rope that was strung across the stairs. The eyes challenged her, warned her and yet she felt compelled to answer that challenge.
As she put her foot on the first step, the cat let out a mournful meow. Rosie stopped and thought she heard a whisper behind her. It was almost like the sound of a little girl, sneaking about in the dark. It chilled her blood and raised the hairs on her neck. She turned around but there was nothing there. The sun shone through the kitchen windows and the house seemed so normal, so beautiful and full of peace.
She should just go up and have a look. It was only normal, curiosity after all. Once more she put her foot on the step and the cat blocked her way. Maybe it just rushed towards her to rub against her legs. To demand attention and yet it felt very different. Pushing past it, she took another step but the creature leaped backward and struck out at her. Hissing, it swiped a claw at her leg. Sharp nails pulled at the heavy denim of her jeans and before she could react it clawed at her again. Rosie stepped back, a little perturbed. The cat seemed to relax and she reached down. Before it could claw at her hands she plucked it up and swept it into her arms.
“There, there,” she murmured against its silky coat. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
Gently she held it against her body and stepped over the crimson barrier rope.
The cat let out a mournful yowl and leaped from her arms. It landed deftly on the wood blocked floor and sprinted into the kitchen. Then it was gone and she felt all alone. It was as if the sun went down as the cat went out and the room felt a little colder.
Ignoring the cat, she began to climb the stairs. The deep crimson carpet was spongy beneath her feet. Obviously expensive and well cared for. The mahogany wood on each side was polished to perfection. There was not a speck of dust in sight. Yet the higher she climbed the thinner the carpet beneath her feet and the more run down the place began to feel. There was dust and cobwebs and in places the wood was scratched, the varnish peeling. Perhaps Matron couldn't climb the stairs; perhaps that was why it was so run down?
It was darker too.
As if the sun couldn't quite penetrate and chase away the gloom. Though she felt compelled to go forward, part of her wanted to turn and run. Yet she had to keep going even though her footsteps had slowed and her heart beat against her chest like a warning. Little by little, she climbed until she made it to the top floor.
The corridor spread out both left and right. It was dark and gloomy. All the doors were closed and there were no lights. She looked around for a switch but couldn't find one. Maybe she should forget this? Yet something still pulled her onward. It was more than curiosity... was more like a compulsion. So she closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.
Which way should she go?
Left, she was pulled towards the left. Opening her eyes she stepped onto the landing and down the corridor. Cobwebs clawed at her face and she fought them away.
There were doors leading off each side. Coming to the first door on the left she tried the handle. It was loose and rattled in her hand. Yet it turned easily and she pushed the door open. It was lighter inside and yet still dim. As if the windows were dirty and could not quite let the sun shine through. The room looked like it had once been a bedroom. Pale faded peach paper peeled from the wall and hung down in tatters over a damp patch on the plaster. For a moment she thought it was skin hanging off the wall. Ignoring the hammering of her heart, she shuddered and shook the image away.
The floor was bare wood and covered in bits of old paper. There were six old metal-framed bunk beds. Three on either side of the room. Something about the room felt sad. It did not live up to her idea of the romantic mansion house that the lower floors gave her. No privileged lady would have lived in this room. Whoever had stayed here would be cramped and unhappy. She did not know why she felt that and yet she knew that if she closed her eyes she would see children. They would be hungry and cold and dressed in rags. Their large eyes pleading out of dirty faces beneath unkempt hair. At night they huddled together by the light of a single candle. They kept as quiet as they could and hoped that the door would not open.
She moved towards the window. Her footsteps causing dust to rise and a cough escaped her. It echoed around the room in a most comical manner and her gloomy mood was broken.
Turning around on the spot, she sang the scale. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti. The notes echoed around the room and caught up with her own singing. She did it again, louder and with more gusto. It sounded like there were two of them and then three she carried on and soon she was laughi
ng. After all it was just an empty house. A little run down, which made it a touch sad, but there was nothing more here.
The echoes had stopped and she was about to start singing again when she heard another voice. It was someone singing. A sweet voice that carried through the gloom. At first she was scared and yet it was just an old nursery rhyme. The sound must be traveling from outside. Perhaps someone was walking past.
She listened intently as the singing started again, louder now.
"Oranges and lemons say the bells of St. Clément’s. You owe me five farthings say the bells of St. Martin's.”
Rosie found herself smiling and imagined one of her characters paying for some oranges.
“When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey. When I grow rich say the bells of Shoreditch, When will that be? say the bells of Stepney. I do not know say the great bells of Bow.”
The room seemed to darken and she imagined a man in a prison cell. He was her and she was him, and dread hung on her shoulders like a wet blanket as she waited in the cold, dark cell for death to come. A sliver of light heralded company and grew as someone approached the door. It should have brought comfort and yet she felt her bowels clench as fear crushed her heart.
“Here comes a candle to light you to bed.”
The candle stopped outside the door and she knew that it was there to tell her that tomorrow would be her last day; that it was over. Terror grew and her heart pounded like a steam engine. She wanted out of this.
The voice continued, haunting, and yet sweet, “Here comes a chopper to chop off your head, Chip chop chip chop—the last man's dead.”
The Haunting of RedRise House: Ghosts and Haunted Houses Page 6