The closer she got to the basement door, the stronger the smell. It seemed to be wafting through the keyhole. Hesitantly, Paula crouched down and put her eye to the small hole, but there was only blackness on the other side. She stared for a few seconds, but the unrelenting darkness revealed nothing.
She straightened up and the smell vanished as suddenly as it had struck.
Forgetting to make her tea, Paula switched off the light and made her way up the stairs to her room.
* * * *
The following morning, she approached the library with trepidation. Before opening the door, she took a deep breath, then turned the handle. Once inside, she stood under the painting and found the figure, standing on the bank, clutching the reeds. No dagger.
Tiredness can make you hallucinate, and it was very late. Just one of those things.
Time to put this nonsense out of her head and get on with her research. She went over to the desk and switched on her laptop. An hour later, she had whittled the care homes down to a manageable handful. She eliminated many of them because they had only opened in the last thirty-eight years. She then sent off emails enquiring if any of them had records of a former resident called Adeline Ogilvy.
She had sent off four when an alert told her an email had arrived in her inbox.
Lakeside Care Home had consulted their archives and had indeed had a resident by that name at that time. They were more helpful than she could have hoped for, asking her to supply them with details of what she wished to know and why.
Immediately, Paula dashed off an email to the manager, Natalie Broadhurst, asking if she had any information on what had happened to Adeline Ogilvy in her final days.
Two hours later, the reply pinged into her inbox.
Dear Mrs. Bancroft. The information I have is a little sketchy, I’m afraid. Mrs. Ogilvy’s principal Care Assistant, Jennifer Hollingale, supplied most of it and it is not up to the standard of reporting we would expect today, nor are we able to communicate with Miss Hollingale as she died a few years ago. Briefly, she stated that Mrs. Ogilvy had suffered a severe stroke, which robbed her of speech and paralyzed her limbs, except for her left arm. She had no living relatives and had outlived her friends and acquaintances, so she rarely had visitors. Three weeks after her hundredth birthday, a woman calling herself Gerda Zimic asked to see her. Jennifer reported that there was something “a little odd” about the woman. Her English was impeccable, although she introduced herself as Austrian—the new owner of a house Mrs. Ogilvy had worked in many years before. Fräulein Zimic had come to pay her respects to the lady on reaching such a great age. Despite her reservations, Jennifer thought it would boost Mrs. Ogilvy’s morale to have a visitor, so she took her to the old lady’s room. Jennifer then left the two alone for ten minutes or so. When she returned, the woman had gone and Mrs. Ogilvy had passed away. Jennifer then becomes somewhat hysterical in her report, referring to the old lady’s “wide, staring eyes” and her left hand, which was still clutching the bedsheets. The post mortem revealed that Mrs. Ogilvy died from a massive cardiac arrest, so at least she was spared any further suffering. I hope this helps with your enquiries. If I can help in any other way, please let me know.
Gerda Zimic. Unusual name. Google returned no results for it. Paula had reached a dead end, but at least she now knew that when Anna had told her of Adeline Ogilvy being frightened to death, there was some basis in truth. So how accurate were the other stories?
Paula closed her laptop and wandered over to the comfortable chair that had become hers. She picked up the book from the occasional table, and it slipped out of her hand, landing with a soft thud on the rug. A piece of yellowing paper fluttered out of it.
A letter. On London University’s letterhead notepaper.
My dear Adeline,
I am most intrigued by your letter—so intrigued in fact, that I dropped all my commitments and headed posthaste for Vienna, where I am staying at the Hotel König von Ungarn, near the cathedral. I shall be pleased if you would join me for coffee there on Saturday of this week at 10:30 in the morning.
It was signed Jakob Mayer, Prof. So what had intrigued a professor so much that he had dropped everything and traveled to Vienna on the strength of a secretary’s letter? Clearly the two knew each other, but even still…
Googling Professor Mayer brought far more results. Over the next half hour, Paula learned he had been Professor of Ancient History at the university and had died in a train wreck between Vienna and Trieste in 1913. He was the author of many learned works on ancient Egypt, and much else besides. There was no mention of any association with Emeryk Quintillus, and Paula knew it was fruitless to Google him, as her last search had revealed nothing. Not even one mention on the entire Internet that she could trace. It was as if the man had never existed, or had ensured all trace of him had been expunged from any public record.
Searching for Adeline Ogilvy turned up a similar blank, but at least that was understandable. She hadn’t been noted for anything in particular. On a whim, Paula searched for Markus von Dürnstein. Various results came up, referring to his role in the family, his business interests, and contacts with many of the world’s leading political figures from the 1950s through to the 1970s. She clicked on “images” and a few black-and-white photographs emerged. Color photographs of a family wedding also popped up. By the poses and family resemblance, it looked as if Markus’s daughter, or at the least a close relation, had been the bride.
On the outside of the smiling group, a little old lady stood out for her apparent Britishness. Her white hair was topped with a navy hat and she wore a simple, well-tailored matching suit, with an ankle-length hemline. Paula could imagine her own grandmother looking much like her. With a sudden rush of excitement, she wondered. Could this be Adeline Ogilvy? But what would she be doing in a von Dürnstein wedding photograph?
