by Amy Cross
“And how would she feel about you becoming a murderer?” she asks. “Is that what she'd want?”
I open my mouth to argue with her, but somehow the words fall short.
“There are three types of men,” she continues. “There are men who are born evil, their souls knotted and dark. There are men who are born good, and those men would never be tempted to commit such an awful act, no matter the circumstances. But then there are men who have potential to go either way. You are such a man, Martin. You might live a good, honest life, you might help others and become a pillar of your community. Or you might make a dreadful decision one day, a decision that marks your soul forever and leaves you banished, cast out from the world. You're not too young to rot in a jail cell for the rest of your days, and mark my words, if you go through with your plan to kill this poor doctor, your path in life will be set.”
“I'm doing it for Verity,” I reply, even as more tears run down my face. “I don't even know who you are, but this is none of your business!”
“It's worse than this one act,” she adds. “If you kill this man today, your mind will start to warp. Deep down, you'll start to justify your actions, and then you'll see the world differently. Your beliefs will change, your hopes and fears, your view of everybody else. You'll see the entire world as a cruel and barbarous place, where murder is justified, and by the end of your life you will have become a black-hearted, black-souled brute.” She pauses. “And that would be a tragedy, because I foresee an alternative life for you, one where you grow up to be a good man, with a wife and a child. A life where you continue the legacy of Auercliff rather than bringing yet more pain to the house and its family.”
“It's for her!” I hiss, pushing past her and heading to the door that leads further into the building.
“If you go outside right now,” the woman continues, “a better future can begin for you.”
“Go to blazes! I intend to -”
“You loved your cousin.”
Stopping, I feel a shudder of fear running through my chest. A moment later, I hear a faint creaking sound in one of the rooms nearby, as if a man is shifting his weight in a chair.
“He's here,” the woman says after a moment. “He has heard none of our conversation, but if you take one more step forward, he will know. He will come out of that door at the far end, and then he'll see you with the knife. And then what?”
“Then I'll stick it to him!” I say firmly.
“And then you'll never see your cousin again.”
I pause, before turning to her. The tears have begun to dry on my cheeks now.
“But leave right now,” she continues, with a faint smile, “and I promise you, she will come back to you one more time, just as she promised at the moment of her death.”
“How...” I take a deep breath. “How do you know?”
“That doesn't matter. I'm telling the truth, though. You'd like to see Verity again, wouldn't you? Just one more time, and not for many, many years, but I assure you, it will happen. If you walk out of here.”
I hesitate, feeling as if she's trying to trick me.
“And Doctor Farrah will retire in three years' time,” she continues, “once he has found a suitable replacement to take over his surgery. The guilt over his mistake with your cousin will haunt him, and although it will not destroy him, it will be something he never forgets.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask, feeling a hint of fear in my chest. Suddenly I can't help but note the strange look in the woman's eyes, or the rather old-fashioned dress she wears.
“Your future is waiting outside,” she replies, “but first you must make a choice. Will you kill a man for what happened to your cousin, or will you walk away and trust in the natural order of the world? Please, Martin, don't destroy your own life and create a future in which Auercliff is left to rot. That, I assure you, would be the greater tragedy.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“There you are!” Mother says with a sigh, reaching through the crowd and grabbing my arm. “Martin, where have you been?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I look back toward the surgery just as the front door opens and Doctor Farrah steps out. His eyes seem haggard and exhausted, and I almost feel sorry for him as he stops for a moment to light his pipe. After a couple of seconds, I realize that the strange dark-haired woman is standing right behind him, in the gloom of the doorway, and she smiles at me before suddenly the doctor pulls the door shut and makes his way toward the village green.
“I've been looking for you everywhere,” Mother continues, leading me past various stalls and displays. “We must return to the house and begin preparations for the funeral. The next week will most likely be rather tiresome for all concerned, Martin, but we must all simply buckle up and -”
Suddenly a figure flashes toward me, and a young girl slams against my chest. I let out a gasp as I feel something wet and cold soaking into my shirt, and then I look down and see that the girl was holding an ice cream, the majority of which has been squashed between us.
“Oh!” Mother says, clearly shocked. “What the -”
“I'm sorry,” the girl stammers, taking a step back with ice cream smeared all over her dress. “I was just...”
“It's okay,” I tell her. “It's not your fault, I was -”
“Now we simply must get you home and have those clothes washed,” Mother continues, pulling me away. “Oh Martin, I do wish you would watch where you're going. You mustn't add more jobs for me to get done, not at such a difficult time. You're old enough now to help out, rather than being a hindrance.”
As she continues to complain about everything, I glance over my shoulder and briefly make eye contact with the ice cream girl again. She smiles at me, and I smile back, although I can't help feeling bad for the fact that her pretty dress is now all messy. I should like to go back and apologize properly, but Mother drags me through the crowd and the girl is lost.
I suppose I shall never see her again.
“Emily!” a voice calls out in the distance. “Barbara! Girls, where the blazes are you?”
***
“And the family will select the prayers they would like read,” Father Henderson explains, as we all sit in the reception room later that day. “I can certainly make some suggestions in that regard, if it would be helpful.”
