This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller

by Shani Struthers

  Breaking into a run, she forced herself to go faster. “Wait! Wait for me!”

  He didn’t wait, he kept on walking but she noticed his pace slowed slightly. Even so, he was in no mood for talking. That was fine, she accepted that. It was enough just to be by his side as he led them away from the archway, towards the hotel and safety.

  Chapter Ten

  Even though the lobby lights were glaring, they were a huge comfort – such a contrast to the dark alleyway they’d been in twenty minutes before. So different… except for one thing – the painting – an all too vivid reminder of what had just taken place. Still refusing to speak to her, Rob made his way to the lift and got in. She could have followed him, should have followed him, but she had to face what was happening. Steeling herself she went over to the painting. Its execution was cruder than she remembered, the artist having wielded his brush in a slightly random manner. But it was a style of sorts, as Rob had said, the blobs of white meant to be effective from a distance but not close up. Not meant to be defined at all…

  “I’ve noticed you looking at that painting. You like it, yes?”

  Surprised to hear a voice behind her, she spun round. It was Gisela, the receptionist who’d greeted them with a glass of champagne on arrival. She’d spotted her at the desk when Rob had glided by, but hadn’t heard her come over. Almost involuntarily, her eyes travelled to Gisela’s feet – no longer in high heels, she had black ballet pumps on in the softest of leathers. Perhaps they were allowed to relax the uniform a little so late at night. The woman had asked a question, she had to answer. Did she like the painting?

  “It’s… interesting,” Louise said at last. “That particular house, is it significant at all?”

  Gisela looked bemused. “Significant? In what way?”

  “Because of who lived there?”

  Gisela laughed, a pleasant sound, reminding her of the tinkling of bells. “I don’t know who lived there. Venetian street scenes are popular with artists.”

  “I know that,” Louise replied, she’d seen many of them in shops around the city, “but this one…” How on earth could she even hope to explain it? “I’ve been there.”

  “Yes, it is in the San Polo area, near to some good restaurants. I pointed out several to your husband. Did you go there to eat?”

  “Yes, yes, we did.” She told her about the restaurant they’d visited, twice in two nights.

  “One of my favourites,” Gisela declared smiling, her red lipstick immaculate. Even dressed down, she looked so elegant. What does Rob see in me? Tears pricked at her eyes. She was far from elegant. She was mad at times. Barren. Despite having blamed him, it could be her fault – a suspected miscarriage, especially so long ago, didn’t mean a thing. None of it meant a thing.

  Gisela placed a hand on Louise’s arm, her touch as light as her tread. “Madam, you are upset, why?”

  It would take too long to explain and thankfully Gisela didn’t press her. After a few moments of silence she asked if Louise would like some water.

  “No, thanks, I’ll be all right.”

  “A glass of champagne?”

  “I think I’ve had enough to drink.”

  Gisela turned back towards the wall. “What is it about the painting that troubles you?”

  Louise was surprised at how astute Gisela was. Should she tell her what she’d seen? Why not? What did she have to lose?

  Lifting her hand, she pointed to the window of the house over the archway. “When I first saw this painting I thought I saw a woman standing in the window, staring at me.” There was a slight frown on Gisela’s face but she didn’t interrupt. “That same woman – she’s got some sort of white veil on, a white dress as well – I’ve seen her in the town too, as if she’s following me. And just now, coming home from the restaurant, I was standing below that archway, I looked up and there were curtains at the window where there hadn’t been any before, lace curtains, and they were moving, as if someone was behind them, getting ready to look out. To look at me.”

  “Maybe the curtains are new.”

  It was an explanation – a valid explanation – but still Louise didn’t think so. The curtains weren’t modern in any sense. And they weren’t clean either, you’d expect curtains that had just been put up to be clean but these were slightly grubby. She shook her head. Grubby wasn’t the right word. Like so much in this city, they had an air of decay about them; they were decayed. “But the woman,” Louise continued, “what about her?”

