The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  “Doesn't the pen stop working like that?” Johnny asks.

  “What?”

  “Pens usually stop working when they're sideways or upside down.”

  “Must be magic,” I tell him.

  “You've got to admit it's a bit weird,” he continues. “The way you're constantly making those notes. I mean, when did it start?”

  “Just after my mother died,” I reply, feeling a strange tightening sensation in my chest. I always get that whenever Mum comes up in conversation. Maybe because her death was my fault. “Around that time, anyway.”

  “So it's like a coping thing?”

  “I guess.”

  “And I know you've seen psychiatrists about it.”

  “I'm not hurting anyone,” I point out.

  “You almost got us killed just now.”

  “How do you figure that out?”

  “You took forever to climb back down the ladder, Polly. It could have been the difference between life and death! Whatever's up there, it could have grabbed my head and pulled me up there. We were panicking, trying to get away, and you still couldn't stop scribbling in that diary. I mean, can't you even stop for a few seconds?”

  “It's complicated.”

  “You're complicated.”

  “I don't want to talk about it,” I continue. “If it bugs you so much, then I'll stay in my room more. I don't want attention, okay? That's the last thing I'm after. I'm not going to be like this forever, it's just for now.”

  With that, I turn and head out into the hallway.

  “So when are you going to stop?” he calls after me. “When are you going to put those notebooks down and start acting like a normal person again? Polly? When's all the writing going to stop?”

  ***

  “I don't want any more talk about the attic!” Rebecca says firmly, as she sets a pot of potatoes on the table and removes the lid. “There's nothing up there!”

  “We heard it!” Johnny replies. “Polly, tell her!”

  “We heard something,” I admit. “Maybe it's termites. Or bats. I made a list of possibilities.”

  “And something scratched your face,” Johnny continues, watching as Rebecca heads to the door. “That wasn't termites, or any other kind of animal. That was something that came into the room and attacked you. Mum, admit it, you know something isn't right in this house! We should go back to London right now!”

  “Johnny, please...”

  “There's something living in the attic!”

  She turns to him. “Johnny, you're really going too far this time. I've already promised that Daniel will go up there when he gets back, but until then you have to find something else to occupy your time.”

  She heads out to the kitchen, but I can tell that Johnny's in no mood to shut up. For all his cocky bravado, I think he's genuinely scared, and I honestly don't know what to say that might calm him down. Whatever's in the attic, it has to be just bats or mice or termites or some other infestation, but apparently Johnny's already convinced himself that we've got some kind of ghost or monster in the house.

  “You should drop it for tonight,” I tell him.

  “Why are you not more freaked-out about this?” he asks.

  “Because it's clearly not serious. I made a list of one hundred possibilities, and not one of them is worth panicking about.”

  “With all due respect, your stupid lists don't make me feel any better.”

  “Let's try to have a nice dinner,” Rebecca says as she comes back through. “I made -”

  “I'm not hungry,” Johnny mutters, getting to his feet and making his way to the door. “I'm going out.”

  “You're not going anywhere! Johnny, sit down!”

  “I just want to get out of this house for a bit!” he shouts, already opening the back door and stepping outside. “I never wanted to move here in the first place, Mum! We were fine in our apartment in London! We didn't have to move in with these freaks! We could have just stayed as we were, and maybe Dad would have come home eventually. Why did you have to ruin everything?”

  As he slams the door shut, I turn and see that Rebecca seems almost frozen. After a moment, I think I can see the first hint of tears in her eyes.

  “I'm sure he didn't mean that,” I tell her. “He's just scared. And he's a kid. He's only fourteen, kids can be real assholes. I mean, I'm only two years older than him, but I remember what it was like to be that age.”

  She forces a smile as she takes a seat.

  “Potatoes?” she asks, although her voice is trembling slightly. “I used goose fat for the first time when I roasted them. I thought I'd be a little more adventurous in the kitchen, now we're living out here in the sticks. There's a farm-shop in the village, so everything's very fresh.”

  “It looks really nice,” I reply, starting to put food on my plate while still writing. I want to steer the conversation around to something normal, to something that might make her relax, but I can't deny that I've got my own concerns in the back of my mind. “So what's the deal with this house, anyway?” I continue. “Dad didn't really tell me very much, just that he inherited it from one of his uncles, but I figure he must have told you a little more.”

  “It's a long story.”

  “I like long stories.”

  “I don't want to go into it,” she continues. “I'm sorry, Polly, but there's no point dredging up the past. This is a perfectly beautiful house, and we're very lucky to be living here. I know it needs a little work here and there, but we mustn't let the past affect the present. What's done is done. It's just a house.”

  I watch as she puts some potatoes on her plate.

  “But something happened here, didn't it?” I ask finally. “Something bad.”

  “It's not important.”

  “I'd really like to know.”

  She continues to fill her plate, and for a moment I think that maybe she's just going to ignore me. She seems so tense and scared, and she can barely even look at me.

