by Cross, Amy
It is one thing for a woman to be brought back from the dead, but it is surely quite another for her to be up and moving about when she lacks a heart.
Chapter Four
Maddie
Today
“Hello?” I call out as I step into the second bedroom. “Is anyone here?”
That's the third or fourth time I've asked that question since I came up from the hallway. The first time, my voice was barely louder than a whisper and I admit that I felt like an idiot. Now, however, I'm starting to feel increasingly certain that I am alone, and I no longer have the sense that I'm intruding. In fact, as I stop in the middle of the bedroom and look around, and as I shine my flashlight toward the metal-framed bed, I'm starting to think that I can survive here, at least until Alex finally shows up.
“My name is Maddie,” I explain, just in case anyone can hear me. “Um, I guess I...”
I pause for a moment, trying to figure out how I can explain everything. The thought of somebody hiding in the shadows and listening to me, of someone watching my every move, is more than a little creepy. Fortunately, it's also pretty nuts, which is why I think I really must be alone. Of course, there's still a hint of doubt in the back of my mind, which I guess is why I keep repeating these arguments to myself over and over.
“I just needed somewhere to stay,” I continue, “and to keep out of the way for a while. I'm just...”
This is crazy.
“Listen,” I add, “if anybody's here, can you let me know? I think someone was here the other day, when I got my wound stitched up. If I'm intruding, can you just give me a sign? I'll leave if you want, but I'd really like to stay. Just one sign would be enough.”
I wait.
Silence.
“So I can stay?”
Again I wait, and finally I realize that there just can't be anyone here. I mean, the idea of some guy or woman hiding in the house, refusing to make their presence felt, is pretty insane. Especially if I factor in the idea that the person would have had to have crept out during the night and performed a little light surgery on my waist. In which case, there's only one logical explanation.
I stitched my own wound.
If I was able to hallucinate the shadowy figure in the street, and hallucinate an encounter with frigging Natalie, then I think I'm capable of stitching my wound in a kind of daze and then forgetting all about it. Sure, the idea's a little odd, but it makes more sense than anything else I can come up with.
So there's no-one here. There never was. It's just an empty house.
Case closed.
Making my way over to the dresser, I keep the light low, just in case there's any chance that it could be seen from outside. The windows are boarded over, so I'm pretty sure the place is sealed tight, but I don't want to take any risks. When I get to the dresser, I look down at the jewellery, and I can't help reaching out to touch the various necklaces and earrings. There's even a tiara here, so I guess the people who once lived in this house must have been pretty posh. The earrings, especially, are really beautiful.
No wonder they were among her favorites, although her absolute favorites were the others, the ones that ended up in my pocket the other day. Those were the ones she always wore whenever she was going to a particularly important evening, or when she -
Wait, what?
I pause for a moment, trying to work out why I suddenly felt such a strong belief that these earrings belonged to a specific person. I mean sure, they're nice, but there are other nice pairs too. I had a sense of a person, too, of a woman who owned this jewellery. That sense is already fading now, like a dream that slips away a little too fast to be remembered, but I'm still left with the feeling that I briefly knew something I've now forgotten.
I guess I just had a brain fart.
There was also a weird taste in my mouth, something sweet, but that's gone already.
Glancing at one of the photos nearby, which shows a happy couple, I peer at the woman and realize she looks very well-to-do. I can totally imagine her and her husband going to swanky balls in the old days, dressed to the nines and having fun with their fancy friends. In fact, as I pick the photo up and take a closer look, I can't help thinking that they both look like they're completely in love. I've never had that feeling with anyone, I've never even come close, and I really envy them as I see the light in their eyes. I bet they lived a long, happy life together, probably having some really nice kids. I hope that's what happened, anyway.
Then again, I don't quite know why their house would have ended up being abandoned. Even if they didn't have kids, there should have been someone to take it on. A long-lost relative, maybe, or a favorite charity. And if that didn't happen, then shouldn't there be some provision for an ownerless house to be re-used in some way? I mean, it's a decent house, and it's a shame for it to be standing empty like this.
I'm sure its former owners would like to think that somebody lived here now.
Setting the photo back down, I'm about to go back out of the room when I suddenly realize I can feel a very faint tingling sensation on the left side of my face, running down onto my shoulder and arm. I hesitate for a moment, convinced that the sensation will pass, but if anything it seems to be settling and becoming a little more persistent. After a few more seconds, I slowly turn my head and look to my left, and then I tilt the flashlight a little until I can see the metal-framed bed.
I swear, I can feel somebody watching me.
It's as if the tingling is some kind of physical manifestation of the sense that two eyes are watching me from the bed. No matter how much I try to ignore that idea, I can't help staring at the bed and watching the empty space, and I feel as if at any moment I'll see a pair of eyes staring back at me. I felt the same way the other night, as if there was a kind of presence on the bed, and finally I walk over and place a hand on the frame. The bed immediately creaks slightly, so I let go of the frame, but now the tingling sensation is all over my face.