“Thank you,” Uncle Reginald replies. “I shall speak to my wife once she is awake. I'm afraid she had to be given something for her grief.”
“Of course,” Father Henderson continues.
They've been talking about the funeral arrangements for at least an hour now, and they haven't let me get a single word in at all. For all Mother's talk of me being grown-up now, I'm silenced every time I try to make even the slightest suggestion. For one thing, I'm sure Verity wouldn't have liked a boring, staid funeral. She'd have preferred something happy, with people singing, but apparently the funeral is more for the benefit of those who have been left behind, in which case Uncle Reginald and Aunt Harriet clearly want something dignified and colorless. Verity would hate it all.
As the adults continue to discuss matters, however, I slowly become aware of a faint scratching sound coming from elsewhere in the house.
Turning, I look toward the hallway. The source of the scratching seems to be upstairs, and I can't help thinking that it's getting louder.
“Do you hear that?” I ask, turning first to Mother and then to Father.
“Quiet, dear,” Mother replies. “We're talking.”
“But do you hear the scratching?”
“Of course not,” she says with a sigh, before turning to Father Henderson. “I do apologize for Martin, he's taking his cousin's death very badly.”
“I just hear a scratching sound,” I continue, “that's all. Does no-one else -”
“No!” Father says firmly. “No-one else hears any such thing.” He pauses, regathering his composure. “Perhaps you should be excused from the table, Martin. Go and entertain yourse
lf elsewhere in the house.”
“I think he should stay,” Mother suggests. “It would be good for him to -”
“Martin, please leave the room,” Father continues, interrupting her. “Go, child. Your constant interruptions are rather irritating. If you can't be an adult at the table, go and be a child elsewhere.”
Relieved to be given the chance to get out of here, I get to my feet and hurry over to the doorway before Father has a chance to change his mind. Once I reach the bottom of the stairs, I can tell that the scratching sound definitely seems to be coming from somewhere up past the landing, and I can't help remembering how Verity seemed plagued before she died by a similar sound that apparently only she could hear.
“The scratching sound,” she whispered. “Don't you hear it?”
“I do now,” I say out loud, keeping my voice low in case I'm overheard.
Cautiously, I start making my way up the stairs. I know I'm probably being foolish and that nothing will come of this investigation, yet I cannot resist the temptation to explore. In some small, strange way, I even feel as if I'm closer to Verity now I hear the sound that troubled her in her final moments. Perhaps this is her attempt to communicate with me from beyond the grave. After all, she promised to try.
“Verity?” I call out when I reach the top of the stairs. “Are you here? I mean... Is your spirit here?”
I wait, and the scratching sound continues.
“Give me a sign, Verity,” I continue. “I'm willing to change my mind and believe in such things, if only you'll give me some form of message. Please, Verity, I'm waiting...”
I don't know what I expect. A sudden bump, perhaps, or a whisper in my ear. Maybe a creaking door or even the sight of her face.
Instead, however, all that happens is that the scratching sound continues.
“This seems a rum way for a spirit to get in touch,” I mutter under my breath. “Rather inscrutable and vague.”
Still, I can't discount the idea that perhaps Verity has found some way to contact me from beyond the grave. And that idea is only reinforced when I get to her bedroom door and realize that the scratching sound is definitely coming from somewhere in her old room. Pushing the door open, I see that everything is just as she left it, although the sheets have been removed from the bed.
The scratching sound is coming from just above the door.
Looking up, I realize that there's a very small hole in the plaster. I grab a chair and pull it over, before climbing up and taking a closer look. Something seems to be moving in the tiny gap, so I carefully pull some of the plaster away until – to my shock – a baby mouse drops down and lands in the palm of my hand.
There are a couple more of the little beasts, too, peering out at me from the edges of the gap. As I look at them, I can see their feet scrabbling against the wood, and I feel a rush of regret as I realize that evidently the mice were the cause of the sound. The only question now is why Verity was never able to make the same discovery.
“Make the most of your time in there,” I mutter, slipping the escaped baby mouse back into the gap, so it can join its brothers and sisters. “When Father finds out about you, he'll have you out of the house for sure. He might even buy a cat.”
Climbing down from the chair, I head out of her room and back along the corridor. I know it was foolish of me to consider the possibility that Verity might have contacted me, but at least now I've got the idea out of my system. There's clearly no life beyond death, and my cousin is simply gone. Her body will be placed in the family mausoleum, along with all the others, and there she'll be left to rot forever.
“If I should die before you,” I remember her saying, just a few days ago, “I shall do everything in my power to come back and let you know that there's life beyond the grave. I shall find a way, no matter how difficult or how testing it might be. Perhaps I shall appear to you, or perhaps I shall only be able to manage a whisper in your ear, but I shall do something. And if you hear nothing from me, then you shall know that either communication is impossible, or there is simply nothing left of the soul after death. Nothing but nothingness for all eternity.”
With her words still ringing in my ears, I sit silently and alone on her old bed.
Chapter Forty-Three
I watch as Father takes the large, black key from his pocket and slips it into the lock. Every other sound in the world seems hushed for a moment, save for the click of the key as it turns. After a moment, I realize I have been holding my breath.