  “The house used to be owned by your father's uncle,” she says finally. “I don't know anything about the man, except that some time about twenty years ago he disappeared. When the police came looking for him, they found all the doors and windows locked from the inside, so obviously they assumed he was still in here somewhere. They searched, but they didn't find anything, and there's been no sign of him since. By all accounts he was something of a recluse, a real loner. There was some suggestion that he suffered from mental problems, some kind of...”

  Her voice trails off, and her gaze seems momentarily caught on my notebook.

  “Well, something in the head, anyway,” she continues, clearly feeling uncomfortable.

  “Maybe it runs in the family,” I suggest.

  “Don't say things like that, Polly.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I didn't mean to snap, I just...” She pauses. She's always found it awkward, even acknowledging whatever's wrong with me. After a moment, she forces another smile. “That's really about all I know about the situation. Your father knows a little more, but he doesn't like talking about it. Oliver, I think was your uncle's name. Nobody ever found out what had happened to him, and the manner of his disappearance meant that his estate was rather complicated. There was no will, so it wasn't immediately clear who should inherit the house. Eventually somebody figured out that your father was first in line, so here we are. And we're very lucky to be out here in the countryside, away from the smog and pollution of the city. God, London was driving me crazy.”

  Turning, I look at the window, where Dad's new bolts are in place.

  “So the whole place was locked from the inside?” I ask.

  “But he wasn't here,” she replies. “Clearly he wasn't. The house was searched thoroughly.”

  “So where had he gone?”

  “Nobody knows, but that doesn't mean he's still here. Obviously he just wandered off and died somewhere, and the police must have been wrong about how the house had been locked up.” Sighing
, she looks down at her hands for a moment, and I get the feeling that there's something weighing heavily on her mind. “The only other thing I remember your father mentioning,” she continues finally, “is the scratches.”

  “Scratches?”

  She turns to me, and I can't help noticing the cut on her face.

  “Like I said,” she explains, “there was no sign of your uncle Oliver when the police entered the house. But there were quite a lot of...”

  Her voice trails off, and then she looks over at the doorway.

  Following her gaze, I see the scratches all around the frame. Rebecca said earlier that she hadn't noticed them, but obviously she was lying. I guess she just wanted to pretend they're not real.

  “There are more,” she continues. “Lots more, under the wallpaper. Your father came to look at the place a few months ago, and he said all the walls were horribly scratched. The floors and ceilings too. He had new wallpaper put up, to make the house seem more presentable. He didn't want to talk about it too much, which I completely understand. After all, Oliver was his uncle, so it can't be very much fun to think of him suffering all alone out here. I mean, whatever happened to the old man before he disappeared, I doubt it was too pleasant.”

  I stare at the wallpaper, imagining all the scratches that have been covered up. After a moment, I realize that something doesn't feel right, but it takes a few more seconds before I realize that while I've been engrossed in these thoughts, I actually stopped writing. A shudder passes through my chest, and I quickly write these words to catch up. That's never happened before.

  “What do you think Oliver ended up?” I ask. “What does Dad think happened?”

  She hesitates, before turning back to me.

  “I'm sure he just went a little funny in the head,” she says, forcing another smile. She briefly looks at my notebook, before picking up her knife and fork and starting to eat. “Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's not a weakness, it's just unfortunate if he had nobody around to help him. Now we should get tucked in, or this'll all go cold.”

  “But my uncle -”

  “And that's all there is to say on the subject!” she adds, interrupting me. “Come on, Polly. Eat up!”

  ***

  Johnny was right about one thing earlier. I need to figure out a way to stop all of this. At some point, Dad's going to want to send me back to school, and I won't be able to keep writing like this once I'm in class all the time. Well, maybe I can, but then people are going to laugh at me. If Johnny seems bad, I know the kids at school are going to be ten thousand times worse.

  And Dad's wrong when he says I don't try.

  I try a lot.

  I try stopping, but I'm not brave enough.

  Deep down, I feel certain that if I stop, something truly awful will happen again.

  I'm on my bed and it's late, well past 10pm. Rebecca's in bed and Johnny came home earlier but he went straight to his room. I should just try to leave the notebook alone for, say, five minutes. Even the idea sends shivers through my chest, but it's been a long time since I tried, and I don't want to be one of those weak-ass people who never make an effort. If I can leave the notebook alone for five minutes, then maybe I can leave it for ten tomorrow, and fifteen the next day. Maybe I can make a little progress.

  “Come on, please,” I whisper out loud, trying to push the creeping sense of fear out of my chest. “You can do this. I know you can. The rules are a load of crap and you don't live by them. You can break them all and nothing'll happen. Last time was just a coincidence.”

  So here I go.

  It's 10:05pm. I'm stopping.

  It's 10:07pm and I'm back. I managed about two minutes and ten seconds, and now I'm shaking all over like a goddamn idiot.

  I hate this! I hate it all!

  All I did was go and sit on the other end of the bed, with my back turned to the notebook. At first, I felt kind of okay, almost as if a massive weight was lifting off my shoulders. I told myself this wouldn't be hard after all.

  By the time one minute had passed, however, all the euphoria had turned to dread and I was starting to sweat.