I shine the flashlight this way and that across the bed, but all I pick out are the very old, very faded sheets that were left on the mattress. Those are kind of gross, and I can see faint stains, but I feel certain that there's something I'm missing.
“Anybody here?” I whisper, half as a joke.
I wait, but I don't hear anything.
So I start checking for cameras.
I know it's crazy, but right now the only remaining other explanation is that somewhere there's a hidden camera watching me, and that's what I'm sensing. I spend several minutes checking every possible spot where a camera could have been placed. After all, there are some seriously freaky people in the world, and cameras are getting smaller and smaller. I look in every possible space, even in the crack that runs along the wall, but finally I have to accept that there's nothing here. Sighing, I step back and look at the bed, and I still feel as if I'm being watched.
“Okay, then,” I add, turning and walking to the door, figuring that I'm never going to find anything. “Glad we settled that.”
The tingling sensation is on the back of my neck and shoulders as I leave, and then on the side of my face again as I turn and pull the door shut. The hinges creak loudly, too loudly for my liking, but once I've closed the door I find that the tingling immediately goes away. I consider opening the door again, to check whether the tingling comes back, but then I remind myself that it might be best to not go down that rabbit-hole. I take a step back from the door, and then I realize that I'm waiting in case there's a sound from inside the room.
This is not a haunted house.
There's no such thing as haunted houses.
This is just an old, abandoned house that probably no-one has been in for years and years. And, to be fair, the place has started to get under my skin a little.
“Okay, I'm staying then,” I say out loud, even though I know it's silly and pointless. “Just until my friend shows up, and then we can figure something else out. So if there are any ghosts here, just give me a break. Pleas
e?”
I wait, stupidly giving the house a chance to answer, and then I head to the stairs. As I make my way down, my footsteps sound so loud, as does the sound of my hand running against the banister. When I get to the bottom there's a thick layer of dust on my palm, which I wipe away on the side of my jeans. And then, a moment later, I spot some kind of shape carved into the wood on the bottom step.
Crouching down, I aim the flashlight and take a closer look.
In fact, there are several shapes carved crudely into the step. One of the shapes looks like a square with half a triangle in its lower half, another looks like a circle with spikes on one side, and the rest of the shapes are similarly odd. I don't remember seeing these when I was here the other night, but then I guess I was in no fit state to really notice much at all. Reaching down, I run a fingertip against the shapes and feel their rough, jagged edges. It's as if somebody took a pocket knife and started carving directly into the wood. The lines aren't particularly straight, either, so maybe the person was in a hurry.
I guess some vandals must have come here at some point. When Alex said nobody ever dared approach the house, she was probably exaggerating a little.
After examining the shapes for a moment longer, I look back up the stairs. Tilting the flashlight, I stare at the landing, and for a moment I stay completely quiet. Then I realize that I'm once again waiting for any hint of a creak or some other sound, and as I get to my feet I realize I need to force myself to quit with all the superstition. Stepping past the pile of Alex's things, I grab my backpack and carry it into one of the rooms, and then I sit down on the bare wooden floor.
Leaning back against the wall, I decide to just rest my eyes for a moment before I go check out the rest of the house. After all, there's a lot to explore. I can't afford to go to sleep, not yet, but at least I can rest. Just for a minute or two.
Chapter Five
Doctor Charles Grazier
Monday October 1st, 1888
“Doctor Grazier,” Jack says yet again, still holding his hand firmly across Catherine's mouth in order to keep her from crying out. “How is she able to move when she lacks a heart?”
I pause for a moment, before glancing over at the bowl on the counter. There is a heart resting there in a solution of my own devising, and my theory was that I could place the heart in Catherine's body and then induce it to start pumping again. I went to a great deal of trouble sourcing and preparing that heart, even going so far as to carefully clean it both inside and out. This was to be one of the most important parts of the procedure, and it never occurred to me – not for one second – that Catherine could be revived without having a new heart.
Yet as I turn back to look at her again, I see that she is still trying to scream.
“I do not know,” I whisper, as I feel a cold shudder pass through my chest. “This does not accord with any of my theories.”
“Then evidently something is wrong with your theories.” He pauses. “I am sorry, Doctor Grazier,” he adds finally, “I mean no disrespect. I am certain that you will determine the truth.”
I hesitate, before tilting my head slightly as I note some new quality in Catherine's eyes. Although I am standing directly before her, I cannot help but realize that her gaze is fixed not on me but on some space behind me. I turn and look and, seeing nothing of importance, I turn back to her. When her gaze remains pointed fractionally away, I step to one side and lean down a little until I have forced her to make eye contact. Even when I have achieved this, however, I feel as if she is not really looking at me in any meaningful manner. I have merely maneuvered myself into this position, and she is not focused on me at all.
“Catherine, it is me,” I say finally. “I cannot begin to imagine what you have gone through, and how many questions you must have. I can explain the whole thing to you, but for now it is enough for you to understand that I have brought you back. Do you realize what this means? You were taken from me, my darling, but I promised I would get you back and I have fulfilled that promise. We are together again!”
