by V. H. Leslie
She opened the door but hesitated on the threshold. Across the room, the bathtub was full to the brim with water – though Mary had not been instructed to draw one – and the water was an unnatural sickly green. As she made her way closer, she saw that it was actually her green dress, spread heavily across the surface. Evelyn made her way closer, recoiling as she touched the fabric; the material was wet and slimy. She reached in again and hauled the dress out. It was much heavier than normal because of the water, which poured off of the fabric in vast quantities, draining back into the now half-full tub. But Evelyn could see that the water that remained was the murky colour of the river.
Evelyn sighed. Her green dress was ruined. The fabric completely saturated, the dress itself torn and frayed, ripped in parts as if it had been caught on rocks and other obstacles, dragged along the riverbed. In fact, the dress had taken on the sheen of the river; it looked as if had spent an age beneath the water, not a few moments in bathwater.
Evelyn heard a knock at the door and turned to see Blanche on the threshold.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she began, ‘I wasn’t thinking…’
Evelyn looked back at the green dress in her arms.
‘Get out!’ she screamed. ‘Get out!’
19
Kirsten
Kirsten lay in bed, Manon’s notebook across her lap. She hadn’t ventured out for a couple of days, hibernating inside with only Manon’s research and Sahara for company. The heating was on full power and she kicked the covers off her legs. But it was better to be too hot. She didn’t want to encourage the water in.
She turned a page and one of Manon’s copious Post-it notes fell against the sheets. She picked it up before Sahara tried to lick it.
A Water Doctor is a physiological practitioner, it read, and underneath she’d written Water Doctor – Quack Doctor. Quack, quack, quack, and had drawn some ducks along the bottom. Maybe Manon’s mind wasn’t as sound as she thought.
She placed the Post-it back inside and resumed flicking through the pages. On one was stuck a photocopy of a poem entitled ‘The Bridge of Sighs’. In the margin she recognised Manon’s scribbled hand:
Thomas Hood’s sentimental treatment of the ‘fallen woman’ theme.
Kirsten skimmed the poem as Sahara jumped up onto the bed and curled onto her lap.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life’s history
Glad to death’s mystery,
Swift to be hurl’d –
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
She couldn’t read anymore. It was a rather morbid subject, though she expected nothing less from Manon. Beneath it was an image, a glossy reprint that had been torn from a book. It portrayed a young woman lying half in the water, half against the ground, as if she had just been washed up by the river. She was framed by the arch of a bridge and her arms were outstretched, with the hand closest to the viewer clutched around something. Perhaps a keepsake of some kind. Was it a necklace or a locket? Beneath the painting, Manon had written in her spidery scrawl, George Frederic Watts ‘Found Drowned’.
Kirsten got out of bed, and Sahara followed, weaving in and out of her feet as she made her way to the window. Kirsten had had enough of the water, its presence taunted her, making her aware of this sudden entrapment. She supposed she could go down to the river, but she knew what she would see there. The woman with the long wet hair. Was she really a water spirit, a rusalka? It seemed better not to find out.
She shut the curtains in the front room and made her way into the spare room to do the same. But she paused as she crossed the threshold, realising that her feet were wet. Despite the heat of the flat, she hadn’t been able to keep the water out. A film of water had spread across the floor. Luckily there wasn’t much that could be damaged, only the legs of furniture and the last removal box that she hadn’t got round to unpacking. Because she didn’t want to unpack it.
In it was heaped all the mementoes and reminders of her relationship with Lewis. All the things she’d discovered squirreled away in various other innocuous looking boxes. But she’d collated them all now, all in one place for her to deal with, when the time was right.
The water seemed to have got to it first.
From across the hallway she heard Sahara hiss. She saw her pad towards the threshold but back away again at the sight of the water.
‘It’s alright, girl,’ Kirsten said. But it wasn’t. She crouched to inspect the damage. The cardboard was soaked through, the box full to the brim with water.
‘Shit, shit,’ she said, and she heard Sahara mew in reply. She rolled up her sleeve and cast her hand into the box, water gushing up over the rim. Her fingers found a photo frame and, pulling it out, she saw that the photograph was ruined. Lewis’ face had been partially washed away. She fished around some more, retrieving objects that were irrevocably watermarked, lining them up on the floor like a beachcomber’s treasure. It felt like a strange lucky dip, seeing which items had acquired the least damage. Eventually her fingers clasped the cold metal of the locket Lewis had given her and, salvaging it from the water, she saw once again the inscription that was there; the pledge of everlasting love. She wanted to drop it back into the box but instead she opened the clasp. There was nothing inside anymore, except for the water.
20
Evelyn
Evelyn had hung the green dress up on a peg on the back of the door. Despite the late summer heat, it didn’t seem to be drying out. In fact, if anything it was as wet as when she had pulled it from the bath. She watched the dress now by candlelight as she lay in bed, puddles converging beneath it.