  Gisela averted her gaze and Louise winced, she really shouldn’t have said anything, but then the receptionist surprised her by taking her arm and steering her away from the painting, back to the desk, a deliberate gesture, as if she wanted to remove her from its influence. Focussing on Louise again, she seemed to think carefully before replying. “Venice has a reputation. It’s supposed to be the most haunted city in the world.”

  Louise nodded. “Yes, I saw something about that on the net. Do you believe it?”

  “I have lived here all my life and I have never seen a ghost.” She looked so solemn as she said it. “All I will say is, it is a city to inspire the imagination.”

  Yes, that was a conclusion she’d come to several times this weekend – her imagination playing havoc with her. Stress too. She’d been under a lot of stress before she’d arrived in Venice, the usual kind, to do with work and clients wanting everything done yesterday, not realising she was only human, that she only had one pair of hands. And the other stress – the stress she’d been under for a few years now. They were proving a lethal combination.

  “Poveglia, have you been?” She could hardly believe she’d dared to ask.

  Gisela’s eyes widened. “Poveglia? I don’t understand­…”

  “It’s just, we were talking about Venice being haunted and Poveglia seems to be.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Gisela repeated her sentiment of earlier. Almost as if she’s trying to convince herself. But she was right. Of course she was right. Ghosts didn’t exist, there was no need to be afraid, no need at all. As for the Benvenutis, they were professional people, cultured and responsible, with no motive other than to show two English tourists something unusual, historic even. And they’d only be there in daylight – Piero had said so. They’d arrive back in Venice in time to find a restaurant somewhere, just the two of them, settle in, discuss what they’d seen – laugh over it, tease each other even, insist they’d glimpsed something when they hadn’t. It would detract from what had happened tonight; the things that she’d said and done – hitting him… actually hitting him. They could put it behind them and pretend it never happened; bury it.

  Looking at Gisela, a shadow across her face despite the glare of the lights overhead, Louise decided to agree with her. “I don’t believe in ghosts either.” There she’d said it. A bold statement made and believed in. Making a show of looking at her watch, she added, “It’s late, I’d better go to my room. It’s our last full day tomorrow.”

  Gisela didn’t reply, she just smiled at her, her face a mask again, a perfect Venetian mask. Backing away from her, Louise turned in the direction of the lift.

  The hour was past midnight, but she’d still text Piero, that way he’d get the message when he woke up, nice and early as he’d requested.

  Hi, Piero, I hope you’re well. It’s Rob and Louise from the restaurant. We’d love to go to Poveglia with you if that’s still okay. Let me know what time to be ready and where to meet. We’re looking forward to spending time with you and Kristina again.

  If Rob wanted adventure, she’d give it to him. As the doors closed and the lift travelled upwards, she continued to convince herself it was the only way to make amends.

  Part Two

  Charlotte

  Chapter Eleven

  Late August 1938

  So what do I call you, sister dear, now you are a resident of a land far away? Still Charlotte? Carlotta perhaps? Isn’t that how the Italians would say it? Or the Venetian, sh
ould I call you that? Ah – the Venetian – it’s grand, it’s majestic. It rather suits you. My sister, the Venetian – it makes me sound grand too, by association!

  More seriously, how are you? Did you enjoy every minute of your honeymoon? I miss you. As do Mother and Father and all your friends of course but Enrico, the handsome doctor, who could resist him? They say the Italians have a way about them…

  I wish we could visit – I should love to meet the rest of the Sanuto family. I know he’s an only child but does he have a cousin as pretty as he is handsome? Perhaps he has several and I shall be spoilt for choice. Ah, Charlotte, you cannot blame a man for dreaming!

  I hope the overseas part of your journey was bearable. I know you are not keen on the water, strange then that you have ended up in a city surrounded by it. I wonder if you shall move away, further south, as Enrico has promised. Venice is sinking you know, or that is the rumour that abounds, so you may have to, sooner rather than later. Perhaps you shall return home to England. How wonderful if you did. Mother and Father should love it. They send you their love by the way, Father is still suffering with his chest and Mother is still insisting he rests but you know what he’s like, he tells her not to fuss, that there is nothing wrong with him. Some things never change do they?

