The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  Breathless now, Brian takes a step back and lets the crutches fall from his hands.

  The ghost of Winifred Marsh is watching him from the doorway.

  “Mommy?” a scared voice calls up suddenly from downstairs. “Are you okay?”

  Brian looks toward the top of the stairs. He hesitates for a moment, before stepping over Patty's body and heading to the far end of the landing, where he stops for a moment and looks down to see Kelly standing in the hallway.

  “Where's Mommy?” the little girl asks, still holding her stuffed bear. “Why did she tell me to go outside the house?”

  Brian stares at her, and for a moment there seems to be a sliver of doubt in his eyes, as if he's starting to realize what he's done. Before he can say anything, however, the gray figure of Winifred Marsh steps up behind him and starts whispering once again into his ear.

  Kelly immediately screams, turning and running to the front door as Brian starts making his way down the stairs.

  Reaching up, Kelly tries to unlock the door, but she can't get the latch to turn. She looks over her shoulder, sobbing as she sees her father getting closer and closer, and then she tries the latch a couple more times before stepping away from the bottom of the stairs. Her terrified eyes are fixed on Winifred Marsh, who has begun to walk down the stairs just a few steps behind Brian.

  “Daddy, who's that woman?” Kelly stammers, clutching her bear tighter. “Where's Mommy?”

  Brian says nothing. As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, however, he takes a small statue from the hallway table. He holds it by the base, turning it around as if he intends to use it as a weapon.

  Letting out a gasp, Kelly hurries through to the kitchen, where she tries to get the back door open. When this doesn't work, she runs through to the dining room and then back into the hallway. Stopping as she sees Brian again, she looks around for a moment before running over to the door that leads down to the basement. She manages to slip through, but she drops her bear as she starts clattering down the steps. Stopping for a moment, she looks back and sees the bear on the floor, just beyond the open door, and then she clambers back up. Just as she's about to reach for the bear, however, Brian steps into view and reaches out to pull the door all the way open.

  I don't know if I could ever do it again, but at that moment I find the strength to pull the door free of Brian's hand and slam it shut. He immediately tries to pull it open, but I'm able to hold it firm.

  In the darkness at the top of the basement stairs, Kelly hesitates for a moment before turning and starting to make her way down. The basement is completely dark, but I can feel her footsteps as she reaches the bottom and makes her way across the cement floor. Reaching out, she presses her hands against the brick wall, as if she's struggling to make sure she doesn't bump against anything. Her breath sounds ragged and fearful, while at the top of the stairs Brian is still trying to get the door open.

  I won't let him, though.

  No matter what else happens, I refuse to open that door. I'm going to keep Kelly safe.

  “Mommy?” the girl stammers in the darkness, her voice filled with tears. “Mommy, where are you? Are -”

  Before she can finish, her feet bump against a box on the floor. She almost trips, but at the last moment she manages to hold herself up.

  As she hesitates for a moment, I realize I can hear a faint splitting sound in the darkness. Something feels different in the concrete floor, too, as if the crack is growing.

  “Kelly!” Brian shouts from the hallway above, as he bangs on the door. “Get back up here!”

  I can feel Kelly's footsteps as she backs into the corner. A moment later, the bare bulb flickers to life in the middle of the room, bringing a faint, buzzing light.

  Kelly lets out a gasp as she sees that the crack in the floor is much wider now. Sections of concrete have been broken and cast aside, revealing soil and rotten wood beneath.

  My old floor.

  Part of the original me.

  The light continue to flicker on and off over and over, as the little girl stares in horror at the broken floor. There's a sound coming from the gap in the concrete, too, as if something is forcing its way through the mulch. Something has been buried beneath me, but now it's rising up and coming back inside.

  I have to remember.

  I have to scream.

  The light flickers off for a few seconds. When it returns, a gray, rotten arm has begun to reach up from beneath the concrete.

  Kelly screams as she tries to squeeze herself into the farthest corner of the basement. I'm going to keep her safe. I have to. I don't know how, but I'll find a way.

  The light flickers again, as the arm takes hold of a concrete chunk.

  “Kelly!” Brian yells, still unable to get through the door. “There's nowhere else to go! You have to come back up here sometime!”

  The girl continues to stare in horror at the cracked concrete, as a female figure starts to haul itself up slowly from the foundations. The light is still flickering wildly, but I can feel the wet, rotten wood and the mulchy soil rising up from beneath me, and I recognize the decomposed figure that is finally dragging itself from its grave after all these years.

  Letting out a slow, rasping groan, Winifred Marsh opens her eyes to reveal a putrid, rotten stare. Thousands and thousands of worms are wriggling through what's left of her flesh, while juicy black beetles have made nests in her chest. All her meat has long since been eaten away to give strength to the larvae that are burrowing through the gaps between her ribs, while a few last muscles still cling to her bones. Most of her hair has survived, hanging down and partially covering the thick wound that was caused when Jennifer struck her all those years ago. Thick, wet mud is starting to crumble from her bloodied mouth.

  The lights flicker again, as Winifred turns and looks straight toward Kelly.

  “Mommy!” the girl screams, squeezing her eyes tight shut and putting her hands over her ears.

