“Tell me about them,” prompted the detective.
“There’s not much more to say than last time,” Carol began, hoping that her face did not betray the fact that she was lying. The truth was that the last two visions, or premonitions, had lasted much longer and had been more detailed. She was learning to control and decipher them.
“Go on.”
Carol took a deep breath and started to tell the detective what she had seen a few days before, while the detective scribbled down some notes, interrupting Carol every now and again to clarify some point or other.
“So all you can tell me is that the next murder takes place outside and...” started the detective.
“Or has already taken place,” corrected Carol. “It’s the next murder I’m aware of, not necessarily the next murder he’s committed. There looked like there was already another body in the boot when he struck again.”
“I see. So, he’s disturbed whilst he’s getting rid of the body?”
“Probably, I don’t know – you’re the detective.”
The detective smiled before summing up everything Carol had told her. “So there’s absolutely nothing else you can tell me?” Her eyes impaled Carol to the spot, gauging her reaction. She was convinced Carol was hiding something, but decided not to push the point. Not yet anyway. “And the other murder you witnessed; what can you tell me about that?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Carol smiled, “I’m the next victim.”
The detective looked up from her notes. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m his victim in the second premonition – his last I think.”
“So you actually saw yourself being killed? Or were you already dead, if that’s not too upsetting to ask?”
Who was she kidding? The whole bloody thing was upsetting! “No, I saw myself being killed. Right there as a matter of fact,” Carol said, inclining her head towards the landing.
An involuntary shudder ran down the detective’s spine. “Did you see who did it? Sorry, who’s going to do it?”
“No, but I know who it is now, and when it’s going to happen.”
The detective straightened in her chair and raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Tonight or tomorrow,” said Carol.
“And the killer?” Asked the detective.
“My husband.”
Detective Phillips sat there, staring open-mouthed at the woman sat opposite her. According to this woman she had not only foreseen her own death, but claimed that the killer was her recently deceased husband. “Care to explain that?”
“I can’t, I just know that it’s him, simple as that. Call it ESP, woman’s intuition or whatever, but I know it’s him back from the dead to exact his revenge.”
The detective puffed out her cheeks and exhaled, uncertain what to say next. “Well you’re not exactly giving me a lot to go on evidence wise, Mrs Ryan. I don’t quite know what to say or do. If you’re so sure he’s coming after you, why are you still here, why haven’t you left and gone into hiding?”
“Because he’d find me and because I owe it to those other women to try and stop him.”
“Do you think you can?”
“No, but I’ve got to try haven’t I?”
“What about just smashing the mirror, wouldn’t that stop him if he’s using it as some kind of portal from the other side?” Detective Phillips couldn’t believe what she was saying, and was suddenly glad that her partner on this case wasn’t around to hear her.
“No, I believe now that his evil is unleashed, it’s too late for that.”
“Okay,” said the detective rising to her feet, “this is well out of my league. I’m going to speak to some people and try and get us some help on this. Now if you feel at all threatened or scared, give me a ring on this number and I’ll be round, okay?” She handed Carol a card with her contact details on it.
“You believe me then, detective?”
“To be honest, Mrs Ryan, I don’t know what to believe, but in the absence of anything else to go on, I’m keeping an open mind.” She smiled reassuringly at Carol.
“Oh, there was one thing,” said Carol.
“What’s that?”
“He telephoned me and left a message.”
“Who did?”
“My husband.”
“Your dead husband telephoned and left a message on your answer phone?” Asked the detective incredulously.
Carol nodded.
“Now that’s what I call a long-distance call.”
Carol hurried over to her answer machine, rewound the tape to the appropriate bit and then pressed play. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Carol. Now I’m back for you.’ She rewound the tape and played it a couple more times.
“And that’s definitely your husband? It couldn’t be a crank impersonating him?”
“I’d recognise his voice anywhere under any conditions.”
“And when did he leave this message?”
“The day I saw the first victim in the mirror. In fact I saw the first vision right after I came back upstairs.”
“Why didn’t you mention this to us when you came in and saw us?”
“Would you have believed me?”
“Probably not.”
“No probably about it. You’d have thought I was a real nutcase, even if you don’t now.”
Shaking her head at the absurdity of everything she’d heard in the last hour, Detective Phillips made for the front door, stopping half way when her mobile rang. “Excuse me, I’d better take this.”
“You might want to sit down first,” said Carol.
The detective gave Carol a quizzical look but didn’t take her advice. “DC Phillips. That’s right, I’m at her house now. I was just about...What? Where? Yes, of course, I’m on my way.” The colour had drained out of her face when she turned to face Carol, but before she could speak, Carol jumped in.
“I’m really very sorry. Had you known your partner long?”
“You knew?”
“I recognised her in my vision.”
“She was supposed to be off-duty and on her way to see her parents.”
“She was, but she stopped to investigate when she passed a man acting suspiciously as he struggled to get something out of his boot. If it’s any consolation, she put up one hell of a fight.”
