Charlotte Says

by Alex Bell

  There was so much anguish in her expression that I instinctively reached out to wrap my hands round her skinny arms.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “You can tell me.”

  “Miss Black,” Bess replied, “I lied to that policeman. I was scared and Charlotte said not to tell, but I think I should have.”

  “Tell him what?” I asked.

  “That it was me,” Bess said. She gave a little sob. “I killed Estella.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Isle of Skye – February 1910

  “You’d better tell me everything,” I said, leading Bess over to the chair by the fire.

  “Estella h-helped me,” she stammered. “With the d-d-dresses. And because of that she got flogged instead of m-me. It was my fault. When we made the toast sandwiches, Charlotte said I should take mine to Estella to say thank you.”

  “And you forgot she couldn’t eat nuts?”

  Bess burst into tears then, proper sobs that racked her small frame. I was quite concerned that someone would hear her and come to find out what the noise was about. I hugged her and tried to comfort her as best I could. It was several minutes before she’d calmed enough to speak again.

  “I didn’t forget,” she said. “I remembered she couldn’t eat them. But Charlotte said it would be all right. She told me to take the nuts out of the bin to make the sandwich more tasty.” She held up the little china doll, gazing at it miserably. “She said it was a good idea and, somehow, she made me think it was a good idea, too. She got inside my head and made me feel all mixed up and confused. So I took the sandwich to Estella. Miss Grayson wasn’t there and Estella was asleep so I left it by her bed. She must have seen it there when she woke up and … and…”

  She dissolved into tears once again.

  “It’s all right,” I said. I took the doll from her and slipped it into my pocket. “It’s all right, Bess.”

  I held her for half an hour or so and then, when she’d finally settled a little, I turned her to face me and said, “I want you to listen to me now because this is important. There’s something wrong with the Frozen Charlottes. Something dark and evil got inside them, and this makes them want to do bad things and persuade other people to do bad things, too. It’s their fault Estella died, not yours. It’s not your fault, Bess. You were right not to say anything to the policeman. In fact, you shouldn’t ever tell anyone else what you’ve told me. And whenever you feel sad about what happened to Estella, you just have to remind yourself that it was the dolls that really did it. Can you do that for me?”

  Although she still looked wretched, Bess nodded.

  “Good girl,” I said. “Now, it’s very late. You should go back to bed and try to get some sleep.”

  Once Bess had gone, I sat down on the edge of the bed and took out the Frozen Charlotte. I stared down at the doll in my lap, hoping it was the only one I’d missed. Although what Bess had just told me was horrifying, in a way I was relieved. At least now I knew the truth and I hoped that, in some small way, I may have helped Bess to carry the guilt that would doubtless be with her for the rest of her life.

  “Do you want to play a game?” a little voice piped up.

  I closed my eyes briefly. Then I reached down and snapped the doll’s head off in one abrupt movement. “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  I threw the broken doll into the fire and watched the glazed paint bubble away on the porcelain pieces, which cracked into smaller and smaller shards until there was nothing left but dust.

  As the last specks fizzled away, I stood up, intending to go to bed. But before I could even turn away from the fire, there was a small, dark pop deep within the coals. I paused and leaned down a little, peering into the embers. The next second, a blurred shadow came racing out of the hearth towards me, hitting me full in the face.

  I reeled back but the shadow seemed to attach itself to me. Suddenly I could feel dark, crooked fingers reaching up through my nostrils and in through my ears and straight between my lips, groping their way into my mouth, right down into the back of my throat. I spluttered and gagged and choked, and crashed forwards on to my knees. I thought for a moment that I was going to die right then and there.

  Summoning up every once of my strength, I fought back against the thing, pushing it away with my mind until it seeped out of me and retreated back to the fireplace, disappearing up the chimney in a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. I was left gasping for air with a rotten taste in my mouth and an ache in my chest and a pain my heart.

  Too late, my grandmother’s words about the possessed painting came back to me: They thought they should just toss it straight on to the fire, but luckily I was there to stop them. Otherwise they would have released that devil and who knows where we would have been then!