I wait, but although her eyes are now fixed on mine, there is no sign of acknowledgment. No hint of recognition, or of understanding.
Or love.
After a moment I move slightly to one side, to check whether her gaze follows me.
It does not.
She is still staring at the far wall, still twitching as she tries to scream despite Jack's hand on her mouth. Indeed, as I look into her eyes, I cannot deny that something seems very wrong. It is almost as if Catherine has returned as nothing more than a screaming creature, as if her body can scream and scream but does nothing else. There is certainly no sign of her true self staring out from these blank, glassy eyes, and I cannot believe that she would react with such horror at seeing my face again. Indeed, I almost feel that she does not see me at all. And yet I know that she loves me, and I remain convinced that this love will provide a strong enough bond. She just needs to be reminded.
“What can we do?” Jack asks. “Can you sedate her?”
“Sedate her?” I reply, shocked by the idea.
“Until you can arrive at a better understanding of what is happening.”
“Of course we can't do that,” I mutter. “It's completely out of the question. I did not work to bring her back, only to immediately put her back under. Besides, until I understand the mechanisms that are at work here, I cannot be sure that I would ever be able to wake her again.”
“Then what is the alternative?” he continues, his voice filled with tension. “With all due respect, Doctor Grazier, I do not think I can silence her like this forever.”
“But -”
“She's not even breathing!”
I open my mouth to ask what he means, but then I realize that he is right. Catherine's body has been screaming for several minutes now, and she has not even paused to take a breath. Indeed, I do not even understand the mechanism by which this can be happening.
“Catherine,” I say finally, hoping against hope that I can get through to her, “my darling, listen to me.”
I place my hands on her shoulders, trying to create some kind of physical link that might stir her mind. I have tried this already, of course, but I still cannot give up. Not yet. There has to be some spark of Catherine's true self, something I can contact with words and with the touch of my hand.
I am not a man who believes in souls, but if I did, I would say that it is her soul I am attempting to reach now. She is in there somewhere, perhaps trying desperately to speak to me.
I must help her, and encourage her. And perhaps most of all, she needs time.
“You were gone for a few days,” I explain. “You were so sick and so hopeless, and I do not blame you for what you did to yourself. If that is your fear, that you shall face recriminations, then I promise you nothing could be further from the truth. You have experienced something that nobody else in the history of mankind has ever experienced, and it is all because I – your husband – managed to cheat death on your behalf. Your body is...”
My voice trails off for a moment, as it occurs to me that this explanation is hopeless.
She is not listening. And as I look into her eyes, I cannot help but wonder whether she is even capable of listening.
“Perhaps we should screw her mouth shut,” Jack suggests.
“Do not say such things!” I snap.
“Or wrap wire around her jaw.”
“Stop saying such things!” I reply. “That is an order!”
“It would work, would it not?” he continues. “As a temporary fix, I mean. Merely while you determine the nature of whatever is happening to her.” He pauses for a moment, as if he expects me to suddenly agree. “Doctor Grazier, surely you understand that something has gone wrong. While you check your notes and try to decide what we should do next, it is imperative that her scream is somehow silenced.”
“You would have me force my wife's mouth shut?” I ask. “As if she is a common dog?”
“
I would have you help her,” he says firmly, “and if that requires her to be compelled into silence for a time, then yes, I would have you force her mouth shut. Would such a move really be that much more of an indignity than all the other things you have done so far?”
“You came here to help me, did you not?” I reply. “To support my work. That is what you told me.”
“I did, and -”
“So remember your place,” I continue, as I realize that I must check my notes and try to work out what to do next. “Keep your hand over her mouth, by all means. You are right to worry about people hearing the sound. The world is filled with people who know not how to mind their own business, so it is imperative to ensure that they do not come knocking at the door. Nobody is to be allowed into this house until I have determined a solution to this situation. The risk is simply too great.”
I pause, staring at Catherine and feeling my heart break as I realize that she is still trapped somewhere in there, unable to break free.
“And you are not to move until I came back,” I add, turning to Jack. “Is that understood? Keep your hand over her mouth. Not too hard, but enough to ensure her silence.”
“You want me to stay exactly like this?” he asks, with his hand still over Catherine's mouth.
“Is there some reason why you cannot?”
“Well, I...”
He looks at the side of her face.
“For how long?” he asks finally.
“For as long as it takes, man.”
“But...”
He seems lost for words, as if he can't believe that this is what I want from him. Perhaps, in his simple-minded way, he is starting to feel overcome by fear. If that is the case, he is in grave danger of losing his usefulness.
“Hopefully you can at least follow simple instructions,” I mutter, before taking a sheet from the counter and arranging it over Catherine's torso, so as to afford her a little dignity.
After all, she has always been a proud woman, and she would not want to be exposed to Jack's eyes in this manner. He has already seen too much.