  At that moment, the light flickers again and the basement is plunged back into darkness.

  “Kelly!” Brian shouts. “Open this door right now! I won't tell you again!”

  The only sound in the basement now is the constant squirming, clicking sound of Winifred Marsh's body. After a few seconds, I start to feel wet, wriggling feet on the bare concrete, shuffling toward the corner where Kelly is still hiding. I can just about hear the girl's sobs, along with a faint buzz as the bulb almost but not quite comes back to life.

  And then silence.

  I wait.

  I know I have to do something, but I can't think how to help. The desperation builds as I search my thoughts for something, anything, that might save the child.

  I have to keep her safe.

  Suddenly the light flickers back to life, just as Winifred's rotten, worm-infested face leans closer to Kelly and lets out a foul scream.

  Epilogue

  I feel so new. So refreshed. My aching old timbers have been taken out, replaced by brickwork and plaster boards. Some of my interior walls have been moved, enlarging and merging several of the rooms, and I have beautiful new windows that let in so much more light than before.

  My bare wooden floorboards, meanwhile, have been sanded and polished, and now thick carpets have been laid throughout.

  Every crack, every tear and strain, has been repaired.

  I even have new doors.

  The carpenters were so thorough, fixing me up after I was left abandoned for years on end, and I honestly don't remember ever feeling so complete.

  This is the new me.

  “What do you think it'd look like if we stripped this away?” I remember a voice saying once, long ago. “If we totally stripped it away and exposed the brickwork? Not now, of course, but later, when we're on our feet a little more.”

  And now much of my oldest, original brickwork has been cleaned and left on view. I like that. I don't remember who first proposed the idea, but I am immensely grateful.

  I feel more new than
old.

  I even have a new floor in the basement. Some men came and laid a thick, fresh layer of concrete, covering the old, cracked floor that was broken many years ago. I remember the men seemed nervous, as if they didn't like being in the basement. They talked a lot, but I didn't understand much of what they said, and I've forgotten the rest. That's the problem with all these workmen. They're undoubtedly very interesting, and I know they're trying to improve me and make me new again, but they also take away so much. With every board they rip up, or every wall they tear down and replace, they take away another part of me. I have a lot of memories still, but many more are gone now.

  The last family who lived here were...

  No.

  I don't remember.

  I feel as if that part of my mind is gone forever. Perhaps those particular memories were in one of the many chunks of plaster that I watched being carried out to the trash.

  Sometimes I think I'd like to remember.

  Then again, perhaps nothing would change.

  It feels so good to be renewed. I don't need to remember every little detail of my existence. What matters is that I am ready for a new family to move in. I think perhaps I can hear them now. There are voices in the distance, and they sound excited. I have been empty for long enough.

  Well, almost empty. Occasionally, mostly at night, I have thought that perhaps I can hear a faint sound. Almost like a whisper, but not quite. More like a very gentle, almost imperceptible sobbing that seems to come from one particular corner of the basement. At times, the sobbing feels almost like a memory, but I suppose that can't be right. And even if it is, there's no point dwelling on such things. I know there were people who lived here before, but my memories of their lives are mostly gone, taken away with the old walls that were removed, replaced by all my new sections.

  And now the front door swings open, and a man and a woman are carrying boxes inside, followed swiftly by a little boy, then a little girl, then another boy and then finally another girl.

  Four children.

  They start running from room to room, and then they head upstairs as they excitedly argue over who is going to get which room. They seem so happy, and I'm sure that in turn they'll make me happy too. They've already lavished such care and attention on me. I think more than half of me has been replaced and renewed.

  I can still hear the little girl sobbing in the basement. I wonder who she was.

  Touched

  One

  The screen blinks to black, and he's gone.

  Thank God.

  Leaning back in my office chair, I take a moment to remind myself that whoever that guy was, he's thankfully a long, long way away. The Philippines, I think, or Indonesia. Somewhere like that. To be honest, I didn't pay attention. I was just focusing on running down the timer and giving him what he wanted over the webcam. Some clients are okay and sweet and kind, but some are complete assholes.

  That guy?

  Asshole material. With a dash of creepy.

  I actually feel dirty, but fortunately when I glance at my phone I see that I still have ninety minutes before I'm due to meet Gemma and the others at the pub. That gives me more than enough time to take a long, hot bath and soak away the sense of filth, not to mention getting rid of the various oils and lubes I just had to use.

  Still, at least the guy was a good tipper. I made £130 plus £20 in tips, just from that one session, which means I'm (quick mental calculation) 80% of the way to covering this month's rent.

  I start getting up from the chair, only for my phone to immediately start flashing. Looking down, I see that another client is trying to book a live cam session. I check the screen, just to make sure that it's not one of my regulars. After all, some of those guys get pretty annoyed if I don't accept an offer, but it turns out that this is someone I've never heard of before, going by the username Touched. He's offering £50 for a standard thirty minute private session, and for a fraction of a second I'm actually tempted to accept.

  But no.

  No, I feel dirty enough already, and I think I might crack if I have to take another client today. I need to do something vaguely normal for a few hours.

