The Body at Auercliff

by Amy Cross

  “I like bread and butter,” I tell him, although I immediately wince as I realize that I should probably have kept my mouth shut. Looking down at my plate, I suddenly feel a little woozy.

  “That's it!” Daddy says suddenly, getting to his feet and pointing toward the door. “Go to your room, Verity! Now!”

  “But Daddy, I just -”

  “Now, Verity!”

  Sighing, I stand and push my chair back, but I don't leave the room, not yet. I can feel tears welling in my eyes, but I'm damn well not going to let anyone see that I'm upset. I can also feel sweat under my armpits, and behind my knees, which is a rather yucky sensation.

  “You're being terribly sensitive about this,” I tell Daddy, hoping that he might change his mind. “One might almost wonder whether you're -”

  “Out!” he roars, starting to look really red-faced now.

  “Mummy,” I continue, turning to her, “you're not going to -”

  “You heard your father,” she says tartly, not even looking at me as she daintily cuts a slice of beef on her plate. “You've been rather gauche and loud all evening, Verity. Perhaps it would be as well for you to spend the evening alone.”

  I should have known she wouldn't be on my side. She always meekly agrees with Daddy.

  “And you're not to go up and keep her company,” Daddy adds, turning to Martin. “Is that understood?”

  “You can't be serious,” I reply, starting to feel a rush of panic in my chest. “What am I supposed to do up in my room alone all evening? That's barbarous, it's -”

  “Now!” he yells, before hurrying around the table as if he means to grab my arm and drag me upstairs himself.

  “Mummy,” I stammer, turning to her, “please -”

  “What did I tell you?” Daddy shouts, taking hold of my collar and hauling me toward the door. “You need to learn to respect your elders, my girl, and perhaps a short, sharp shock is just the way to get your mind working properly. You're fourteen years old and it's time you grew up!”

  “But -”

  Before I can get another word out, he drags me into the hallway and then shoves me in the back, sending me clattering to the ground until I land hard on my knees next to the old, broken grandfather clock. I want to turn and tell Daddy that he's being too strict, but tears are running down my cheeks so instead I turn away so he can't see me crying. I hate the way I always start to sob whenever I'm even slightly upset. It's as if my body is betraying me, keenly showing the world my every weakness. Between the easy sobbing and the harelip, I can be awfully wretched at times.

  Feeling a pain in my bandaged left hand, I look down and see blood soaking through the fabric. In falling to the floor, I evidently re-opened the wound.

  “Well?” Daddy asks, towering over me. “Are you going to go to your room, or do I have to drag you up the stairs myself? I'll do it if you continue to push me, Verity.”

  Slowly, still keeping my face hidden from him as I sniff back tears, I get to my feet and start stumbling up toward my room. Every step feels heavy, and I want nothing more than to turn around and tell him to go to hell. At the same time, I know there's no point doing anything that'll get my punishment extended, so I simply keep going until I reach the top of the stairs and look along the dark, unlit corridor that leads to the bedrooms.

  A bead of sweat is dribbling down the inside of my leg.

  “You'll thank me one day for being so strict,” Daddy tells me from down in the hallway. “You need a little discipline, young lady. No daughter of mine is going to grow up rough and uncouth, do you hear me? Maybe that makes me old-fashioned, but it's just the way it is. This entire family has had more than enough of your lip for one night!”

  A shudder runs through my chest.

  That was a dig at my harelip, I'm sure of it. Daddy's always hated the way I look.

  Hearing him heading back into the dining room, I glance down the stairs. Tears are still running down my face along with the sweat, and I deeply resent Daddy for being so harsh with me, but I figure I shall just have to suck it up. Besides, being in my room for the rest of the evening won't be that bad. At least I shan't have to listen to everyone else's inane chatter for hours on end. Perhaps I shall write a new poem, one about the harshness of the world, and about the suffering of those with curious minds.