She didn’t try to rationalise it. The dress was just another part of Wakewater’s strangeness, its ability to tap into the anxieties of its residents. The dress belonged with her memories of Milly, and she found herself recalling that night in Milly’s lodgings when she’d let her try it on. It was the first time they’d undressed in front of one another and she could still bring to mind that panicked delight as she watched Milly remove the layers, her hidden self suddenly revealed.
Except that Evelyn hadn’t seen all of her. Not really. She hadn’t seen what was really hidden beneath the crinoline and whalebones, beneath her soft white flesh. She only saw that when Milly was pulled dead from the river; then there was no denying it: her stomach swollen not just with the river water but because of the child she carried.
But Wakewater had revived her. It had brought Milly back. If Milly could step out of the river, it was not implausible that Evelyn’s green dress could find itself immersed in that same element. In a way, the dress should have belonged to Milly; she had loved its emerald allure more than Evelyn ever had. It seemed strangely fitting that she would reclaim it now, that the dress should share the same fate as its rightful owner, dragged through the river to be washed up, faded and ruined.
Evelyn rolled over in bed, away from the dress. Perhaps this was what she deserved, this life at Wakewater: a watery purgatory, drenched, soaked, saturated in the same element that had taken her love. How often had she’d lain in one of the many baths she’d been prescribed as part of her Water Cure and considered sinking down beneath the surface. Of lying there, beneath it all, watching the bubbles floating to the surface eventually cease. What kept her from letting go?
Blanche.
Evelyn sighed. They hadn’t spoken since the morning when Evelyn had shouted at her. The memory of it gave Evelyn a sinking feeling inside. Blanche hadn’t really done anything wrong; Evelyn should have welcomed any platform to talk about her work with the Rescue Society. But it felt too raw after what they had shared the night before, and then seeing the ruined dress, it was as if Milly was telling her something. Milly had always been a jealous kind of woman.
But Milly was dead. Blanche was here in the present, warm and open, and capable of loving her back. Evelyn sat up, wondering if she’d ruined yet another chance of happiness. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for her to remedy.
She pulled herself out of bed and reached for the candle on the nightstand. Casting a shawl over her nightdress, she made her way to the door, sliding past the drenched green dress. The water that pooled from it had formed a line across the threshold.
Evelyn stepped over it and into the hallway. The candlelight illuminated the otherwise pitch-black corridor and she made her way slowly, cautious of the shadows that gathered in the recesses.
She hesitated outside Blanche’s room and then knocked.
There was no sound inside, so Evelyn knocked again, slightly harder. She pushed the door lightly, expecting it to be locked, but it gave way. She recalled the previous night when Blanche had snuck into her room and thought how odd it was that she was doing the same. She hoped she wouldn’t mind the intrusion. Holding the candle tentatively against the dark, she stepped inside.
Blanche wasn’t alone.
In the candlelight, Evelyn could make out a figure hunched over Blanche, her legs crouched over her waist, her wet hair dripping down onto her face. Her hands were clutched around Blanche’s throat, squeezing tighter. At Evelyn’s approach, the figure turned, her black hair clipping through the air, and with a wild look in her eyes, she hissed at Evelyn.
‘Milly, no, no!’ Evelyn ran towards the bed.
The woman relinquished her grip on Blanche in an instant and recoiled in one fluid movement, like a wave receding from the shore. Evelyn ran to Blanche’s side, running her hands over her shoulders, her neck, shaking her gently awake.
‘Blanche! Blanche!’
She lay immobile, frozen. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and as she registered Evelyn’s face, her eyes filled with panic. She reached for her throat and sat up in bed struggling for breath. Evelyn stroked her back and looked about the room for Melusine. Only shadows gazed back.
21
Kirsten
Kirsten nudged the door to the old part of the house with her hip as Manon had shown her. It opened wide enough for her to slide through. She made her way inside, into what had once been a kitchen. She groped in her cardigan pocket for the torch she’d taken from Manon’s, but instead her hand brushed something metallic and cold: the locket she’d picked up that she intended to throw out with the rubbish. She fished inside the other pocket. Retrieving the torch, she shone it into the darkness and Wakewater was suddenly illuminated.
She made her way through the house as cautiously as before. The building was too dilapidated, too rundown for Kirsten to feel safe. It didn’t help that she was haunted by the water and by the creature she believed inhabited it. There was nothing safe about Wakewater. But if she was going to understand it, she needed to know more about its past.
She followed the pipes. She couldn’t understand the strange, watery phenomena in her flat, the fact the water always found a way in, despite her best efforts, so seeing where the pipes led to, she decided, may help make sense of things. She followed their network down through the west wing and realised that they would converge under the main building. It seemed likely that the Turkish bath, with its elaborate fountain, would have been built with close access to this underground system.
The room itself wasn’t far from the side entrance, but Kirsten realised that she had explored very little of Wakewater House. She found herself walking in the opposite direction instead, toward a set of stairs. As she ascended, daylight flooded the corridor, entering the building from a series of overly large windows at the end of the hallway.
