by Nina Dreyer
The Curfew Circle
Nina Dreyer
Copyright © 2017 Nina Dreyer
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design © 2017 Nina Dreyer
Book design © 2017 Pedro Morales Romero
Poetry excerpts from Wilfred Owen, Strange Meeting, ca. 1918; William Butler Yeats, Lake of Innisfree, 1890; Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, 1899.
www.ninadreyer.com
To Pedro
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
About the Author
… And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
“I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried;
But my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now…”
Strange Meeting
Wilfred Owen, 1918
Chapter One
Dublin, Ireland
October 1920
The curfew would descend over Dublin in twenty-nine minutes, and the girl was late. Marion Hahn waited on a dark street corner, leaning against the black iron railing of an old park. A great chestnut tree shielded her from the drizzling night rain. She glanced down the dark street, past the Victorian redbrick houses with their narrow front gardens. Then she pulled a chained pocket watch and tapped it with a gloved finger. Maybe she should go on without the girl. She needed neither pupils nor assistants.
Footsteps clipped along the wet pavement and the girl came running up to her, flushed and blinking rainwater out of her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped, breathing cherry brandy. Her face glowed with cold in the dim street lights. ‘There was an army roadblock in Northumberland Road. It took ages and ages to get through.’
Marion slipped her watch back in her pocket and looked the girl up and down. She was wearing a canary-yellow coat and sparkling pink ear rings. Marion herself was dressed entirely in faded black, and had taken all her usual precautions. When you stepped out into the Dublin night, you must take care to remove anything that shines. Bracelets, buckles, combs, shining buttons, metallic fabric, any article of clothing or adornment that might glint in the sweeping headlights of a military truck or catch the eye of a gunman by moonlight. ‘You can’t come with me, dressed like this, Christabel. I told you.’
‘I know, I know, I didn’t have the time to change, and my ma wouldn’t lend me her black coat, that’s for funerals and Mass, and she said I’d only get it dirty, or get it soaked in the rain.’
‘Does your mother know you’re out this late?’
Christabel pursed her lips. ‘Mr. Sidney said I could come. He said you have to bring me along, to train me.’
‘Did he, indeed.’ Marion sighed inwardly. Mr. Sidney’s word was law. ‘Fine, then,’ she said. ‘But we have to hurry. I don’t want you caught out of doors when the curfew starts.’
‘Oh, I didn’t tell you. There was a girl in front of me in the line,’ said Christabel, ‘and the soldiers, they took off her hat and searched it! But I was clever, I didn’t wear a hat, and I smiled at them. So they didn’t search me.’
‘Don’t do that,’ said Marion. She stopped and turned to the girl. ‘You must never smile at soldiers, Christabel. Just keep your head down. Never make eye contact. Never speak to them.’
Christabel nodded, giggling as if Marion had solemnly warned her never to walk on the cracks in the pavement. This was a school-yard adventure to her, thought Marion. She turned down the road again and quickened her pace. Christabel had to half-run to keep up. A lone van trundled down the road, splashing through puddles.
‘Did you bring the things I asked for?’
‘Oh yes,’ Christabel said, short of breath, ‘I’ve got it right here, a torch light and a red lantern, and I also brought a bible. It’s my da’s bible, he said I could borrow it but only to take care not to get it wet.’
‘We don’t need a bible. Don’t bring bibles on visitations.’ Marion stepped deeper into the shadows as a harassed-looking woman hurried down the footpath pushing a pram and dragging a wailing child with her.
Christabel frowned and let the woman pass. ‘What do you mean, don’t bring bibles, of course we need a bible, for reading verses at lost souls.’
‘Bible verses have no effect on the dead.’ Marion glanced up and down the dark street before crossing to the other side. They were getting closer.
A young man on a bicycle scurried past them over the wet cobblestones.
‘Well I don’t think that’s right at all,’ said Christabel, hurrying along and hugging her carpetbag. ‘Words of comfort from the good book, that’s never done anyone no harm.’ The girl was chattering to keep her nerves from showing. Marion knew, because she had done the same when she was young and just starting out, when she too had been afraid of the dark, afraid of the empty gaping doorways.
‘Trust me,’ said Marion. ‘The dead don’t want verses.’
‘What do they want, then?’
‘We are here to find out.’
They turned a corner onto the Strand Road, a once-elegant Georgian street facing the bleak coast. Marion put a hand on her collar. The cold sea wind billowed her coat and whipped her hair.
‘I always think of the sea, when the wind’s up like that,’ said Christabel, ‘even if I’m on land. Do you have pretty beaches in Belgium?’
Marion didn’t answer. She peered at the nearest front door to make out the number. ‘North,’ she mumbled, ‘we are going north.’