The more Paula researched, the more drawn in she became. She was about to move on when she realized she had alighted on a site dedicated to photographs featuring unexplained ghostly figures. Peering more closely, she searched the photograph for anything strange. The background appeared to be a luxury hotel. The formally posed picture showed a happy, smiling bride and groom flanked by their nearest and dearest, but, faintly, right behind the old lady, Paula could make out a barely discernible figure. Too indistinct for any distinguishing features, but female, with long hair.
She read the caption underneath.
The von Dürnstein and von Auersberg families were surprised to find the ghostly shape standing over their guest’s shoulder in this wedding photo taken in 1965. It is believed that Count Markus von Dürnstein (pictured next to his niece, Sophia) may have had an idea as to the identity of the apparition. Despite many tests, the authenticity of this photograph has never been disproved and the ghostly presence remains a mystery.
Paula copied and saved the image. Further searches failed to deliver any significant information and, finally, she closed her laptop and wandered into the kitchen. Coffee beckoned. Once again, her eyes were drawn to the basement door. She stared at it, wondering what lay beyond. No smell of lilies today, thankfully.
She sipped her coffee. When the phone rang, she jumped.
The familiar voice was a welcome one. “Hi, Paula. It’s Dee. How are you settling in?”
Paula’s kid sister. Not a kid anymore, but a thirty-eight-year-old mother of grown-up twins.
“Dee, it’s so good to hear from you. We’re fine. I’m on my own here for a few weeks. Phil had to go to New York.”
“And he didn’t take you with him? Shame on him.” Dee laughed.
“I’ve only just arrived here. Besides, it gives me a chance to sort things out and make the place our own.” Well, that had been the intention anyway. Not that she had accomplished much toward that so far. All her ideas on improving the décor, choosing and buying pictures, a few bright cushions and rugs, had a
ll been shelved. “I’m attempting to learn German and I’ve done a fair bit of sketching, so it isn’t all lazing around in the sunshine. Anyway, tell me all your news. How are the kids doing at university?”
While Dee chattered away, Paula became more and more fixated on the basement door. It seemed to undulate like a small wave. She rubbed her eyes with her free hand and looked again. Nothing. But when it happened again, she gave a little gasp.
“Paula, are you okay?”
“Yes…I…something weird’s going on.”
“Like what?”
How could she tell Dee—practical, down-to-earth Dee—that a solid door was…melting in front of her eyes?
“I…don’t know how to describe it, but…” Oh, what the hell. Let her scoff! “It’s the latest in a string of peculiar things that have been happening since we arrived. I thought it had stopped but… I think this house may be haunted.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone followed by a loud burst of laughter. “Haunted? Are you serious? I think being on your own is turning you stir-crazy.”
Paula winced. “If you could see what I’m looking at right now, you might change your mind.” Paula backed farther away from the door. More silence on the other end of the phone. Dee broke it after a few seconds.
“Right, that’s it. You’re on. I’m due some time off work anyway. I’ll check with my boss tomorrow and come over as soon as I can. Okay?”
Relief. “Thanks, Dee. I’d appreciate that.”
Her sister’s tone became serious. “You mean this, don’t you? You actually think the place is haunted. What is it you’re looking at?”
“It’s stopped now and I know this is going to sound crazy, but a few minutes ago, a heavy wooden door started to look as if it was dissolving. It didn’t become transparent or anything, but it definitely didn’t seem solid anymore.”
Another pause. “Paula, you’re not taking anything…any medication or…anything?”
“No. Dee. I’m not on any drugs, medicinal or otherwise. And it’s not only the door, either.” Paula told her what had happened in the room on the top floor, about the figure in the painting, the lighter, and the sketches.
Dee whistled. “Looks like I’m in for an interesting visit. Can’t wait to see the house, by the way. Those photos you emailed look amazing. That library! It’s not everyone that has a Klimt original painted on the ceiling in their house.”
They finished their call and Paula returned to her laptop. She found the file where she had stored the photos she had taken when they first moved in. A few clicks later and she stared at the one of the library that Dee had referred to. She concentrated on the figure of the young woman on the shore, zoomed in closer to the girl’s left hand. She was clutching reeds. Paula moistened her dry lips and stood. She moved under the painting and took a deep breath.
There stood the girl—her hand clutching…a gleaming dagger. Paula stumbled back and grabbed hold of a chair to steady herself. She snatched up her phone and quickly snapped the painting. Hardly daring to take her eyes off the ceiling, she swiped the camera to show the photograph she had just snapped. The girl’s hand…impossibly clutching reeds. Paula glanced up at the painting and back down at the photograph. Again and again she looked back and forth. Each time, the same detail differed. Paula let her attention move to the charismatic figure of the great queen, who stared down at her through eyes that seemed all too real.
She caught her breath. Movement out in the hall.
She opened the door a crack and breathed a sigh of relief. Anna.
“Good morning, Paula. How are you today?”
“Better now,” she said and waved away Anna’s inquisitive look. “It’s nothing. I’ve been having a confusing morning. Could I ask you to pop in here for a moment?”