  By one minute and thirty seconds, my hands were clammy and I could hear a ringing sensation in my ears, like tinnitus but so strong that it made me dizzy. And I felt like everyone was about to die.

  By two minutes, I knew I was cracking, and now I'm back at the notebook, and I'm starting to calm down again.

  Two minutes isn't bad, though.

  Maybe I can manage two and a half minutes tomorrow.

  Then again, maybe there's no massive rush. Right now, even the thought of stopping again is enough to make my hands start trembling. I know I'm being weak, but as I settle back on the bed and hold the notebook up high so I can keep writing, I tell myself that there'll be other chances to start making progress. I tried breaking my superstitions once before, a long time ago, and the whole world came crashing down around me. I can't take that risk again, not ever. If writing everything down for the rest of my life is the price I have to pay, to keep everyone safe, then that's just what I'll have to do.

  Someone's out in the corridor.

  I can hear footsteps heading past my bedroom. Now I can hear someone unbolting the attic door, and now the steps are coming rattling down.

  Getting to my feet, I make my way across the room and pull my door open, and I find that Rebecca is already starting to climb up through the hatch.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Finding out what's causing that goddamn noise,” she mutters as she disappears into the darkness above.

  “What noise?”

  “All that scratching! Don't you hear it?”

  I feel a rush of panic in my chest as I head over to the bottom of the steps.

  “Maybe you should wait 'til Dad gets back!” I tell her, as I hear her bumping about up there. “Rebecca? I don't know if it's a good idea to look around in the dark. Whatever's up there can wait, right?”

  I wait for her to say something, but all I hear is her making her way toward the attic's far end. A moment later I hear a door opening nearby, and I turn to see a bleary-eyed, clearly barely-awake Johnny stepping into view.

  “What's going on?” he asks, rubbing the back of his head.

  “She went up to check out the noise,” I tell him. “She heard it too.”

  “For real?” He comes over to join me, and for a moment he looks up toward the hatch. “Mum! Get down from there, you dumb-ass! You're gonna break your neck!”

  “There's something back here!” she calls out. “I want to see what it is! I thought Daniel wasn't going to put anything in the attic yet, he said he hadn't even been up here properly!”

  “This house is driving me nuts,” Johnny mutters, before leaning toward me and peering at my notebook.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Catching up what's been going on. I figure it's quicker than asking you.”

  I tilt the notebook away, so he can't see.

  “What?” he continues. “I'm only -”

  “Oh God!” Rebecca shouts suddenly, followed by the sound of her running back toward the hatch. A moment later, her horrified face comes into view. “Run! Both of you, get -”

  Before she can finish that sentence, she lets out a gasp as she's yanked back out of view. There's a series of loud bumps, and a set of gurgled cries, and then the scratching sound returns louder than ever. My hands are suddenly trembling as I write these words.

  “Mum!” Johnny shouts, grabbing the sides of the ladder and starting to climb up. “Mum, what -”

  Suddenly she clatters back into view, falling against the edge of the hatch and reaching down to us. One side of her face has been completely gouged away, as if something has dug through the meat of her cheek and begun to claw at her skull. Blood dribbles down from the open wound, splattering against the ladder's metal steps.

  “Run!” she gurgles, as her body shudders violently. “Both of you...”

>   Something appears behind her, something large and black with long, thin arms. I can't describe it properly, I don't know what it is, but it looks like it's part man and part spider, with lots of arms that are slowly reaching around Rebecca and starting to hold her tight. At the same time, one of the arms presses against her bloodied face, grinding against a patch of exposed bone.

  Rebecca starts to turn, but she's quickly dragged back into the darkness, and this time there's a loud, sickening splitting sound.

  “Mum?” Johnny stammers, still holding the sides of the ladder as blood dribbles down onto his hands. “Mum, are you okay?”

  “We have to call help,” I tell him, grabbing his arm and taking a step back, while still writing in my notebook. “We have to get out of here and -”

  Suddenly there's a loud creaking sound directly above us, and I look up just in time to see a large split starting to run through the plaster on the ceiling. It looks like the whole thing is about to come crashing down. Still holding Johnny's arm, I try to pull him back, but he seems frozen in place and now the ceiling is starting to bulge down, accompanied by the sound of wooden beams bending and splitting.

  “It's going to come down!” I shout. “It's -”

  It comes down.

  The entire ceiling just came crashing down, but I managed to pull Johnny back. A massive cloud of white dust is filling the air now, but the scratching sound is much louder and I can already see a dark shape moving at the other end of the landing. While I'm writing these word with my trembling right hand, I use my left to brush dust away from my face.

  “Mum?” Johnny yells. “Mum, where are you?”

  As the dust continues to clear, I realize I can see something hanging down from a hole in the ceiling. I think it might be Rebecca, but if that's the case, then what's the shape on the floor? Too scared to know what to do, I simply keep writing and stare straight ahead, and now I can see that there's a second body. As soon as I'm able to see a little more clearly, I realize that I recognize the silhouette.

  “Dad?” I stammer, taking a step forward. “What -”

  It's him.