  I must away now but write soon. I am so looking forward to hearing about your new life.

  Your loving brother,

  Albert.

  Charlotte sat in the window of her new home, a suite of rooms perched over the top of an archway in a quiet alley, her brother’s letter in her hands. The Venetian – it did sound grand, romantic even – like the city she’d found herself in, her husband’s place of birth. She fidgeted, uncomfortable suddenly. The sun streaming in through the window didn’t just feel warm, as it did in England; it was hot, too hot. Would she ever get used to it? At least when they’d travelled they’d been beside the sea. Here, in Venice, they still were, but in such a different way. There were no beaches, not close by, nowhere to dip your feet.

  Not that she’d dip more than that. Albert was right, she wasn’t keen on the sea, had a lifelong fear of it. It certainly was ironic she’d come to live in a city built on an archipelago of so many tiny islands. There was no rationale behind her fear. She hadn’t nearly drowned like her cousin Martha had when they were children, cut off from the tides on a Cornish coast, discovered in the nick of time. It was just… the sea had a hidden quality. Beneath the waves lay a different world. She didn’t like what she couldn’t see.

  She shook her head, laughed at such imaginings and placed Albert’s letter on the table. Leaning forwards, she pulled the curtains slightly apart. They were made of white lace, purchased from the nearby island of Burano, her mother-in-law had proudly informed her. The alley below held a certain charm, but it was bereft of passers-by. She’d only been in her new home for a few days. They’d been on something of a Grand Tour before, she and Enrico, that’s what it had felt like, similar to the lords and ladies of old, and Dickens too, in the nineteenth century – her fellow Englishman. She’d brought a collection of his novels with her, intending to finally read them. His stories might help her feel closer to home.

  Closer to home? This was home now, her marital home. She must dispense with such thoughts, and get used to it. Her mother had been so worried she’d feel homesick.

  “Darling, I know how enamoured you are with Enrico, but… should you want to return home at any point let us know. Nothing is beyond reparation.”

  Reparation – amends. What an unusual word to use!

  “Enrico is a good man,” she’d insisted.

  “I know but you are so young and he is—”

  “Foreign, Mother. You can say it. It isn’t a crime you know.”

  She was angry at her mother’s attitude although she knew there was no malice in it.

  Her father had taken her aside later. Obviously her mother had been talking to him too. “Look here, darling, it’s not just because this fellow’s foreign. Your mother is not biased, nor am I. But there is unrest abroad, considerable unrest. No one knows what to make of Mussolini. I want you to be happy but think twice before marrying this chap of yours and if you must go ahead, suggest living here. As a doctor, Enrico’s skills shall be in demand.”

  She and Albert had been blessed with liberal parents. Albert was older: twenty-four to her twenty-two and education had been provided for both of them, embracing the arts, the classics, maths and science. ‘I want you to have a good grounding,’ her father had said. They’d been encouraged to stand on their own two feet and she had, leaving her home in Somerset and securing a position in London, at the British Museum, not as a curator, nothing as fancy as that, she was a clerk to the curators, a secretary.

  But that’s where she’d met Enrico. She’d spied him in the Egyptian rooms, whilst visiting during her lunch hour. The history of that particular race fascinated her; she remembered enjoying studying it whilst at school and now took every opportunity to increase her knowledge, still eager to learn. The look of concentration on his face as he read the information board appealed. He was both intelligent and endearing. She guessed he was ‘foreign’ as her mother put it. He was dressed differently to an English gentleman, in a cream linen suit, striped shirt and colourful tie. Because he wasn’t wearing a hat, she could see his hair, which was greased back; making it look very black and his swarthy skin was such a contrast to her own fair colouring. Their eyes met – his dark brown, hers the palest of blues – their gaze holding much longer than was decent. Even so, she refused to look away; she wanted him to know she found him attractive. Seizing her chance, fearing she wouldn’t get another, she’d walked over and introduced herself. Charlotte Evans. He was Enrico Sanuto, from Venice, spending time in London, studying medicine.

