The Lady Screams

by Cross, Amy

  “Indeed, Sir.”

  “Do not fear the brute,” I continue, looking back at Catherine's chest as I resume the task of sewing her shut. “He is here to help me, and nothing more. I know his hands must feel harsh against your delicate mouth, but soon he shall be gone and then you shall never have to endure his touch again. You and I shall be together again, and our lives shall go back to how they once were. Perhaps soon we can take a holiday. We can get out of London, perhaps we can go to Cornwall again, and then -”

  Before I can finish, a section of skin tears away from her chest and falls into my hands, leaving a gaping hole that exposes her broken ribs and part of her new heart.

  “Never mind that,” I mutter, setting the piece of skin aside before turning my attention back to her chest. “A few cosmetic issues are to be expected. They are easily fixed.”

  I attempt to draw the remaining skin tighter, to cover the hole, yet this merely causes another section to come away in my hands. I try a few more times, with the same result, until I realize that I am in danger of tearing her apart. Already, the weight of her left breast seems to be pulling another section of skin loose, and I am worried that any more damage will cause her entire chest to come away.

  “Perhaps we shall find some other method of covering this section,” I explain. “After all, who but I will ever see this part of you? Why, I shall purchase the most beautiful dress for you, my dear, and nobody will be any the wiser. Indeed, you sometimes spoke of wanting to lose a little weight. I always told you that you looked perfect, but now you are getting your wish. Albeit in a rather different manner than one might have imagined.”

  Realizing that I am rambling, and that I am on the verge of sounding nonsensical, I resolve to focus on the task at hand. Instead of trying again to stretch Catherine's remaining skin, I simply work to stitch the sections that naturally come together, while leaving several gaps. The overall appearance is rather disturbing, and as I come close to finishing I cannot help but wonder whether there is some other idea that I might try, but at least I am doing something. Most husbands, when their wives die, simply accept this fact and become widowers. I, however, have stepped up to the challenge.

  Until this moment, I never realized that I could be so romantic.

  “And there we go,” I say with a smile, as I set the wire aside. “What a beautiful woman. Truly beautiful.”

  I turn and tidy my tools, although after a moment I realize that I am avoiding the moment when I shall have to turn back to Catherine and admire the sum total of my handiwork. There is no reason for this avoidance, of course, yet I still find it difficult to force myself to look, and it takes a few minutes before I finally accept that the moment has come. First, though, I try to remind myself that Catherine can never look anything less than stunning.

  Taking a deep breath, I turn and see that she has not moved at all, that her eyes still stare straight ahead, but that at least now her chest is partially closed and sewn shut. And somehow that closed chest makes her look more normal, more like her old self. There might still be a long way to go, but at least I can now see that we're on the right path, and that eventually all this work is bound to pay off.

  “I must fetch her favorite dress,” I mutter, turning and heading toward the door.

  “Sir?” Jack replies, sounding a little more worried than before. “Are you leaving me down here with her again?”

  “She will feel more like herself once she is wearing her own clothes,” I continue, ignoring his pathetic question. “And jewellery, too. Some earrings and a necklace. She always loved dressing up for an evening out, so it is only natural that she will react favorably when I bring a few things down for her to see.”

  “Are you sure this is the right moment for such things?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Simply that you have not yet finished putting all her new organs into her body. Should that not be your focus?”

  “I hardly think you know what you are talking about,” I reply, stopping and looking back at him for a moment. “Do not question me. I believe Catherine will benefit from some reminders of her life.”

  “But -”

  “And that is final!” I snap. “I am in charge here! I am in control! If you question me again, there will be consequences! Do you understand?”

  He pauses.

  “Yes, Sir,” he says finally. “I am truly sorry, Sir.”

  “You will wait here,” I add, turning and heading out of the basement. “And when I return, you will cease these constant interruptions.”

  He mutters something as I hurry up the stairs, but I pay no attention. He is nothing more than a laborer, someone whose job is to do what he is told. Already he talks too much, and the only consolation is the knowledge that very, very soon I shall be able to get rid of him. After all, Catherine is on the verge of being fully back, and – as I cross the hallway and then start making my way up to her bedroom – I feel more certain than ever that I have made the most astonishing breakthrough.

  Soon, Catherine and I shall have our old lives back, and everything will be wonderful again.

  Chapter Ten

  Maddie

  Today

  These blades are covered in blood. At least, I think it's blood. Holding up a large saw so that I can see its serrated edge in the flashlight's beam, I realize that I was right. The metal has been stained by something dark, and the saw's teeth look a little blunt in places, so I guess this thing saw some use in its day.

  And then all this equipment got left behind.

  Nobody came back for any of it. Nobody even cleaned it properly. It all just stayed right here, in the basement of an abandoned house. I might be the first person who's touched any of this stuff in over a century. It's sad in a way, to think that a place like this was left completely undisturbed, and I can't really understand how that could happen. Somebody must have noticed the house, and must have wondered who owns it now. It's hard to believe that in the twenty-first century, a house can just stand unnoticed like this.

