by Sarah Dalton
“Who’s found you, Mum?” I ask. I don’t understand where she’s got all this from when I was the one taken by the spirit.
The thought of it. The darkness… I can’t think of it. I’ve never felt so, so weak and powerless. When I look at my arms and legs, it’s as though they aren’t mine anymore, even though the spirit has left me. That one encounter has changed me, possibly forever.
And the guilt. The guilt and shame lies heavy in my stomach. I’ve been through some awful things in the last year, but nothing has made me feel like this. I want to crawl into bed and never come out, but someone has to look after Mum when she’s distressed.
“I hit you. Oh, God, I hit you. I’ve never hit you before, not even when you were little and you were naughty. Your father thought I should smack you once, but I resisted. I put you on the step and I told you that you wouldn’t eat your dinner if you behaved in that way again. But you were such a good girl. Nothing like your cousin. I still don’t understand how you became such good friends when you were so different…” Mum’s voice drifts away.
“Mum,” I say, in what I hope is a soothing tone. “Why don’t you sit down? I’m not mad at you. I was under the control of another being and you got it out. I’m glad you hit me. Otherwise I might still be…” I swallow dryly.
Mum turns to me and I see a woman I’ve never seen before. She seems shorter, somehow, frailer. Her eyes are red from the tears, her face is stained from running make-up. Her hair is dishevelled. Her hands are gripping each other, the nails digging into her skin. Her jaw is slack, and her expression is blank. It’s my mum. It’s her, but she’s so changed. I find myself pulling away, folding myself into the sofa.
“I think I should go to bed,” Mum says eventually.
“Okay,” I whisper.
When she leaves, it’s as though the house sighs, letting all the tension out. My muscles unclench. I exhale with relief.
Lacey comes over to sit with me. She regards me with a tilt of her head and a sympathetic smile. “Are you all right?”
“I… I don’t know. Did you know you can control people?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve seen that stuff happen on TV, but I didn’t realise it was real.”
“Me neither,” I say. “It… it…”
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I reply.
I place the glass of water on the floor and rest my head against my raised knees. I just want this day to be over.
May 23rd 1847
We got a puppy!
He is called Bailey and he is a curly-haired retriever. Papa says he will grow up to be rather large and will need to be walked every day. Bess isn’t very happy because she thinks she will have to walk Bailey, even though I told her that I will do it. She thinks I will lose interest but I won’t.
Oh, he is lovely. He comes up to me and licks my face. When he does it, Mama squeals at me. She doesn’t like Bailey very much and she has frowned at Papa all day. But then Papa returned with five steaks (one for Bess) and a bouquet of red roses. Mama smiled a little bit after that.
Everyone is happy except Lottie. She has been in a beastly mood all day. She refuses to do anything except stare out of the window looking very forlorn. When I try to talk to her she flashes me the most dirty look. Mama has been attempting to check her temperature all day, but Lottie won’t let her near her. She looks awful. She is so pale and her skin is strange, similar to wax. And I understand it is unladylike to comment on this, but she smells bad. I don’t know why. We are both bathed at the same time.
The smell must be unpleasant to dogs because Bailey has not wanted to be anywhere near Lottie all day. In fact, poor old Bailey barks and barks every time Lottie is anywhere near him. He even started growling, and Papa had to shout at him. Bess seemed very uneasy when that happened. In fact, she left the room in tears. Later that day I heard Papa trying to convince Bess to stay with us. I heard Bess say she would stay with us, but only for my sake.
“Someone has to look after that child,” she said. “She needs protecting from that devil of a sister.”
Liza
Chapter Ten
The night has me in its grasp. I toss and turn, playing a game of push and pull with the duvet, one moment too hot, the next too cold. I lift my clammy body from the bed three times to open and shut the window. The heat bothers me, but I don’t feel safe with the window open. I keep imagining that darkness coming in, seeping into me. If I leave the window open, am I leaving myself vulnerable to whatever it exists out there?
Like the swarm in my dream, a gathering darkness waits for me, hovering around my room, closing in on me a little bit at a time. The night-dark suffocates me. The walls close in. My head swims with conflicting thoughts, the desire to run away, and the longing for this house, to be near the precious music box, to stay here with Mum.
When I close my eyes I see that room. I see those people. I see the white eyeballs of the ghosts as they stare at me. More than once I wake with a start, imagining that the seeping of darkness runs through my veins. More than once I sit bolt upright in my bed, my chest heaving up and down. I turn my lamp on. Then turn it off. I pick up a book and put it down.
Eventually, when the sun is beginning to rise, I sit up in bed and talk to Lacey.
“Is it the house or the séance bothering me?” I ask. “I can’t tell how I’m being haunted, by memories or ghosts. I’ve not seen anything, but with the music box and everything.”
“Have you looked at it again?” Lacey says.
“Not with Mum around. She would hear it and come in, wondering what I’m doing.”
“Why does that bother you?” she replies.
“It’s mine,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t want her interfering in what’s mine.”
“You mean you don’t want her to have it.”
“No—”
“You think she’s going to steal it, don’t you?”