Detective Phillips nodded. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” And with that she hurried out of the door to go and view DC Rachel Harrison’s body.
Carol watched her drive off, sad for the policewoman’s loss, yet mindful of her own situation. Already she could feel the atmosphere in the house turning decidedly chilly, the first sign that Mark was on his way and the repugnant smell wouldn’t be far behind. So it was to be tonight? So be it. With a determined tug on the curtains, Carol closed the outside world off and prepared to meet her fate.
***
The evening passed slowly and uneventfully and Carol began to wonder if perhaps she was mistaken and that her confrontation wouldn’t be tonight. She had done everything possible to avert the premonition. She’d deliberately changed her clothes so that she wasn’t wearing what she’d been in when she’d been murdered in the vision. She kept moving about the house avoiding the upstairs landing as much as possible. The simplest thing would have been to go out, but that would just be delaying the inevitable. She’d considered smashing the damned mirror and had even taken one of Mark’s hammers upstairs to do the deed, but when confronted by the sheer mesmerising beauty of the antique mirror, she hadn’t been able to do it. No, she was going to have to wait it out.
It was a little after ten when Carol was suddenly overcome with the feeling that she wasn’t alone and a desire to go and look at the mirror. The house was extremely cold now and Carol shivered as she slowly climbed the stairs, the smell worsening the higher she climbed. Eventually she reached the landing and slowly turned to face the mirror. The reflection in the mirror was of her and the hallway landing, but the picture was start
ing to fade and move about, until eventually Carol found herself staring at a grey swirling mass reminiscent of a foggy night.
She swallowed hard and tried to ready herself for whatever was about to happen or come out of the mirror, but before she could fully prepare herself, the house was suddenly filled with a blood-curdling scream. The scream seemed to come from everywhere yet Carol could not take her eyes off the mirror as the grey eddies spun mesmerizingly around.
Suddenly, and without warning, a pair of long almost skeletal arms shot out of the mirror and grabbed Carol’s arms, closely followed by the face of her husband, though it was so corrupted and full of malice, that only she would have recognised him.
Carol screamed, horrified by the ghoulish approximation of her husband which held her in a vice-like grip, and tried to back away, but the entity was too strong for her. She desperately gripped the banister behind her to stop the monstrosity, who was so close now she could smell its hot fetid breath and spittle bouncing off her face, from dragging her into the fog which now pervaded the landing.
Her hands grasped the top of the banister, digging her fingernails in for all she was worth, but she knew it was a lost cause. After tightening its grip on her arms the entity gave another fearsome tug and Carol’s hold was finally broken. Carol issued one final defiant scream before she was pulled kicking and fighting into the foreboding grey nothingness.
***
“I’m so happy, Jim, I’m really going to love it here,” said the woman as she gazed over the banister at the open plan lounge downstairs.
The man leant over and kissed the woman on the cheek before hugging her. “I’m glad you like it, Julie, I just want you to be happy.”
“I am, Jim, believe me. I’m just not sure about that though,” the woman replied turning to face the large ornate mirror hanging on the wall opposite.
Jim turned to face it too. “I like it. It’s old and classy, just like you,” he said laughing.
The woman playfully elbowed him in the side feigning annoyance. “I wonder why the previous tenant didn’t take it with them.”
Jim leant against the banister and spread his arms behind him grasping the top of the banister with his hands. “The letting agent said she left in a hurry and without telling anyone, for some strange reason. She left all of her stuff behind apparently. The police are treating her as a missing person. All her gear’s in storage I understand, but the agent thought we might like to keep the mirror. Anyway, her loss is our gain.”
“I suppose so,” said the woman still looking at the mirror. “Come on, I’ll make you some supper.”
“Good idea I’m, ow!”
“What is it, Jim?” Asked the woman.
Jim looked at his right hand which had a fine paper-like cut and cursed as it started to bleed. “Don’t know, must be a protruding nail or something on the banister.”
They both leaned over looking for the offending article.
“There, what’s that?” Asked Julie.
Jim peered down and pulled something out of the wood. “Yuk!”
“What is it?” Asked Julie, not convinced she wanted to know the answer.
“A fingernail by the looks of it, a woman’s fingernail,” replied Jim pulling a face.
“Aw, that’s disgusting. Get rid of it down the toilet.”
Jim obediently went to the bathroom and discarded the nail. He then conducted a quick search of the banister in case there were more but only found what looked like scratch marks on the wood. “Come on you said something about supper and it’s a bit chilly up here.”
After a quick final glance at the mirror, they both hurried downstairs. Behind them, the mirror slowly started to cloud over.
The Girl And The Mist
By Chris Thorndycroft
There is a part of North Devonshire that I have no desire to visit again. It is a three mile stretch of sand near the small town of Braunton backed by sweeping sand dunes and rough patches of prickly gorse. It is a popular resort for summer holidaymakers, but in the autumn months it is not uncommon for a thick mist to descend from the Atlantic and cloak the beach with its shroud.
It is for this reason that I will not be returning.