  Setting the saw down, I pick up a scalpel and see that this, too, shows sign of wear and tear. It's difficult to believe that anybody would have carried out actual operations down here, but then I guess maybe things were different back in the Victorian era. Maybe it was totally normal for people to show up at a doctor's house and ask for treatment, and for him to lead them down into the basement and start cutting into them. If that is what happened, the agony must have been overwhelming. There must have been a lot of screams down here.

  I guess standards were pretty slack back then, but still...

  “Give me anesthetic any day,” I whisper, as I peer more closely at the scalpel's edge and see more tell-tale dark stains. “There'd be no -”

  Stopping suddenly, I see another scalpel resting on the counter. Picking it up, I see that this too is stained, but that in this case the stain seems a lot more vibrantly red, almost as if it was used more recently. I run the side of my finger against the metal, and sure enough a faint hint of blood wipes away against my skin. I'm not exactly an expert, but it's hard to believe that blood could have lasted for so long, especially when all the other scalpels are dry and old. For a moment, it occurs to me that maybe someone else has been down here, but then I realize that there's one other possibility.

  The other night I came to this house in a really bad way. I was bleeding, I might even have been dying, yet later I woke up and found that my wound had been taken care of and stitched.

  What if I really, truly did all of that myself?

  My first thought is that the idea's crazy, that it's impossible. I'd have likely passed out from the pain, or at least from the loss of blood. I can't seriously believe that I performed minor surgery on myself, in the dark, with no experience at all, while I was shivering and sobbing. And yet, the more I think about the idea, the more I start to feel as if I'm peeling away layers and getting closer to what really happened.

  I remember coming down here, and I rememb
er realizing suddenly that I was bleeding a lot more than I'd noticed. I really panicked for a moment.

  I remember I'd left bloodied foot-prints.

  I remember collapsing, toppling onto my side. For a few seconds, I think I actually began to wonder whether I'd ever get back up again, or whether I'd die right here in this dark, forgotten basement.

  Then the next thing I remember is waking up for a moment on the slab, and feeling the most excruciating pain. Those few seconds between blackouts are still so vivid:

  Gasping, I realize I can feel something digging into my waist. I reach down and immediately feel my fingers brushing against some kind of thick black wire. I have no idea what's happening, but I think I'm flat on my back.

  I remember whimpering, and then...

  No, wait.

  I think I finally remember something else from that night.

  The whole thing seems crazy, but I think I remember climbing up onto the slab myself, with a scalpel in one trembling hand and a load of black wire in the other. I'd forgotten until now, but suddenly I have a very distinct memory of settling back against the table and then reaching down to touch my throbbing, bleeding wound. I was shaking with fear, and with cold, and I was absolutely terrified. I think I was whispering to myself, although I don't remember what I was saying. And then I started cutting away some loose sections of skin, slicing them from the sides of the wound so that I could get rid of them. I remember the pain was getting worse and worse, but I was determined not to scream.

  And I could taste peaches in my mouth, really strongly.

  I can't taste peaches now, but I remember the taste. It was overwhelming, but at the time it didn't really seem important. I guess I was more focused on the fact that I was bleeding to death.

  I remember stitching the wound shut. I drove the black wire through my own skin, reaching into the wound to draw the wiry ends out so that I could keep going. My hands were covered in blood, but something was driving me onward. Even though the pain was intense, I never slowed or faltered. It was almost as if – despite the agony – my hands had a mind of their own and were simply getting on with what needed to be done. Somehow I managed to keep working.

  But I did scream.

  Now I remember. I tried for so long to stay quiet. I bit my bottom lip, but the pain was too strong. Eventually I screamed louder than I ever thought possible. I kept working, I didn't even slow, but my head was tilted back and I was screaming in the darkness. Frankly, it's a miracle that nobody heard me and came to check the house out, but I guess maybe the sound didn't travel too far from the basement. And now that I remember my scream, I'm genuinely shocked to think that I could ever have forgotten about it in the first place.

  I was crying, too.

  Tears were running down the sides of my face as I lay flat on my back. I felt so alone and scared.

  In the memory, I can see every moment of what I was doing, but now it occurs to me that I was actually in absolute, pitch darkness. It's as if somehow I simply knew, instinctively, how to sew that knife wound shut. I worked slowly and methodically, pushing through the pain, until finally the stitches were complete and then I used the scalpel to cut the end of the wire. That's when I finally stopped screaming and simply lay sobbing instead, and then...

  And then this memory links into another part that I remembered already:

  I try to sit up, but an excruciating pain rips through my waist and I let out a brief whimper as I settle back down. My hands are still shaking and my fingers are getting wrapped deep in the wire, causing the wire's loops to tug at the wound, and my fingers are wet and sticky with blood. I try to pull my hands away, and finally I'm able to disentangle the fingers of my right hand from all the wire.

  I was so confused. I barely even realized I was on the stone slab at the time, but then I was about to scream again when suddenly:

  Suddenly a hand clamps tight over my mouth, pushing down hard as I try to scream.

