The Lady Screams

by Cross, Amy

“I'd say you're seventeen.”

  “Well, I'm eighteen.”

  “Well, I think you're lying,” he replies, “but that's okay, I won't take it personally. You're bad at lying, which suggests you don't do it very often.”

  “Sure I do,” I reply, before realizing what I just said. “I mean, I don't. Honestly.”

  He chuckles.

  “I'm not a kid!” I tell him, and I know I sound too defensive. “Please, don't call the police. I'll run if you do.”

  “I already promised I wouldn't do that,” he says with a smile. “The more you mention it, though, the more I start to wonder what's going on with you. Then again, I suppose it's none of my business, is it? All I care about is what you've been doing inside that house.”

  Turning away, he bumps against one of the desks, almost knocking over a pile of books. He mutters some obscenities under his breath, before stopping and looking around.

  “What was I doing?” he asks. “Oh yes, I was making tea. And I was telling you that I don't believe you're eighteen. Seventeen, maybe. That I'd believe. Now, you said your name's Maddie, didn't you?”

  I nod.

  “Is that your real name,” he continues, “or a fake one you give people?”

  “It's my real name,” I tell him. “I wasn't quick enough to think about giving a false one.”

  “Huh.” He stares at me for a moment, before heading back over to the almost-boiling kettle. “Well, I believe you on that point. See? We're making progress. Now tell me, were you in the house a few nights ago? I know someone was, I spotted a figure leaving the place the other morning.”

  “That was me,” I reply.

  “Good, now you're telling me the truth all the time. I like that.”

  “I didn't take anything,” I add, even though I can't stop thinking about the earrings that somehow ended up in my pocket. I guess maybe I did take them, but I don't remember. “I just needed somewhere to go for a while. I was hurt and I had to get off the streets.”

  “Hurt? How?”

  The kettle finishes boiling, and he immediately starts pouring water into the mugs.

  “It's a long story,” I tell him.

  “Fine, keep it to yourself.” He lifts the mugs one at a time, examining their undersides, before coming over and setting the red one in front of me. “You can have the cup that isn't leaking a bit,” he continues. “It's got Justin Bieber on it, although it's faded so it's hard to tell. Still, you probably like him. I'm going to take a wild guess that number nine no longer has any kind of water supply. Or anything much at all.”

  “I haven't checked.”

  “Nobody's been paying the bills,” he explains, shuffling back to his mug and picking it up, taking a moment to peer at the drips that are coming from the underside. “The place is abandoned and no-one wants to go there. Seeing as you've been inside, I'm going to guess that you've already figured out why.”

  “Not really,” I reply, still holding the various tins and bottles I bought at the shop.

  I wait for him to continue, but he seems lost in thought for a moment as he stares down at his mug.

  “I pay attention to that house,” he says finally, with a hint of fear in his voice. As he turns to me, I see that I was right about the fear. In fact, he looks genuinely terrified. “I pay a lot of attention to it. You might even say that I've been keeping records of the place. Strictly from the outside, of course. I never go in. I've never been in, not in all my life.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Something awful happened there a long time ago,” he says, fixing me with a dark stare, “and there are ghosts to prove it. I mean, come on... Do you seriously not know the history of the place? Do you not know about Doctor Charles Grazier and his wife and the great tragedy that took place in that house, back in October of the year 1888?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

  “It is done,” I whisper, as I stare at the miracle that I have created. “It... I believe it is working.”

  I pause for a moment longer, genuinely shocked, before finally taking a step back. There is still a part of me that thinks this is impossible, that believes I have finally overstepped my limits. While I was conducting the procedure, I worried that perhaps I had become delusional, and in truth I was constantly expecting something to go wrong. Yet nothing did go wrong, at least so far as I could tell, and now my trembling hands have done their work. I have focused so firmly on the details of the task, and this is my first chance to see the full marvel.

  And what a marvel it is.

  The washer girl's heart still beats in her opened chest, but it does not pump blood around her body. Instead, thanks to a series of connections and artificial tubes, it pumps blood over to the slab and into Catherine's body, from which the old heart has now been removed. The connections between the tubes are not perfect, and blood is already dribbling out, but that is something I can fix in a moment. For now, I cannot help but marvel at what I have created.

  And somehow, improbably, the heart still beats. I suppose it knows not to where it pumps its blood, or from where it receives a fresh supply in return. It knows only that it has a job to do, and it has been tricked into believing that it must still work.

  “Can I let go now?” Jack asks.

  Having almost forgotten that he was even here, I look at him and see that he is standing at the head of the slab, with his left hand over Catherine's mouth as she sits upright and his right hand on the face of the girl. Perhaps the lighting in here is a little off, but I cannot help noticing that Jack appears rather pale.

  “Not yet,” I tell him. “You must wait a little longer.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks, looking down at the washer girl's face. “She cannot possibly cry out now. Her head is no longer connected to her heart. There is no blood being pumped into her brain or -”

  “You are not the medical expert here,” I point out. “Do not think to offer me advice. You will stay in that position until I tell you that you are free to move. If the past few days have taught us anything, it is to be prepared for surprises.”