  Slowly I got back to my feet, feeling as wobbly and fragile as an old woman; as insubstantial as a doll made from paper. I glanced back at the fireplace but there was nothing left of the doll or whatever dark force had been inside it. I could only assume that it had escaped through the chimney and was now out there, loose in the world, because of me.

  I turned away and went to bed. Miss Grayson would get her wish. My resignation letter would be on her desk first thing in the morning. The dolls were evil, there was no denying that, but the last one had just been destroyed. Everything could go back to normal here at the school, leaving me free to go away with Henry.

  Finally – finally – I had the chance to be happy and it was one I intended to grab with both hands.

  I opened my eyes and found myself back at Whiteladies. The house was on fire, and smelled of ash and ruin. At the bottom of the stairs I could hear the wet crunch of my mother being beaten to death with Redwing’s cane.

  I made my way down to the ground floor, even though I knew that it must be too late to help her. Far too late. The sound alone told me that. The shatter of bone and the squelch of brain matter was not a noise you could associate with any living thing.

  As I stepped down from the last stair, I heard the clip-clop of hooves and then, out of the darkness, rippling from the shadows, loomed a huge black horse. I knew it was Blackie, Vanessa’s beloved steed, by the fact that he had a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead. Dark blood ran down the side of his face and splattered over the tiled floor with each step.

  The phantom horse gave no indication of being aware of me as he passed and headed up to the first floor. The curved staircase was not designed for horses, and his hooves slipped and scrabbled over the tiles. Perhaps the sound of murder had unsettled him. It was enough to unsettle anyone.

  I realized then that the sound had stopped and I turned round quickly, only to find myself face to face with Edward Redwing. A trail of blood trickled from the side of his mouth but he grinned at me in a demented sort of way before closing his hands round my throat.

  “Well,” he whispered, “where were we?”

  His fingers squeezed tighter and tighter but all I could focus on was the sound of a bell ringing … over and over again.

  “Who’s ringing that infernal bell?” Redwing said. He glared at me. “Is it you?”

  I tried to shake my head but his hands were wrapped too tightly round my throat. He was going to choke me to death. I couldn’t control my panic as I tried and failed to suck in air.

  “Stop that!” a tiny voice said from the floor.

  Suddenly Redwing’s grip was gone as he dropped his hands with a curse and looked down. A Frozen Charlotte doll was standing there, having just plunged a letter opener into Redwing’s ankle.

  “You don’t hurt Mother!” the doll said. “No one hurts Mother!”

  “God!” Redwing cried, clutching at his head. “Would you stop ringing that damned bell?”

  But the bell just kept on ringing. On and on and on…

  I jerked upright in my bed, my head still full of the nightmare. For a moment I thought I felt Blackie beside me, heard him shuffle his hooves and snort into my hair. I rubbed at my temples, trying to clea
r my mind, trying to think. Then I heard voices calling out in the corridor and realized that the bell wasn’t a leftover echo from my dream at all but that it really was ringing downstairs somewhere.

  I quickly pulled on my dressing gown and hurried into the corridor, where the girls were gathered anxiously at the top of the stairs, peering over the banisters into the shadows below.

  “We’re all up here,” Felicity said as I approached. “So who’s ringing the bell downstairs?”

  “Perhaps it’s Miss Grayson,” Olivia suggested. “I heard her wailing in her bedroom earlier. I think she’s gone mad.”

  I did a quick sweep of the girls and saw that Felicity was right. They were all there – even Martha, who had moved back into the dormitory with the others. I saw that Bess was holding her hand to guide her way.

  “Perhaps it’s Estella,” Bess said in a small voice.

  “Estella is dead!” Martha said shrilly. “She’s dead! Dead, dead, dead!”

  I tried to quiet them. “There must be some explanation,” I said. “Stay here. I’ll go and find out what’s happening.”