  It was my hand. As soon as my hands were free of the wire, I reached up and put my own hand on my mouth, to keep myself from screaming. And I kept it there as the storm raged outside, and I stayed conscious all through the night with that overpowering taste of peaches in my mouth. I didn't pass out at all, not even for one second. I simply stayed on the slab, still shivering and still whispering to myself, for hours and hours.

  I think the sound of the storm even soothed me a little, until it eventually died down.

  And then morning came, and the taste of peaches vanished in an instant, and I blinked and suddenly I felt as if I was waking up, even though I'd been awake the whole time. I didn't remember stitching myself, and I even entertained the idea that maybe there was somebody else here in the house with me. I imagined some brilliant but shy surgeon who was hiding in the shadows, when the truth is that I'd performed the entire procedure myself.

  I remember clambering off the slab, dazed and confused, and stumbling toward the steps. Somehow, I'd completely forgotten everything that I'd done to myself. I must have been out of my mind.

  Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the early stages of a fever, but I must have been almost insane. I guess in my panicked state I somehow managed how to figure out a way to stitch myself shut, using equipment that's more than a century old. It's no surprise, then, that I ended up with an infection. In fact, what's surprising is that I didn't die from that infection. I know I used to read medical books sometimes as a kid, when I was dreaming that I might be a doctor some day, but it's still hard to believe that I retained enough of that knowledge – even on a subconscious level – to actually stitch my wound together.

  Then again, there's no other possible explanation.

  I guess it's true what they say. When you've discounted all the impossible ideas, what you're left with – however crazy it might seem – has to be the answer. And unless I'm going to start believing in ghosts or mysterious saviors who come in the night and then vanish, I have to have been the one who performed the procedure, down here in the dark on an old slab with really old tools. I guess when you're really injured, and it's a life or death situation, the survival instinct really kicks in hard.

  I've got to say, as the peach taste briefly returns and then fades again, I'm actually slightly impressed that I did any of that at all. And that I screamed so loud.

  Chapter Eleven

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

  “These are perfect,” I whisper, holding up the pair of earrings that I found on Catherine's nightstand. “Her favorites. They will surely remind her of the good times. And fill her heart with thoughts of what is to come.”

  Indeed, I distinctly recall purchasing these earrings for her while we were in Cornwall. We walked past a shop and she stopped, clearly taken by the sight of them, and I could not bear to see her disappointed. I have always wanted nothing but the best for my darling wife, and I marched straight into that shop and purchased the earrings without further ado. Nowadays, I could purchase ten such pairs every day, but back then I was far less secure and the cost of the earrings caused me considerable worry. Yet I did not regret my decision, not at all, because I saw the pure delight on her face when she realized what I had done.

  I knew from that moment that the sole purpose of the rest of my life would be to make her as happy as possible.

  I also remember the first time she wore these earrings. They glittered as she come out to join me on the terrace for dinner. Again, I was rather extending my finances in an effort to make her happy, but I was at the beginning of my career and I simply had faith that I would eventually rise to become the man I am today. I don't know that Catherine ever realized how much strength she gave me, and how she was partially responsible for my success, but I shall make sure that I tell her once she has recovered. And one day, we shall go out to dinner again, just like the old days.

  How I long to feel that happiness again.

  Looking down at the earrings now, I am momentarily moved to wonder whether th
ey will even stay put when I slip them onto her ears. I have studied her damaged body a great deal, but I do not believe I have paid great attention to her ears. It is possible that the earrings will now be too heavy, and that they might tear through the lobes. That would be a great shame, and I worry that the effect might be to dampen rather than heighten her spirits. It might be best, then, to wait until I have had a chance to inspect Catherine's ears and, if necessary, to strengthen the lobes.

  It is with some reluctance that I set the earrings back on their little hook, but I make myself one very important promise. The next time these earrings are touched, it must be by Catherine herself, when she comes up here to get ready for our next night out. I look forward very much to the day when I stand at the door and see her sitting right here at her dresser. I would even like to hear her complain about some minor error of mine, just so that I can hear her voice again. She is the best part of me, and I cannot last much longer without her.

  After a moment, realizing that there are tears gathering in my eyes, I take a deep breath and resolve to remain focused on the task at hand. Deep in the darkest recesses of my mind, there are doubts gathering. Those doubts are poison, and they must be ignored, so I turn and head out of the room. Catherine needs me to remain calm and steady. She needs me to bring her the last little part of the way home.

  ***

  “Take your hand from her mouth.”

  “Doctor Grazier, I -”

  “Do it, man. Stop questioning my orders and just do it.”

  I wait for Jack to obey me, yet he seems hesitant. Still standing just behind Catherine, with his hands holding her mouth shut, he stares at the side of her face with an expression of pure fear. In truth, I am seeing a different side of him today. It is as if all his confidence has faded away, and now he is scared of what might happen next.

  “Don't make me tell you again,” I say finally. “She will not scream, I am sure of it. She has had long enough to get used to her new heart. Take your hands away from her mouth, and the heart will surely start beating.”