  “Sorry, Touched,” I mutter, rejecting the offer before setting my phone down and heading to the bathroom. “You'll be okay. There are plenty of other girls out there who'll take your money.”

  Two

  “That guy's been creeping all evening,” Gemma mutters, leaning toward me across the bar. “Don't look now, but he's sitting right at the end, next to the noticeboard. He just keeps buying drinks and watching me.”

  I turn to look, but she nudges my arm.

  “Don't look!”

  “Then how -”

  “Just trust me! He's got a comb-over!”

  “A lot of -”

  “A comb-over mustache!”

  I furrow my brow. “How does that work?”

  “It doesn't. And I think he has dandruff in his beard.”

  “Nice,” I mutter, stirring my drink with the straw. I'm not feeling very social this evening, and I'm starting to think I should just head home and save the money. Then again, I've been feeling that way a lot lately, and I'm worried I'm turning into some kind of anti-social hermit. I guess I have to force myself to stay out.

  “It's alright, though,” Gemma continues. “Brad's on tonight, so he'll look after me if there's any trouble. I just wish that creep would stop staring at me. Every time he calls me over to serve him again, I can see that he's staring at my cleavage.”

  “Isn't that what it's there for?” I ask wryly.

  “Yeah, but he could be subtle about it.” She rolls her eyes. “Proper gentlemen are subtle about getting a peek. Do you want another mojito while you wait?”

  “Actually,” I reply, “I'm not sure I'm going to wait. The others are running late, and I can't really afford a big night out, so -”

  “Oh no,” she says, interrupting me as she takes my empty glass and starts making me another drink. “You're turning into a recluse, Louise. Seriously, you never come out these days. We've got a deal for tonight, remember? You and the others hang out here until closing time, and then I'm joining you for a proper night at Toast. We're gonna party until we're wasted, and you are not ducking out this time.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that I'm not feeling well, but suddenly I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. Slipping it out, I'm surprised to see that Touched is trying once again to book a cam session.

  “Find someone else,” I mutter under my breath, rejecting the request before putting my phone away.

  “Someone important?” Gemma asks.

  I shake my head.

  “A potential boyfriend?” she continues with a grin, as she crushes more mint for my drink.

  “As if. Just a client.”

  “Ah, right.” She works on my drink for a moment, and I think she might be lost for words. I know Gemma doesn't entirely approve of how I pay my way through med school, but we've run this conversation to death over the past eighteen months and she knows there's no point trying to change my mind. “Still doesn't creep you out, then?”

  “Why would it?” I ask. “Those guys are mostly in other countries. They're safely on the other side of the laptop screen.”

  “Yeah, but still...”

  “I'd rather have to deal with them,” I continue, “than some weirdo who's actually at my place of work, ogling me.”

  I glance along the bar. Sure enough, there's a guy sitting next to the noticeboard, sipping a drink and staring quite blatantly at Gemma. He hasn't even noticed me, and I can't help smiling as I realize that he seems genuinely awestruck by my friend. Or rather, by her rather ample cleavage. And Gemma was right, the guy does have a very weird mustache, with hair from the sides combed across the middle. I guess I can see what he was trying to do.

  Turning back to Gemma, I see that she's just about finished my drink.

  “Do you think I'm a bad person?” I ask.

  “For whoring you
rself out on webcam shows?” she replies, before hesitating for a moment. “Nah. I guess not. We've all got to survive. It's human nature, innit?” She slides the drink toward me. “On the house, while you wait for the other girls to show up.”

  “If they're not here when I've finished this,” I mutter, taking a sip, “I'm calling it a night. I'm exhausted and I'm broke. I need a big night out like I need a hole in the head.”

  I can already feel the hermit side of my personality taking charge. At this rate, I'll be a complete recluse by Christmas.

  Three

  Swinging the door shut, I lean back and take a deep breath, enjoying the silence of my room.

  Having waited at the pub for everyone else to show up, I finally decided I'd had enough and came home. Gemma's admirer had been chased off by Brad, the owner of the bar, and her boyfriend had called to invite her over, so it's not like I was standing her up. And since the others were still at Geri's house doing their make-up, I decided I really couldn't be bothered being social.

  The hermit won.

  Maybe I'm getting boring, now that I'm past my twenty-second birthday, but I actually like being home before midnight. A cup of tea, a few more chapters of the book I'm reading, and I think I'll be ready to get an early night so I'm refreshed for some exam revision in the morning.

  Tossing my bag onto the chair next to the bed, I wander over to the window and pull the blinds down. At that moment, my phone starts buzzing again, and when I check the screen I see that Touched is trying to get through once again. Sighing, I'm about to swipe him away when I see that he's added a discretionary top-up to his bid, and he's offering me a whopping £300 up-front for a half-hour session.

  “You've got to be kidding,” I mutter, double-checking and finding that the money is already in the escrow account. “What the hell?”

  I hesitate for a moment, telling myself that I'm so not in the mood to have another client, but I can't help running the math in my head and realizing that £300 would put me over my target for the month. It's only the 17th. I'd be able to take a week or two off from this kind of thing, and maybe I'd be able to hunt down an actual job in the real world that doesn't leave me feeling filthy and disgusting every evening.