  I made my way down the dark staircase, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. I almost expected a slaughtered horse to pass by me at any second. As I walked down, switching on gaslights as I went, the bell continued to ring. Only it wasn’t coming from the classroom as I’d expected but from Miss Grayson’s study. It was still ringing when I was right outside the door. I pushed it open.

  The bell stopped the moment my hand found the light switch. Just like before, there was a loud clanging noise as it fell to the floor and rolled along the wooden boards. My mouth fell open as I took in the state of the room.

  All the cabinet doors had been flung open and Miss Grayson’s dolls had been removed. They lay scattered around – on the floor and on the desk and on the chairs. Every single one had had its hair cut, shorn off at the scalp so that only bristles and spikes remained. But the cut hair hadn’t simply been left on the floor, it had been fashioned into tiny wigs. They were lined up neatly on Miss Grayson’s desk – wigs of all different colours, each one a perfect pompadour just like the one the schoolmistress herself wore. Even though I couldn’t recall any of the dolls I’d seen having grey hair, quite a few of them were grey.

  Having seen the girls’ attempts at making dolls’ clothes, I doubted any of them were talented enough to produce these wigs. In fact, there was only one person who sprang to mind.

  “Estella?” I said quietly to the empty room. “Are you there?”

  There was no answer. Nothing at all. I knew the girls upstairs would be waiting fearfully, so I turned round, intending to return to them when suddenly there was a scraping sound, followed by the peal of a bell. Someone was ringing it again, right behind me.

  I stood frozen, a thrill of fear making my heart beat too fast. Slowly I turned back round. I saw the bell at once, suspended in mid-air, swinging back and forth so that it rang out loudly, only there was no one holding it. It seemed to move all by itself. As I stared around, trying to work out what was happening, my eye fell on the mirror that hung over the fireplace and I gasped.

  Estella was there in the reflection. She had her back to me, facing the corner of the room, but I could tell it was her because of her white-blond hair, as well as the fact that she was wearing the same outfit she’d died in, the white nightgown marked with bloodstains from the flogging. Her head was bent forwards at the neck, her shoulders hunched, and she was completely motionless except for her right arm, which rang the bell with more and more force, eventually raising her arm so high that it reached right over her shoulder.

  “Estella!” I cried, desperate to stop the frantic, discordant ringing of the bell. “Estella, stop!”

  But she carried on, jerking her arm up and down in a weird, lurching movement. I could see her in the room now as well as in the mirror. I was scared of Estella in that moment, despite the fact that it was surely ridiculous to be frightened. This was not an abusive stepfather or a demonic presence, it was only the ghost of a lost little girl.

  I had no business being afraid of her, especially after what I had already faced.

  I forced myself to walk across the room, the bell sounding louder with each step. Finally I was right behind Estella, close enough to see that the bloodstains on her nightgown were spreading slowly down the white fabric.

  “Estella,” I said again, reaching my hand out towards her shoulder.

  She looked so solid that I thought I’d be able to touch her but instead my fingers passed straight through, as if she consisted of nothing but smoke. I still felt her, though. Where they touched her, my fingers felt as if they’d been plunged into freezing water, and the pain of it shot right up my arm and into my shoulder as I snatched my hand back.

  Estella must have felt my touch, too, because at last she turned round.

  When I saw her face, I clamped both hands over my mouth and forced down the almost uncontrollable urge to scream louder than I’d ever screamed before in my life.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Isle of Skye – February 1910

  Estella’s face was fixed in the same awful expression I’d seen when she lay on her deathbed.

  Her mouth was open wide enough to unhinge the jaw; her eyes bulged and it looked as if the blood vessels in them had burst. She appeared terrified and wild and insane all at the same time. Her spare hand suddenly clawed at her throat and it seemed as if she was trying to speak, but only a thin rasping sound escaped.

  I wanted to help her but I had no idea what to do. Her eyes darted manically around the room. She gagged and her mouth, if possible, opened wider still. She reached into the back of her throat and slowly dragged out a long piece of grey hair. In fact, it was more than just a piece – it was an entire wig! It was damp and matted and tangled with dozens and dozens of tiny white dolls’ hands. I watched in horror as Estella dropped it on the floor and then, with a wordless shriek, threw the bell with startling force at the mirror.