“No!”
“Mary, you’re super weird about that music box, do you know that? It’s kinda odd. You need to chill out. You’ve had a rough day. And night.”
I pull my knees up to my chest and hug them. “It’s been worse than a rough day. It’s been… Oh, I don’t know. Have you ever seen anything like that before? Did you see all those ghosts? Those poor souls. They seemed so desperate. Maybe we should find them and use the Athamé to help them move on.”
“Am I desperate?” Lacey asks in a small voice.
“No… no, I didn’t mean that—”
“You think I should move on, though. That’s what you said when…”
“When I wasn’t me. It was the spirit talking, not me. I was worried at first, but I think because you have me and because we work together to help other ghosts move on, it’s not an issue. If you walked the earth alone and vengeful—”
“Like Little Amy—”
“Exactly.” I force myself to smile. “You’re nothing like her. You have a reason to still be here. You’re with me. We’re a team, remember?”
“But what are we going to do? Put an ad in the newspaper—ghostbusters for hire? That’s stupid.”
“Is it? I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who need help with a ghost.”
“Maybe you should help Emmaline.”
A shiver runs down my back. “Maybe. But I’m not sure I ever want to set foot in that house again.”
There’s a soft knock on my bedroom door. “Mary?”
“Come in,” I say in a slightly cracked voice.
“Everything okay?” Mum asks, sticking her head round the door. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
“I was mumbling along to my iPod,” I lie.
Mum frowns. But then she glances at my cheek and the frown becomes a guilty half-smile. “How is it?”
I stroke my cheek. “It’s all right. A little sore.”
Mum comes into the room in her dressing gown with a cup of tea in her hand. She plonks down next to Lacey. “I hit you so har
d. God, Mary. I’ve never hit anyone before… I just… I don’t understand what came over me.”
A tingling sensation runs up and down my arms as I think of last night and everything that happened. The ghost inside me said terrible things. “Did you know it was going to be a séance?”
Mum shakes her head. “I would never have gone if I’d known.”
“Do you… do you believe in ghosts?”
Mum’s back straightens. “Of course not. Ghosts don’t exist. Everyone knows that.”
“Then how do you explain what happened to me? And to Mr. Anthony?”
She shakes her head. “It was the excitement. It was all the show of the spooky room and the silly acting. You got caught up in it, that’s all. And it’s all right, sweetheart. I understand you weren’t yourself. Whatever you said… it doesn’t matter.”
“But, Mum, you can’t seriously think I faked it?”
She reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve been through so much this year—”
“No,” I say, pulling away. “No. I’m not crazy. I’m not—”
“Sweetheart—”
“No. I’m not, I’m not. Please don’t send me back to the hospital. Please don’t.”
“Oh, Mary, I’m not going to. I just mean that you’re more fragile than many other people. You’re easily swayed by that environment.”
My throat catches and my voice comes out smaller than ever. “I’m not crazy. I’m really not. And I’m not weak, either. I’ve been through it all and I’m okay, I promise I am. I’m—”
“Shh, honey. I sleep in the next room. I hear what you shout out at night. It’s okay to ask for help, you know. It’s okay to rely on someone other than yourself. Get some rest. I’ll bring you breakfast up in a moment.” She stands up, and in a rare moment of genuine emotion, smiles at me as though I’m still a little girl. “Get some rest.”
When she leaves, Lacey turns to me. “I’m sorry, Mary.”
But I’m not. I’m angry. Mum saw what happened and yet she chose not to believe it. I squeeze a corner of the bedspread into a tiny ball inside my fist. She could have believed me. Hell, she only had to believe her own eyes. But instead she made excuses and she dismissed what I had been through. She blamed it on me being weak.
I lean down below the bed and pull out the music box. As soon as I open the lid, the tension leaves my muscles. At least this gives me comfort. At least this doesn’t judge me or call me crazy.
There’s a little drawer beneath the dancing ballerina. When I slide it open, I see a couple of pieces of old jewellery: earrings, a ring with a dark stone, a brooch in the shape of a bird. But my attention is caught by a small notebook. I slide it out and shut the music box, stopping the little tune.
“What is it?” Lacey asks.
“It looks like a diary,” I reply.
I crack open the book and begin to read.
I don’t get far. I read about a girl called Liza moving to Ravenswood in the 1800s. Then there’s another knock on my door, and I jump. I barely have time to scoop the journal and the music box and hide it under my bed before Mum comes in with a tray.
“Scrambled eggs on toast,” she says. “Some comfort food for my little girl.”
“Thanks, Mum,” I reply.
“Maybe we could have a day out in Ashforth. Get away from the house and the boxes for a little while.”
“I’d like that,” I say.
“Good. Well, you eat your breakfast and then get ready. I’ll be downstairs.”
I would rather read more of Liza’s journal than go into Ashforth, but I know better than to resist when Mum has something to prove. At least I’ll get a nice lunch or a cappuccino out of her this way.