Anna nodded and followed her into the library. Paula pointed up at the painting.
“Have a look at the girl on the riverbank. Do you see what she’s holding?”
“It looks like…maybe…I’m not sure what you call them in English. In Italian we call them canne. They grow in the water. Here, they are in her way, so she has taken hold of them.”
“Reeds,” Paula said in a whisper.
“I’m not sure I understand why you asked me this question.”
Paula forced a smile. “It’s nothing, honestly. Don’t let me hold you up. I know you’re giving the kitchen a good scrub today and I really appreciate it.”
Anna left, a quizzical expression on her face. Paula left the library, sketch pad in hand. An afternoon spent sketching the Grecian-style Parliament building would take her mind off the increasing craziness in this house.
* * * *
Dee called Paula at around six that evening. “I’m flying out in two days. Do you think you can stay out of mischief until then?”
“Cheeky. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“Great. I’m flying British Airways and the plane is due to arrive at four p.m.”
She had just hung up when a familiar ring announced an incoming Skype call. Phil’s smiling face greeted her.
“Hi, honey.”
“Hi, honey yourself. Gone all American on me now, have you?”
“It’s infectious. You’re looking happier than when I last spoke to you. I was a bit worried. No more spooky goings-on?”
Paula sidestepped his question. “I just got off the phone with Dee. She’s coming over for a few days, the day after tomorrow.”
Phil grimaced.
“It’s ages since I spent any quality time with my sister, and this way I won’t have to endure hours of the two of you sparring and trying to score points off each other.”
“I expect she has as much love for me as I do for her.”
“I suspect you’re right. Anyway, you’re looking less exhausted, thank goodness.”
“Yes, well it’s only lunchtime here. I’ll be in the office for at least another six hours—probably longer. I keep finding more and more problems. I can’t talk about them on an unsecured line, but you wouldn’t believe the mess the place has been left in.”
“You’ll sort it out. That’s what they pay you for. Troubleshooter extraordinaire.”
“Been getting on with your sketching? You won’t get much done when Denise the Menace arrives.”
“Don’t call her that. You know she hates it.”
“Good job she can’t hear me then.”
“I think we’d better not Skype when she’s here. I can’t trust you not to say something that would upset her. We’ll just use our phones instead.”
“If she can’t take a joke at her age… Damn. I’m sorry, love, I have to go, someone’s calling me. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
“Love you.”
“Me too.”
Paula put her phone in her jeans pocket and glanced up at the painting. The figure was once again holding reeds. A chill cloaked her and she shivered, even though it felt too warm for a fire.
Above her, the timbers creaked. An old house. It happens.
But what about that scratching in the wall?
Like the sound of scurrying claws, the noise moved along one wall and down another. Paula forced herself to get closer to the source of the sound. She put her ear against the wall and, steadying herself with her hands, palms flat, she moved along, following the scratching. It stopped. She stayed pressed against the wall for some moments, but no more sounds emerged.
She tried to work out where the cause of the noise could be located. One of the walls was an exterior, but not the one where the sound had come from. Another wall separated the library from the hall and the dining room lay on the other side of the last wall.
Paula went outside and edged her way along the corridor to the dining room door. Inside, she hurried to the dividing wall and listened. Silence. No scurrying. She stepped back. S
omething didn’t quite add up. She hurried into the kitchen, opened a drawer and pulled out a tape measure. A few minutes later, she had completed her calculations. Sure enough, she had found a discrepancy. It appeared the walls must be a good six feet thick. Six feet of solid bricks and mortar. So how would there be any room for any rodent to get in there? Unless, of course, it wasn’t all solid wall. Perhaps a hollow existed between the two rooms. Maybe a narrow passageway.
Tomorrow, she would ring the estate agent. If there was an infestation, something would have to be done about it.
* * * *
Paula had drifted off to sleep on a cloudy and moonless night when she shot awake. She lay in the dark, listening for any sound. Hearing none, she started to settle back down again.
And stopped.
This time, there could be no mistaking it. More scurrying. Coming from the wall behind her. In an instant, Paula leaped out of bed and craned her neck, pressing her ear as hard as she could against the wall. Was she imagining a…sort of…whispering? Faint, then fainter. Now it had stopped altogether. No more scratching. But there had been something there. Of that she was certain. Something that shouldn’t be there. She hoped only mice. The thought it might be some unknown, unseen manifestation of her nightmares was one she fought hard to suppress. No, it had to be mice. Or rats. She shuddered.
Paula rose at five, feeling exhausted. She’d had no more sleep. Downstairs, she drank two cups of strong coffee and forced herself to eat toast. Finally, at nine a.m., she rang Stefan.
“I can assure you, no one has ever reported an infestation of any kind before, Mrs. Bancroft.”
She fought to control the anger building up inside her. He thought she had made it up. Some sort of silly, hysterical woman. She wouldn’t stand for that. Her lip curled as she barely controlled her anger. “And I can assure you that I know what I heard. You need to either get a pest-control company out here or inform the family so they can make arrangements.”
Waking the Ancients Page 4