  I ducked instinctively and the mirror smashed on impact, the pieces falling down in a shower of sparkling glass. When I looked back up, Estella was gone.

  I groaned in the sudden stillness of the schoolroom. The girls had been right all along – Estella’s spirit really was haunting the school. And she’d been trying to speak, trying to tell me something. If I went away now then I’d be abandoning her to eternal torment, just like people had been abandoning her her entire life.

  There was nothing else to do that night but to return upstairs, although my legs were trembling so badly that they almost wouldn’t carry me. When I finally reached the first floor, it took some time to persuade the girls to go back to bed. Once they were settled, I went to Miss Grayson’s bedroom and knocked on the door, intending to inform her of the destruction downstairs. Really, it seemed most odd that she hadn’t come out yet. She must surely have heard the bell, after all, and I would have expected her to come storming out with her tawse.

  There was no answer to my knock, so I called through the wood. “Miss Grayson?”

  “Go away,” came the muffled response.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said. “There’s been a disturbance—”

  “I do not care,” the schoolmistress replied.

  She sounded odd and I remembered what Olivia had said about hearing her wailing earlier.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. I pressed down on the door handle but it was locked. “Miss Grayson?”

  “I am indisposed, Miss Black,” the schoolmistress replied. “But I do not require your assistance. Whatever has happened, I must ask you to deal with it yourself.”

  Shaking my head, I walked back down the corridor to my own room. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep for the rest of that night.

  Over the next few days, things became increasingly strange. For a start, Miss Grayson was gone by the time I woke up the next morning, which meant she must have left before dawn. Nobody had seen her go but Henry said one of the horses had bee
n saddled up and taken. The schoolmistress had left a scribbled note under my door, which simply said she had business to attend to on the mainland, that she hoped to be back soon and that I would have to take charge of the lessons in the meantime.

  It seemed mad that she would just take off in such a way but I had more pressing matters to worry about. It was perfectly apparent to everyone that the school was haunted. And not haunted in a quiet, peaceful, bemusing way, like Dolores haunted the servants’ staircase. No, this was a wild, furious, out-of-control sort of haunting. It was a haunting that raged.

  Objects moved by themselves. Bells rang. Desks tipped over. Lights switched on and off. Books fell from shelves. A chair even flew across the room and almost hit one of the girls in the face. I recalled what my grandmother had once told me about spirits: Most of them are harmless enough but it’s the poltergeists you have to watch out for. A ghost may not be able to hurt you but a plate flying at your head certainly will.

  The handprints were the thing I noticed first. They appeared on every mirror in the school. In all the haste and panic, we had not obeyed the usual mourning custom of covering the mirrors with black shrouds when Estella died. My grandmother had told me it was an important practice in order to prevent a spirit from getting trapped behind the glass after leaving the body.

  Stopping beside a mirror that hung in the corridor on my way to join the girls for lunch, I peered into it. There were dozens of child’s handprints marking it, as if someone had pressed their palms against the glass over and over again. Yet, when I rubbed at the surface with the sleeve of my dress, the handprints didn’t wipe away. It was almost as if they had come from inside the mirror. I thought of how I had seen Estella behind the glass of the mirror in Miss Grayson’s study and shuddered.

  Still, there were no disturbances that night and the next day Miss Grayson arrived back at the school wearing what was quite obviously a new wig. It was a different shade of grey and arranged in a bun rather than a pompadour. I remembered how there had been grey wigs among the tiny ones on Miss Grayson’s desk and it occurred to me that it wasn’t just the dolls’ hair that had been used. Miss Grayson’s own wig must have been taken as well. That would explain why she hadn’t wanted to open the door to me that night and why she had fled the school the next morning. Whatever state her real hair was in, it was obviously bad enough that she couldn’t bear to be seen without a wig.