  In truth, he is almost certainly right. The washer girl is surely far beyond the point of return, yet I wish to punish Jack for his insolence, so he will keep his hand on the girl's mouth for as long as I deem it necessary. Indeed, I might have him keep his hand there for the rest of the day and through to the next morning, or for even longer if he continues to ask foolish questions. Quite frankly, I could have him remain in that position until I need him for some other task.

  When it comes to Jack, I can do whatever I want.

  Stepping around the side of the slab, I make my way closer to Catherine and look at the tubes running in and out of her chest, and then I look at her eyes. She is still staring straight ahead, her expression unchanged ever since the moment she first woke, and Jack's left hand remains clamped firmly over her mouth. I want to believe that the scream will be over now, yet I can already see that Jack is still struggling to keep her silent. Beneath his hand, Catherine's jaw still twitches.

  “This cannot work,” he says suddenly.

  I turn to him.

  “Look at what you have done,” he continues. “It is monstrous, and what is more, it cannot function. Not for any length of time, at least. Blood is leaking and -”

  “You don't know what you're talking about,” I tell him.

  “I can see what is in front of me.”

  “You were the one who told me I could achieve this,” I point out. “You were the one who stirred this idea in me and reminded me of my capabilities. Are you now, after all you have seen, losing faith?”

  “No,” he replies, “but this...”

  He looks down for a moment at the washer girl. Poor Jack. His cretinous little brain cannot comprehend what he is seeing. He tries, and I suppose that is admirable to some degree, but he simply lacks the ability to understand my work. An ant would have a better chance of understa
nding a lamppost.

  “There were supposed to be rules,” he continues finally. “You told me you would never take someone from the street so close to your home.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “You also told me you would never take someone in daylight.”

  “Again, circumstances compelled me.”

  “What is next, Doctor Grazier?” he asks, with a hint of desperation in his voice. “A child? Or a -”

  “Do not rush to judgment,” I reply, cutting him off before he can spew more of this nonsense. “It will take time for the fruits of this work to become apparent.”

  “And must I stand like this for as long as you deem necessary?”

  “Yes, you must,” I tell him sharply. “Unless you wish to forego the entire venture, in which case I can find another brute to take your place.”

  I wait for an answer, and for a few seconds I actually begin to worry that he might accept this course of action. That he might remove his hands from the mouths of Catherine and the washer girl, and that I might have to cut his throat before taking his place myself. He is not indispensable, he is not remotely vital to the success of my work, but it would be a genuine inconvenience if I were to require a replacement at this juncture. Glancing over at the counter, I even see the very knife that I would use to kill him.

  That I will use, when the time comes.

  “I will not abandon you,” he says finally. “I believe in you, Doctor Grazier. This work might seem fanciful to me, but I lack your education and your knowledge. I defer to your better judgment.”

  “That is very wise,” I reply, letting my gaze linger on the knife for a moment longer before turning to look at Catherine.

  I suppose I had hoped for some quick, miracle change in her condition, but it is not to be. The fresh blood is still working its way around her body, so I must be patient.

  She will come back to me soon.

  My Catherine.

  “She still tries to scream,” Jack adds.

  “I supposed that to be the case,” I mutter, stepping around my wife and seeing that trickles of blood are running from the gaps in her chest. Some loss is to be expected, although this is a little much and I shall have to fix the leaks soon. “It will take time for the fresh blood to reach her brain, and for that blood to stir the necessary processes that will return her mind to its full capacity.”

  As I speak those words, I know that they are rooted as much in hope as in medicine. Fortunately, Jack has no way of knowing that.

  “For now,” I continue, “I must go upstairs and conduct more research. I usually plan these procedures in advance, but this time I had to rely on my brilliance without much prior planning. Now I must go back over my work and ensure that I made no mistakes. And you, in turn, shall stay down here and ensure that both mouths remain silent.”

  “I can do that,” he replies. “So long as you do not add a third mouth to my task, I mean.”

  Ignoring his attempt at humor, I make my way over to the door and then up to the hallway. Truly, my knees feel rather weak, and I cannot deny that Jack was correct when he implied that I have overstepped my earlier limits. It was rash of me to venture out in broad daylight and obtain that washer girl, and I am extremely fortunate to have managed to get her all the way back here without being seen. Then again, I worked quickly and I came up with a plan, and then I executed that plan without deviation. Perhaps I am better than I had anticipated when it comes to improvisation.

  But now that I have gone past my limits, I shall return past them. This was just a brief foray to the extreme. Nothing permanent.

  ***

  For the next few hours, I sit at my desk and work, going over every medical paper in my possession. I half expect to find something that dooms the latest procedure, but in truth the science actually seems to hold up. The only major leap I must make concerns Catherine's brain, and I must admit that there is a danger she has suffered irreversible damage. Then again, if even a part of her persists, I shall be able to adjust to a new life. All that matters is that Catherine is back in some form. Without her, I would have no appetite for life.