  Making my way to my room, I have to steady myself a little against the wall. All things considered, I feel rather hot, sweaty and discombobulated.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I can hear them down there, laughing and singing in the reception room. Mummy and Aunt Mary are taking turns on the piano, and Daddy is exercising his falsetto. I bet Martin's even joining in, having the time of his life and forgetting all about me as I sit up here in my little bedroom with the lights off.

  It'd serve them all right if I disappeared.

  I've been trying to write in my journal, to come up with a poem about how hopeless I feel, but my head seems too muddy and soupy. In fact, several beads of sweat have dripped from my face onto the page, and I seem to be a little feverish. These aren't prime poetry-writing conditions and I rather feel that the evening isn't going to be productive.

  Plus, the effort of holding a pencil has caused my damaged hand to throb. A small patch of blood has already soaked through, and now the bandage feels very tight.

  Finally I toss both the journal and the pencil aside.

  The throbbing in my hand is getting worse.

  Not wanting to turn the electric light on, I crawl across the bed until I'm in a patch of moonlight, and then I start unwrapping the bandage. To be honest, there's more blood than I expected, and I'm starting to think that maybe Martin was right when he said I should get this thing checked out by an actual doctor. Still, there's no way I'm going to admit I was wrong now, so I simply pull the bandage all the way until I get to the final part, which is stuck to the wound. I have to tug a little harder, but slowly the bandage lifts off and I see the thick, glistening wet cut running deep into the meat of my hand.

  I try moving my fingers, which at first isn't easy at all. After a few tries, however, I'm just about able to curl the hand into a fist, while wincing at the sharp pain flashing through my flesh. My hand is definitely swollen, and the flesh is a kind of pinkish-red all around the wound.

  “Stupid Martin,” I mutter under my breath. “It's his fault I fell on the bloody knife in the first place.”

  Realizing that I don't have any spare gauze to wrap on the wound, I get to my feet and head over to the door, which I pull open just a fraction so I can lean out into the dark corridor. I can hear the voices from downstairs more clearly now, and it sounds like they're all having a real hoot. Aunt Mary is playing piano, and in the space of just thirty seconds I hear Mummy, Daddy, Uncle Roger and Martin all suggesting songs for her to try next. I suppose I was right after all, then. They're having far more fun without me.

  Stepping out into the corridor, I pull the door shut before making my way through the darkness. Rather than going down to the kitchen and risking getting caught, I decide to head to the older part of the house, where the servants used to live. I'm sure Martha keeps some spare bandages in one of the cupboards, so I can fix my hand up and return to my room before anyone knows I'm gone. The last thing I want is to give Daddy the satisfaction of telling me off again, especially when all I want is to sort my hand out and then be left alone. If I can get the swelling down a little, I might even be able to write a poem.

  “Bunch of idiots,” I mumble as I head along the next corridor. At that moment, I hear Martin talking loudly, and I feel another flash of resentment. He sounds so comfortable and happy down there. Then again, he's always been very comfortable among the adults. He's two years older than me, but he acts so stuffy.

  Reaching the older, colder western wing of the house, I push the door open and look along a deserted corridor. I know I'll get into a lot of trouble if I'm caught out of my room, but I refuse to stay cooped up in there like a prisoner. Besides,
I need to get some attention for my hand or I'll end up bleeding to death.

  As I make my way along the corridor, I can just imagine my stupid parents standing over my pale, lifeless body.

  “This is what happens when you don't listen to authority,” Daddy would say, shaking his head. “Foolish girl.”

  “If only she'd been more like Martin,” Uncle Roger would add, while he and Aunt Mary comforted Mummy.

  “Silly old Verity,” Martin would add as they loaded me into the mausoleum and slammed the door shut. “She just couldn't fall into line.”

  And then he, like the others, would walk away and forget about me.

  “Conceited oafs,” I mutter as I finally reach the old kitchenette in the western wing.