“This should not be happening,” Mother sobs, holding my hand tight. “She was so young, she had her whole life ahead of her. Just fourteen years of age, and already being consigned to the family mausoleum.”
It takes a moment, but Father is finally able to get the handle turned, and slowly the mausoleum's large metal door begins to swing open. I feel a shudder pass through my body as I see the dark nothingness within, and I'm sure the air actually feels a little colder.
Turning, I look back at the men who are holding Verity's coffin aloft. I begged and begged to be allowed to join them, but Father and Mother both told me that it would not be appropriate. Now, as one of the men mutters something, they start carrying the coffin forward, heading toward the mausoleum's open door.
Everything must be appropriate.
Everything must be traditional.
Everything must be done now, as it was before.
“She always wanted to see inside,” I whisper, feeling a tightening sensation in my chest. “Now she gets her wish.”
Nearby, Aunt Harriet is sobbing and Uncle Reginald is consoling her.
“Can we go inside?” I ask, turning to Mother. “Just to see where they put her, I mean.”
“No, darling,” she replies, sniffing back tears. “That isn't allowed.”
“But -”
“Just let it be,” she adds, interrupting me. “There are traditions that must be observed, Martin. It wouldn't be appropriate.”
I look back at the door, just in time to see the men carrying Verity's coffin into the darkness. I squint, hoping against hope that I might be able to see inside, but I absolutely can't make out a thing. I can hear the men, however, and after a moment there's a faint scraping noise, as if Verity's coffin is being place on one of the shelves.
Suddenly there's a loud wailing sound, and I turn to see Aunt Harriet running toward the door, sobbing and screaming. Mother and Father rush to stop her, and together with Uncle Reginald they quickly manage to subdue her, pulling her back from the door and telling her that everything will be okay, even as she sinks down onto her knees and lets out a series of horrified cries.
Realizing that this might be my only chance, I step over to the mausoleum's door and peer through.
The first thing I see is the men at the far end, arranging Verity's coffin on one of several long shelves that run along the inside of the walls. Verity always said that she suspected there'd be shelves everywhere, and she was right. I take a step closer, into the mausoleum's cold interior, and I can't help staring at all the other coffins that have been placed here over the years. No two are the same, and while some appear to have weathered the years with little damage, others are cracked and almost falling apart.
Outside, Aunt Harriet is still sobbing loudly.
Stepping over to one of the shelves, I look at a coffin that has begun to collapse. There are large gaps where the wooden joins have come apart, and I can just about make out a faint, pale shape inside. Leaning a little closer, I realize that I'm looking at a pair of legs dressed in a light fabric, and when I look at the side of the coffin I'm just about able to make out a small plaque bearing a name.
“Sir Maurice Switherington,” I whisper, “12th of January 1788 to 19th of October 1845.”
A shudder runs through my body as I look back through the gap in the side of the coffin and realize that the body inside is my great-great-grandfather, a man who died more than a century ago. He's been resting in the mausoleum ever since, and when I t
ake a look at the next coffin along I find that it bears the name of his wife, Lady Victoria Switherington, who died all the way back in 1844.
Aunt Harriet is still being tended to outside, and the other men in the mausoleum are still arranging Verity's coffin, so I make my way along the nearest shelf until I find another coffin. No-one seems to have noticed that I'm in here.
“Lady Catherine Switherington,” I read out loud from another coffin, recognizing the name of my great-grandmother.
There's a gap in the side of this coffin, too, and I peer through without a second thought. To my shock, I see the side profile of a skull, with perhaps a few traces of flesh still clinging to the bone.
Instinctively I take a step back, shocked by the sight, and then I turn to see that Verity's coffin is now in place.
“Time to go, lad,” one of the men says, as he and the others make their way past me. “Come on, there's nothing more to be done in here now.”
I know I should go with them. For a moment, however, all I can manage is to stand and stare at Verity's coffin, and I find myself imagining her body resting in here for all eternity. Will someone else come in here one day and find gaps in her coffin, and will they peer through those gaps and catch sight of her dead, rotten face? The thought is horrifying, and suddenly the interior of the mausoleum seems like the worst place in the world, a place where no living person should ever venture.
Taking a step back, I suddenly bump against one of the shelves. I let out a gasp as I turn, and then a moment later a hand grabs my shoulder.
“Come on,” one of Verity's pallbearers says, with a kind smile. “This is no place for you, boy. Time to go out and seal the door.”
Trembling with shock, I make my way back toward the door and then out once again into the forest. Aunt Harriet is still on the ground, with the others gathered around her, while in the distance I can see Auercliff looking colder and emptier than ever before.
A moment later, there's a loud bump over my shoulder. Turning, I see that the men have shut the door to the mausoleum and are now turning the key in the lock. My first instinct is to panic at the thought of poor Verity being trapped inside, but I quickly remind myself that she belongs in there now, with the rest of the dead. And now, every time I see this mausoleum, I shall no doubt think of her body rotting inside the coffin, surrounded in darkness by all those other coffins and their skeletal inhabitants.