*
It’s a pleasant little town. In a way it reminds me of Nettleby, with its quaint, independent shops and old fashioned greasy spoons. But there is more of a youthful presence in Ashforth than there is in Nettleby. With the school holidays about to come to a close, the teenagers are out in force, hanging around in gangs at the park. I’m surprised to see a skate park and a number of scruffy guys on skateboards. Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all. There’s even a Costa.
After a tuna melt and a mocha, Mum lets me choose where I want to browse. Considering the criminal lack of clothes shops, the only place that catches my interest is an old book shop. It’s the kind of place run by a fierce old man with grey hair and glasses. The kind where they look up from their book when you walk in, and then assess you before you’ve even picked a book. I can’t help but wonder if I look particularly “literary” in my denim shorts and white vest top. I get the feeling this guy would prefer to own a “Rights of Admission Reserved” sign to flash at the undesirables.
Mum, however, is not good at reading body language and smiles and says hello to the man behind the counter. He grunts in response and returns to his book. I decide to wander into the stacks, to see if I can find anything to take my mind off the séance.
Mum, never someone to be easily discouraged from small talk, decides to have another shot at chatting with the bookshop owner.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” she says.
“Yes,” the man says. He flashes her a weak smile and returns to his book.
“Do you get a lot of business here?”
“Enough.”
“We moved to Ashforth a few days ago,” she continues.
The man sighs, removed his glasses and puts down his book. “Have you, now?”
“We moved into Ravenswood two days ago.”
The man’s face changes. The slack look of boredom turns into a tight expression of fear. “You moved into Ravenswood?”
“Yes, do you know it?”
“We all know it around here.”
The tone of his voice causes me to replace the novel I was looking at and move closer to the desk. I pretend to be looking at a photography book so I don’t look interested as I watch the two of them closely.
“Oh, really? It’s a gorgeous house. Mary and I are quite in love with it, aren’t we, sweetheart?”
My cheeks flush as the attention moves to me and I force myself to nod. The bookshop owner regards me with a tight smile. He looks at us and then away, then he looks back and opens and closes his mouth as though beginning to speak.
“Why is it so famous?” I ask, emboldened by curiosity.
The owner inserts the stem of his glasses into his mouth and narrows his eyes. “You don’t know, do you?”
Mum and I exchange a glance.
Mum says, “What are you talking about?”
The man opens his book and shrugs his shoulders. “Nothing of particular interest.”
“It is,” I say. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have got all flustered.”
“I don’t feel comfortable talking about it,” he replies.
My heart drops. Whatever he can’t say must be related to the house, and it must be a dark secret.
“Murder?” I ask.
The bookseller’s face hardens. He replaces his glasses and returns to his book. “Actually, I think I may shut up shop for an hour or so. It’s time for my lunch.”
“But it’s 3pm,” Mum says.
“Exactly. I’ve left it far too late. Now, if you wouldn’t mind seeing yourselves out and turning the sign on the door when you leave. That would be lovely.”
“But—”
“Thank you very much for your custom. Help yourself to a free book on the way out.”
I grab a book without looking at it, move over to Mum and then lead her out by the elbow. “We’re not welcome, Mum.”
Outside, Mum’s cheeks turn bright red. “Well, I’ve never been so insulted… How could he throw us out? I can’t believe the impertinence…”
“We got a free book, didn’t we? Come on, let’s go.”
As we make our way down Ashforth high street I look down at the random book I pulled from the shelf. The Haunting of Hill House. I could laugh out loud.
May
24th 1847
I dreamt of strange occurrences last night. I dreamt that Father had Lottie over his knee and was smacking her hard with the palm of his hand. Father never hits us. Mother is the one who hits us. I hated seeing him hurt Lottie like that, but I was glad of it. I was glad, because I thought it might make her a better person. So I watched, and I watched, and I never pulled myself away. I stood there and did nothing as she sobbed and sobbed.
Then Papa finally stopped. He lifted his head and he stared at me. At first a terrible fear gripped me, as though his gaze meant that I was next for the punishment. But then I realised that he was actually staring behind me. I wondered why he could be staring like that, with his mouth slightly agape, and his hand frozen in the air. It seemed a strange expression for Papa to wear. He is always so together, so calm.
I turned slowly, afraid for myself, afraid for Papa and Lottie. And when I turned, I screamed.
There was another Lottie. She had black holes for eyes and her lovely blonde hair tied into pigtails. She wore a little blue pinafore, which is Mama’s favourite outfit, except that it was dirty with a large red stain. In her hand was a little knife, no bigger than the one Bess uses to cut the vegetables.
She was such a sight of monstrousness that I awoke immediately and sat up in bed. I spent a few moments trying to compose myself, trying not to cry or scream. I should have screamed. I should have brought Mama in to see me, because I had the queerest notion that someone was watching me in my room. I felt as though I wasn’t alone.
I turned my head.
There was a lump… a dark lump in the room. It didn’t move or make a sound. And from within me came a freezing sort of terror. I couldn’t scream even if I wanted to. It was too late to scream because my voice was lost. I hid in my bed covers and wept for a few minutes, trying to muster the courage to either shout for Mother or check whether the monster had gone away. Eventually I checked.
It was gone.