‘Do you think in English?’
‘Yes.’ That wasn’t entirely true, but Marion did not believe in overlaps and grey areas. Different worlds should not meet. Past should be separated from present.
‘Even though you’re from Belgium? Well do you dream in English?’
‘I’ve never thought about it.’
‘How come you speak English so well?’
‘I had an English governess for several years.’
‘A governess, no less? I thought only really wealthy people had governesses? What language do you speak in Belgium? French? You don’t sound French, you soun
d more like-’
Marion raised a hand for silence. They’d come to the mouth of a narrow alley. At the end of it stood the house. Thick boards covered the windows, hammered in with rusted nails. A spindly tree grew out of the crumbling chimney.
Christabel fell silent. She seemed to draw into herself, shrinking.
‘Listen to me.’ Marion gently squeezed the girl’s arm. ‘You and I must go into that house now. We have a very important task to do, you and I. Very important.’
Christabel nodded.
‘Don’t look at the house,’ said Marion, ‘just look at me. I want you to understand. This house is haunted. Someone or something is trapped inside. It is our task to free it. Do you understand?’
Christabel’s mouth quivered. Marion laid a gloved hand on her shoulder. A frightened girl was not helpful. In the best case, she would be a distraction. In the worst case, her fear would attract Poltergeist activity. Marion’s skin ran cold with the thought.
‘Your bible will do you no good in there,’ she said. ‘Your compassion and your courage are your only aids now.’
Marion walked up to the front door. It was secured with a heavy chain and padlock. She fished out the key from her pocket, undid the lock and pulled the chain away, careful not to make any noise. She opened the door.
A dark hallway gaped before her. Dried leaves covered the floor. A smell of damp wood and rotting carpets rose. Marion looked behind her and reached out a hand. ‘Come,’ she said.
Christabel hovered on the doorstep, hugging the bag tightly to her chest.
‘Be brave now,’ said Marion. She turned and stepped into the hall.
To the left of the hall was a small parlour. Part of the ceiling had come down. Weak moonlight bled in through the cracks between the window boards. An abandoned sofa stood in the middle of the floor, dusted with plaster. The upholstery had mouldered away, disgorging a mess of twisted springs. Here would do, Marion thought. In hauntings, you mustn’t invade the most private spaces of the dead unless invited. It would be disrespectful.
Marion took the bag from Christabel’s unresisting hands and opened it.
‘Here,’ she handed a small red petroleum lantern to the girl. ‘Light this, and place it there on the floor.’
Christabel obeyed. The thin light of the flame behind the red glass spread across the floor.
‘Now be still,’ said Marion quietly. ‘We are going to listen for the dead now.’
Christabel stood close to her. Too close.
Marion exhaled deeply and tried to concentrate. A cloud drifted over the moon, and the room descended into blackness, pierced only by the red glow of the lamp.
‘Show yourself,’ whispered Marion.
Silence.
They waited in the stillness.
‘We must be patient,’ whispered Marion, ‘she doesn’t want to come out.’
‘How can you know it’s a she?’ Christabel’s shallow breathing felt hot on Marion’s cheek. She wished the girl would step away a little.
‘The owner of the house told me.’
‘What did he say? How did she pass over? Did he know her?’
‘It’s shameful for him. He wouldn’t say much. They usually won’t say much. That it was a woman. That she scratches.’
‘Bu-’
‘We have to be still now.’ Marion took Christabel’s hand to comfort her. The girl’s fingers trembled.
Marion focused her eyes on the red lamp. The house was dead silent. Sea-cold rain dripped from the window boards.
In the bowels of the house, a presence shifted. Marion could sense it. A creaking sound. There it was. Not much, not yet. Like an ashen thumbprint smeared across the wall. An imprint, faint but lingering.
It came from the room above them. Christabel tightened her grip on Marion’s hand.
‘Come,’ said Marion. She picked up the lantern. ‘She’s calling to us. We must go nearer.’ She went into the pitch-black hallway with Christabel following closely behind her. Marion raised the red lantern, and it cast strange shadows over the peeling wallpaper and low ceiling as they went deeper into the house.
Marion frowned.
Something was wrong. She narrowed her eyes.
‘What is that,’ wheezed Christabel, ‘can you smell that?’
A prickling, acrid sensation spread from Marion’s gut to her throat. She knew the feeling well. The taste of hatred. A cold sweat spread down her back. Anger. Burning, blinding, tearing anger. She raised the lamp and looked around.
Thump.
It sounded from the room above them. Christabel whimpered. Marion strained to listen. It was not footsteps.
A dull, heavy, uneven sound. Something being dragged over the floor, nearing them. From an upper room.
Thump. Thump.