  “Mr Sanuto, I have work to return to, but this afternoon, say around five thirty, would you like to meet me for some tea? I should love to hear more about your… studies.”

  She wondered if Italian women were as forward. Whether a look of horror would temporarily mar his handsome features, and he’d turn tail and run. That didn’t happen. He seemed surprised, but there was also delight on his face. Breaking into a smile, he bestowed a kiss on her hand whilst whispering he’d love to meet her. How she’d concentrated that afternoon at work was beyond her, although looking back there’d been more typing errors made than usual.

  His English was impressive, better even than the boys she’d grown up with, their thick West Country burr sometimes difficult to understand. She and Albert had received elocution lessons from a young age. Her mother, having hailed from the southeast coast and the daughter of an army captain, couldn’t abide the Somerset accent. ‘First impressions count,’ she used to say. ‘As soon as you open your mouth people will judge you.’ Clearly, in her view, the judgment passed on those residing west of Southampton wasn’t entirely favourable! As Enrico continued to enlighten her about his studies, including his interest in psychiatric medicine, over cups of tea and delicate scones with strawberry jam, she committed details about him to memory, the glint in his eyes as he laughed, the perfection of his teeth, the strength of his jaw, and the lively gestures he made with his hands. He could have been reciting the alphabet and she’d have found it fascinating. When he asked about her, she hesitated. She enjoyed her job but wasn’t sure it could be considered impressive. To her surprise he hung on every word she uttered too. Instead of feeling hot and flustered she bloomed under such scrutiny.

  “Where in Italy are you from, Mr Sanuto?”

  “Venezia. You have heard of it?”

  “Venice! Sorry, that’s how we pronounce it here.”

  He’d laughed again, a sound she already adored. “I know that. Have you been?”

  “To Venice? Goodness, no!” Her family could be considered comfortable but they had never travelled internationally. “Although, I have studied it in picture books and certainly I should love to one day.” Was that again too forward? “Is this your first
time abroad?”

  It was and he loved it. “I find you English… charming.”

  Tea was over too soon but a second meeting was arranged, and a third, leading to many more, to a low-key marriage in the village where she’d grown up, less than a year later, with just her parents and brother in attendance. Enrico’s mother had been unwell at the time but Charlotte had gleaned his parents wouldn’t have contemplated such a journey anyway. She’d also worked out he couldn’t bear the thought of a ceremony back in Italy and the fuss and pomp it would create – he was terribly shy at heart. The day was perfect and, despite her mother’s misgivings, she’d never been so sure of anything. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with this man, only three years her senior, had known from the minute she’d spotted him. There’d never be another for her, ever. She craved him.

  Against her father’s advice too, she wouldn’t insist he stay in England, how could she? She’d follow him to the ends of the earth. It was Venice he wanted to return to after their honeymoon, to his home, also occupied by his mother and father – Stefania and Luigi – just whilst he completed his studies. It wasn’t ideal she had to admit. Living with them they couldn’t be as free as they wanted, and the way his mother looked at her sometimes, Charlotte knew she was still fuming over her son’s decision to tie the knot in England. Not only that, Charlotte felt she was disappointed he’d married an English girl; bitterly disappointed. She took a deep breath, reined in her thoughts. She was getting carried away! Stefania didn’t hate her; she was simply being protective. And she could sympathise – if she had a son she should like to attend his wedding too.

  Perhaps… perhaps she was missing home more than she admitted, letting such notions fill her head. She had loved her job in London, had felt proud to occupy such a post. Was it possible to find something similar here? Without something to fill her time she could imagine the hours whilst Enrico was studying quickly becoming lonely. They’d be hours she’d have to spend with Stefania…