It was late in the autumn of 1886 that I found myself fortunate to have a week or so spare from my studies and I took this time to explore the glorious north coast of Devonshire, a part of England that I had not previously been acquainted. The stretch of beach that I have already spoken of is overlooked by a large hotel perched atop a grassy hill like some ancient monolith, dark and sombre against the sky, the only landmark for as far as the eye can see.
I booked myself in, fully aware that I was likely to be one of very few guests so late in the year, and looked forward to an opportunity to read, relax and perhaps work on my papers in peace and quiet. I had not been wrong. In fact, the hotel was near deserted and I wondered if they made any profit off season at all.
It was a charming sort of place, red carpets and flowery, embossed wallpaper lining the corridors and a lounge bar that offered a stunning panoramic view of the sands and flat expanse of the sea. A series of framed photographs hung in the downstairs hallway and depicted a history of parties and masked balls along with some family portraits of the hotel’s previous owners. The current owner was a Mr. Burroughs; a tall, gaunt man with a shock of white hair that made him look older than he really was. I had made his acquaintance only once on my first day there and found him charming enough, although he did not seem a particularly talkative type and I had not seen him since.
I filled my afternoons with walks along the sands and up onto the rolling moors which had exploded into wonderful autumnal colours of red, orange and gold. It was upon one of these walks that the wind grew ferociously strong against me and by the time I returned to the hotel I was near exhausted. I retired to my room immediately after dinner and made ready for bed. It took me almost no time at all to find sleep, encouraged perhaps in part by my exhaustion, but also by the distant roll of the sea.
I awoke in pitch blackness, the hour unknown, to a series of noises coming from the room directly above me. First there came the sound of a child weeping. Whoever the child belonged to did not seem to pay any heed to its distress for the miserable sounds continued for nearly ten full minutes. They eventually subsided only to be replaced with a scraping of furniture across the wooden floor. An odd time of night to be rearranging one’s room, I thought. Then, tiny feet pattered across the ceiling, from one corner of the room to the other and back again before the weeping commenced once more.
I was most irritated by this interruption of my rest and the following morning decided to ask the hotel manager if there was perhaps a family staying in the room above mine, and if so, could I possibly have another room?
“Why, Room 11, sir?” Replied the manager – a reliable and likeable fellow by the name of Stoakes. “No sir, that one is unoccupied and has been for a long time.”
“I see.” I said. “This is rather odd, for I am quite certain I heard the voice of a child last night.”
“We don’t have much company at this time of year, sir,” replied Stoakes with an almost apologetic smile. “And as for children, well this old building has not heard the sound of a child’s laughter since poor little Marion McMurron left us nigh on a year past.”
“Indeed?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon sir. You wouldn’t know anything about that.”
I enquired further and the man’s face seemed to sadden a little and he sighed more than once before he began to relate his tale to me.
“Well, in the summer of last year, Mr. Burroughs, that is the owner you see, had his eight year old niece to live with him. Her parents had been killed in a house fire at their home in Glasgow. Terrible business. Left Poor Marion an orphan with no siblings and the closest relative was her old uncle all the way down here in Devonshire. Well, I can’t say Mr. Burroughs was thrilled to have her, him being a reclusive sort of chap who likes nothing upsetting the balanc
e of things around here, but he did treat her very well and she was family after all. She was a lovely girl and it was always a pleasure to see her about the place, playing with her dolls and whatnot.
It was tragic what happened. One morning the housekeeping came to wake her and found her little bed empty and no sign of her about the place. A search began in earnest of course. I myself led a party around the grounds, poking about in the obvious hiding places. The police were called in and the search was widened. It was around lunchtime they found her. Down on the beach near them rocks at the foot of the headland. The poor thing had drowned. Must have wandered out and been caught by the tide, although what she was doing out there at that time of night is anyone’s guess. Sleepwalking I suppose, that’s the general agreement. After all she was found in naught but her nightdress.
What I found odd at the time was this; I lock the building up myself at the end of each evening, and the windows are too high on all sides for anyone to risk jumping, so I can’t fathom for the life of me how she got out. Or how she got so far – all the way down to the headland. And in that mist too. Dreadful mist it was that night sir. We get it around this time of year. It comes rolling in off the headland like the steam billowing out of Hell, begging your pardon sir. Dreadful. I’ll remember that night for the rest of my days. October the 27th it was.”
“Why, that’s tomorrow.”
“Why, so it is sir. My, how the year has flown past! And poor little Marion dead and in the ground. Though I don’t think Mr. Burroughs should like to be reminded of it. He was awful upset at the time, not that he would tell anyone of it of course. I could see it though. See it in his eyes. Terrible pain.”
“Is Marion among the photographs in the hallway?” I asked, for after hearing so dreadful a tale, I had an odd and perhaps morbid urge to look upon the face of the poor girl.
“Why, yes, I do believe she is in one of them,” he said. Stoakes stepped out from behind his desk and made for the hallway, his shining shoes brushing neatly across the red carpet.
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