Down a wall behind them. Deep in the darkness, a door creaked open, slowly. Then it slammed.
Marion cast around, searching, lantern raised high. There was nothing to see. Stillness now.
‘Show yourself,’ she said, her heart pounding. Her foot brushed against something. She lowered the lamp. At the foot of the stairs, the wallpaper had been torn, ripped to shreds, with deep gashes into the crumbling plaster behind. She peered closer. No animal could have done that. It looked half like teeth marks, half like burns.
Thump.
It was harder now, louder, angrier. Marion looked up.
A presence began to coagulate on the staircase. Something dark. Something deformed.
Marion stepped in front of Christabel, shielding her with an arm. With her gaze fixed on the staircase, she pushed the girl back.
‘Christabel,’ she whispered. ‘Run.’
Grasping Marion’s arm, Christabel let out a half-strangled yelp. ‘No,’ she cried, gulping for air, ‘no!’
Marion pushed her harder.
Thump.
Cold flesh scraping against brick.
‘Run now,’ Marion yelled, turning to shove the crying girl down the hall towards the door. Christabel stood rigid, frozen, clawing at Marion’s arm like a drowning woman. Marion grasped her wrist and dragged her down the hall towards the front door.
In the darkness behind them, something splintered and cracked.
‘What is it,’ Christabel screamed, ‘what is it!’
Marion ripped open the front door. A gust of rain lashed them. She pushed the wailing girl out. ‘Christabel, run now. Do not look back.’
Christabel staggered forward, dropped her bag and ran.
Marion turned back into the darkness. The door blew shut behind her with a thin creak.
She raised the red lantern. The flame hissed.
Slowly she felt her way back towards the staircase in the dark, trailing her fingertips over the mouldering wallpaper.
Her pulse thundered in her chest.
From the stairs came the sound of heavy, uneven footsteps.
Dragging. Closer.
‘Why are you angry?’ Marion’s voice rang out hollowly in the dark. ‘Tell me why.’ She inched closer to the foot of the stairs.
Thump.
The wall behind her shook. A scraping, scratching sound came nearer. Nails against brick or plaster. Fingernails or iron nails. Scratching, tapping, searching.
‘Let me help you,’ Marion whispered.
Something cold and soft closed around her ankle.
She jolted forward, tripping, falling, banging her wrist against a splintered door frame. The lantern slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. Staggering to her feet, she rushed forward to stomp on the broken lantern before it caught fire.
Darkness.
Pitch-black darkness.
The presence slid nearer, dragging across the groaning floorboards. Marion scrambled into a corner, blind in the dark. She fumbled, hands shaking, searching for a doorway, a sliver of light, a way out.
She tried to remember the soothing words, about the fields of light on the far side of the outer darkness, about the far shores under a silver dawn, about the
billowing fields of golden wheat. But the words fell from her mind like ashes.
Closing her eyes, she stilled herself to the core of her being.
Then she reached into the darkness. Open hand. Palm up. An invitation. ‘Who hurt you,’ she whispered.
Around her, the anger withdrew like a tidal wave in the darkness. Marion pulled herself to her feet, shivering, clasping her aching wrist. ‘Show me,’ she whispered. ‘Show me the hour of your death.’
She inched forward, carefully feeling her way. Dim moonlight fell on the top of the staircase. A glimpse. Marion thought she saw an outline. On the staircase, half-way bled into the dirty shadows on the wall. A figure, gliding, faint, smeared, the left arm far too long.
She stepped closer.
Upstairs, a creak. Marion felt her way up the stairs, trying not to brush against the damp patches. She came to a long, narrow hallway.
At the end, a door stood half ajar. A light clicked on. Marion heard the faint hiss of the electrical current. Then off. Then on again.
A heaviness came over Marion, pressing her chest. The air grew stale, like the smell of a bedroom slept in for too long and never aired.
Stumbling forward, Marion reached out a hand and gently pushed open the door.
The room was small and bare.
Under a boarded window, an iron bed frame. The metal was buckled and the paint peeled over blotches of rust. The mattress was gone. On the headboard, two heavy leather straps were fastened with cruel clasps. Hospital straps. Asylum straps. No picture or painting hung on the walls, no signs of human love or comfort. Marion’s flesh began to crawl. That lingering imprint of poisonous shame, that lingering smell of syphilis-madness and secret, shameful agony. She’d felt it before, when someone had suffered through death slowly, alone. Loneliness drove into Marion’s mind like a splinter of ice.
She knelt and laid a hand on the bed frame. ‘They let you die alone.’ Her throat thickened. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, stroking the rusting metal. ‘I know you cannot forgive the world. If you have no-one waiting for you on the other side, then you must go alone. Leave this bleak place now.’