  Heading over to one of the cupboards, I find that Martha has indeed been storing a few supplies here. I've always liked Martha, and in some ways I wish she lived at the house rather than always sleeping in the village, but she seems a rather funny, superstitious type of woman. Still, it's useful that she's so forward-thinking, and I'm certain she has a little stash of medical supplies in here somewhere. As I go through the various cupboards and drawers, I'm relieved that this far out in the house's western wing, I can no longer hear the sound of my family having fun, nor can I hear Martin betraying me by joining them. Honestly, I think I shall never be able to look him in the eye again without thinking him a traitor.

  Stopping suddenly, I feel a wave of dizziness. As that passes, I realize I'm sweatier than ever. Reaching up, I press my fingers against my forehead and feel cold, clammy moisture dribbling down.

  “Great,” I say with a sigh, figuring that this would be the perfect time to get a fever, “now I'll probably have to let them confine me to bed.”

  Once I've found the bandages, I head over to the table by the window and sit down in a patch of moonlight. I work quickly, cleaning the wound on my hand with some gel from a tube. I can't help noticing that the wound seems even more swollen now, and I have a little trouble moving my fingers since they feel rather tight, but I suppose that's just part of the healing process. Nevertheless, when I tilt my hand in the moonlight, I see that the wound looks almost to be splitting open like some kind of sausage, and glistening meat at the center is surrounded by a black crust. The whole thing looks ghastly, and I'm rather glad to get it out of sight behind a bandage.

  Finally, leaning back in the chair, I wipe more sweat from my brow and try to get my nerves under control. In truth, my heart seems to be pounding rather fast, faster than it ought, and when I reach a hand under my nightshirt and press against my chest, I can actually feel the rhythmic pumping.

  “Get a grip, old girl,” I mutter, before realizing that now I'm close to the window, I can hear the piano again in the other wing of the house.

  Glancing outside, I see a patch of light on the lawn, cast from the reception room where the others are having fun. After a moment, I even spot a shadow in the light, moving past the window.

  “Oh, choke on it,” I say out loud, feeling rather neglected and alone. “I hope you all -”

  And then I stop again, suddenly aware of voices rustling nearby.

  I stay completely still, waiting for the voices to resolve and turn out to be leaves outside the window, but no...

  They're definitely voices.

  Turning, I look toward the door and toward the corridor outside, where darkness prevails. The voices, two or maybe three of them, sound close, but I can't quite make out what they're saying.

  “Martin?” I say cautiously. “Is that you?”

  Even before the words have left my lips, I know it can't possibly be my cousin. It can't be any of the adults, either, since I know full well that they'd simply haul me out of here if they came across me. I should get up and go to the door, and look out into the corridor, but when I try I find that my legs are a little weak and wobbly, with sweat dribbling down to my feet. Figuring that I shall feel more steady if I just rest for a moment, I focus on taking slow, deep breaths as I remain seated by the window. Finally, spotting a scalpel in the box of medical supplies, I take it out and decide that I might get up to a little mischief.

  I glance at the door again, still hearing the faint rustling sound, and then I set the scalpel's tip against the side of the wooden desk and start to carve a message that will drive Daddy mad if he ever finds it. Good. He deserves to get upset after banishing me to my room in such a merciless manner.

  “Here died the prisoner of Auercliff,” I carve carefully. “Neglected and forgotten by all.”

  “Well,” I mutter as I toss the scalpel back into the box, “it'd serve them all right if I did die here. Then they'd be sorry. They'd wish they'd been nice to me and -”

  Suddenly the whispered voices, which I'd almost begun to ignore, become much louder. Turning and looking toward the doorway, I still see only darkness in the corridor outside, but I swear the voices seem to be inside the room with me, rushing through the air.

  Wiping more sweat from my face, I try to get to my feet, only to slump back in the rickety wooden chair. I feel weaker than ever now, and it's almost as if the kitchenette is spinning around me.

  “Get a grip, dear,” I whisper to myself, gripping the sides of the table.