  Without her, I would go back to my original plan. And this time, I would not allow Jack to save me and bandage my wrists. Else, perhaps I would find some other way to end my life.

  No.

  I must not think of these things.

  I must work calmly and methodically, setting emotion aside as much as possible, until Catherine is fully recovered. And then I shall look back on these dark days as an aberration, as a brief period outside my usual limits. I am merely doing what is necessary, but these actions do not change me. I am still Doctor Charles Grazier, and I am still a man of principle and of honor.

  Finally, as evening draws close, I hear a commotion outside the house. I ignore the babbling noise for a while, but eventually I get to my feet and head over to the window. When I look out at the street, I feel an immediate tightening fear in my chest as I see that several police officers are gathered a little way along Cathmore Road, near the alley from which I took the girl. For a few seconds, I try to fool myself into thinking that they are here in an unrelated matter, but I am quickly disabused of some a notion.

  They are here about the girl.

  And then, a moment later, I see Inspector Sanderson of Scotland Yard stepping away from the officers, and I realize that the washer girl's disappearance must have raised particular alarm. My first thought is that I am undone, yet I quickly remind myself that her loss was bound to be noticed. None of this means that my involvement is in any way suspected, and I force myself to focus on the fact that I am a gentleman of great standing. It is ludicrous to believe that anyone from Scotland Yard would even suspect that I am capable of these crimes. Indeed, just recently I was asked to advise the police on these matters, which would not have happened if they suspected my involvement.

  Suddenly Inspector Sanderson turns and looks straight at me.

  For a moment, no expression crosses his face. I consider stepping back, but I know that this might make me appear a little unusual, so I hold my position in the window until finally the man nods an acknowledgment.

  I nod in return, and then he gets back to work with his officers.

  Once I am certain that he is no longer going to look this way, I step back from the window. My heart is racing so fast, I feel I might even faint, but after a moment I am able to get myself under control. I know that Sanderson cannot suspect me, yet I cannot help but keep replaying his gaze over and over in my mind, picking at every aspect.

  He does not suspect me.

  He cannot.

  I am safe.

  He is a fool. He lacks the necessary intelligence to understand the truth.

  He does not suspect me.

  He is an intelligent man. He knows that I could not possibly be involved.

  I am safe.

  Chapter Twenty

  Maddie

  Today

  “They say Charles Grazier was a great surgeon,” Jerry explains as we sit at his kitchen table. “A lousy man, maybe, but a great surgeon. Maybe a little too great. From what I've uncovered in my research, the man seems to have had something of an ego problem.”

  “I think I saw a photo of him,” I reply cautiously. “There are some photos in the bedrooms.”

  “There are?” He hesitates for a moment. “I'd like to see those some time. I'd be much obliged if you could bring them out so that I can make copies, maybe...”

  His voice trails off, and finally he furrows his brow.

  “Maybe that wouldn't be a good idea,” he adds finally. “Maybe things that are in that house, should stay in there. Don't want anything escaping, do we?”

  “Escaping?”

  He seems to be on the verge of saying something, but then he looks down at the folders in front of him. He takes a moment to sort through them, and it's clear that he was telling the truth when he said he'd done a lot of research. He seems to have a huge amount of documentatio
n, as well as books filled with scribbled notes. At first, when he told me about his work, I assumed 9 Cathmore Road was just one of the topics he'd been studying, but now I'm starting to think that it's the sole subject of all these folders.

  In which case... I don't know whether to be impressed or a little scared.

  “After Charles Grazier committed suicide,” he continues finally, as he opens one of the folders, “the police went into the house. The man's wife had been sick for a long time, and nobody had set eyes on her. There'd been rumors that maybe she was already dead, but Grazier himself had apparently claimed he was close to curing her. Even his fellow surgeons gave him the benefit of the doubt. That should tell you how he was viewed. They put aside their natural skepticism and considered the possibility that he'd made a breakthrough. And then the police went into that place and saw the truth.”

  “So what did they find?” I ask.

  “They didn't find the wife, that's for sure. They found medical equipment in the basement, but the wife's body was gone. What he'd done to it, nobody ever figured out. The most popular theory at the time was that she'd died at some point much earlier, and that he'd been carrying out home-brew procedures to try to save her. When they failed, he probably burned her or got rid of her some other way. If you ask me, it'd be worth digging up the garden to see if that's where she ended up.”

  “They didn't do that at the time?”

  “Nobody wanted to spend much time there,” he explains. “Even the people who were sent to board up the windows refused to work there alone. From what I'm told, four men went in at any one time, and all four of them stayed together in each room. They even drew straws to decide who'd be the first to go into a room, with his buddies just a couple of paces behind. I'm sure you've noticed, the house has a certain... atmosphere.”

  “It's empty,” I point out. “There's nothing wrong with it.”

  “You don't feel it?” he asks. “You don't feel the sense of dread that everyone else gets when they're too close to the place?”

  “I guess it's spooky,” I reply, “but ghosts aren't real.”