  Feeling as if I can't possibly stay here all night and fall victim to some kind of superstitious rambling, I force myself up, even though I'm barely able to stand. I hesitate next to the table for a moment, trying to summon the strength to stagger back to my bedroom. I know I shall be quite alright, so long as I can just get to bed and sleep for a while. By morning I shall be back to normal, and then I can go off and spend the day alone, leaving Martin all by himself so he can realize quite how beastly he's been.

  As I try to steady myself, I happen to glance out the window. At first I see only the patch of light on the lawn, but a moment later I spot a woman's figure racing toward the trees, with a man just a short way behind her.

  “What the...”

  I watch as the two dark figures disappear into the forest at the foot of the garden, and then they're gone. I wait a moment longer, but there's no sign of them now. Still, I know there's no-one else who should be in either the house or its grounds, and I feel a slow, growing sense of fear as I realize that perhaps I have just witnessed a pair of specters. Such things must surely be impossible, yet I know they were out on the lawn just a moment ago.

  “Oh, shut up!” I snap suddenly, turning and looking toward the doorway, which in turn seems to be twisting slightly. The voices are still rustling away, and I swear I can see the shadows moving slightly, as if dark fingers are reaching around the door-frame, taking a tighter grip as eyes peer out from the darkness and watch me.

  There are two of them.

  Two creatures.

  Monsters, perhaps.

  “Leave me alone,” I stammer, turning away from the table and hurrying across the kitchenette, only for my knees to buckle.

  I try to catch myself, but I slam against the far counter and knock two glasses off the edge, sending them smashing down to the floor. Sweating and out of breath, I start hauling myself up, but the whispering voices are much closer now, almost directly over my shoulder, and I can feel something brushing against the back of my neck.

  “Go away,” I whisper, but my hands are so sweaty now, I can't grip the counter-top properly.

  Finally, slowly, I lower myself onto the floor, too exhausted to stay on my feet. My legs are trembling and the voices are whispering all around me, but all I can manage is to raise my arms and try vainly to bat the intruders away. My head is already drooping and I can feel saliva running down my chin, but I can't even close my mouth. I'm sinking, sinking all the way, dropping in to darkness.

  And something is touching my face with dark, fuzzy fingers.

  “Help me,” I whisper. “Please...”

  Chapter Thirty

  “No,” a voice says suddenly, as bright morning light floods my closed eyelids, “I don't think it would be wise to move her right
now.”

  Opening my eyes, I sit bolt upright and see that I'm on a bed in one of the western wing's old bedrooms, with Mummy and Daddy and my aunt and uncle gathered all around. Blinking and feeling a faint pain in my eyes, I turn to find Doctor Farrah sitting on the side of the bed with a stethoscope in his hands, watching me with an expression of concern.

  “Hello, Verity,” the doctor says cautiously, “and how are you feeling this morning?”

  “I...”

  Pausing, I realize that the very last thing I remember is being in the kitchenette, and heading those voices, and then...

  And then what?

  “You're a lucky young lady,” Doctor Farrah continues. “You've come very close to suffering a rather nasty case of blood poisoning. You're not out of the woods yet, either, but I'm confident you'll perk up soon.”

  “Martin told us about the knife,” Daddy adds, eying me with a hint of disapproval. “Verity, in the name of all that's holy, what were you thinking? You should have come to us as soon as you cut yourself on that rusty old thing. God knows how long it had been buried in the mud, but there's lead in the soil down by the river. Haven't you heard us talking about that?”

  Looking down at my hand, I see that it's heavily bandaged. Feeling a sudden rush of panic, I try to get out of bed, only to be hit by a fresh wave of dizziness that knocks me right back down. Collapsing against the pillow, I'm briefly overwhelmed by a rush of nausea that seems set to turn my stomach inside out.

  I don't want people to see me when I'm like this.

  When I'm weak.

  “Don't push yourself,” Doctor Farrah says, reaching over and pressing the back of his hand against my forehead. “You still have a fever and it's liable to flare up again if you're not careful. Your body is in the process of fighting back, but for that to work, you shall require two very important things. Peace, and bed-rest.”