It was a grand room, comprised almost entirely of glass. Some of the windows had sustained damage over the years, but they didn’t detract at all from the main draw: the exceptional view. From this height you could see the river stretching back for miles and miles. Kirsten made her way towards one of the windows, leaning against the pane and looking down into the dark, winding current. But it didn’t feel close enough. There was a door to a balcony. She pulled against the rusted bolt and pushed the door wide.
The cold air greeted her. The balcony was large, running the entire length of the glass room, easily able to accommodate numerous patio chairs and tables in the summertime. She imagined that Wakewater’s guests would have spent a great deal of time out here. Kirsten edged out towards the railing, unable to resist the urge to look over the edge. The air seemed to rush up past her, blowing her back towards the house. The river looked wilder from this height, the current churning and swirling. She gripped the railing tighter and stared into the torrent; there was something mesmerising about gazing out over the precipice. She almost forgot her fear of the water.
A sound like a wail gave from the metal and Kirsten felt herself lurch forward. The railing drooped towards the water and Kirsten flung herself back on to the balcony floor. The metal sighed again, this time with the sound of splintering wood. She got to her feet cautiously, aware now that the platform she stood on was far from stable. Making her way back slowly to the door, she cursed herself for taking such a risk when she knew what a sorry state the house was in. She could easily have fallen.
She felt relieved once she was back inside the glass room. She didn’t look at the river as she closed the door, though she could see its dark impression refracted in the glass panels, in the glittering beads of the chandeliers she passed beneath. The water had permeated every corner of Wakewater, and though she wanted to turn her back on the river and its strange influence on her life, Wakewater forced her to look on. Even when she closed her eyes it was there, slick and ominous, floating through her mind.
She retraced her steps along the corridor and made her way back to the room with the fountain. It was just as she remembered it: the grand centrepiece, the elaborate tiling and wainscoting. This time she looked more closely at the wall tiles; a green and blue design that resembled the swirling movement of the waves, and she could see what remained of a mosaic on the far wall. Through the disrepair, she could make out a large, scaly fish tail.
She walked through the water that puddled in the middle of the room. Kirsten was used to having wet feet by now. She ran her finger between the peaks of the waves carved along the edge of the fountain. The water inside the basin was dark and stagnant, eerily still as if it had been untroubled for many years. Looking into the pool was like looking into the dark interior of a well. There was a sense of curious endlessness. How deep did it go?
Despite the grimy appearance, Kirsten wanted to touch the water. She let her hand sink deeper, sweeping the muck and detritus from the surface, needing clarity, almost willing the water to reveal its intentions.
The fountain burst to life. Water shot violently from the uppermost spout, surging upwards before raining down heavily on Kirsten, who edged backwards to avoid the deluge. But she was soaked through in seconds, her heart racing with the cold shock of the water. She tried to peer through the cascade to the water bubbling in the basin. But the surface was even more obscured than before, agitated into peaks and troughs like the intricate waves carved into the marble.
Kirsten felt the water at her feet vibrate, bubbling along the surface of the floor tiles with no hope of escape. The drains must be blocked. She would have to go deeper.
There had to be access to a basement. She made her way, wet as she was, through Wakewater’s passages, following doors that led to more cavernous rooms and back again to the main hallway. She was beginning to feel like Wakewater was turning her around and around, as if she were caught in the inescapable current of the river. She tried one last doorway and smiled when she saw a staircase leading downwards.
She was descending into the depths of the house now and there was something frightening about falling further from the daylight. A strange feeling overcame her, that she’d be sealed beneath the surface, immersed inside the h
ouse. She fought the feeling away as she wound her way deeper. She had to see where the pipes led. She had to know what was at the heart of Wakewater.
At the bottom was a modestly sized room, unexceptional architecturally compared to the other rooms Kirsten had seen, but it contained the most curious object positioned in the centre.
It looked to be some kind of swimming pool, made of metal with raised sides, like an oversized bath that would allow you to stretch out and swim a little if you chose. But it didn’t convey a sense of leisure; the cold metal surface made it look like something distinctly medical. She ran her hand over the hard surface, her fingertips catching against a series of sharp edges.
Crouching down, she shone the torch against the tank. There was something inscribed in the metal. It looked like the marks had been made by something sharp, like a knife. Just one word.
Melusine.
22
Evelyn
Evelyn waited in the orchard. Blanche had eluded her for the last few days and there was no certainty she would come now. Evelyn had tried to explain her presence in Blanche’s room when she’d seen Milly hunched over Blanche like some kind of succubus. She could still recall her wet hair dripping down onto Blanche’s face, her fingers coiled around her throat.
Blanche had listened, but Evelyn could tell she didn’t believe her. She’d taken to wearing more formal high-necked blouses, not at all in keeping with the way she usually dressed, but at least they covered the bruises around her throat. It made her look more reserved, austere, not at all like the light-hearted young woman Evelyn had come to care for. But then, Blanche had seemed to acquire a guarded aspect to her countenance too. She was more cautious around Evelyn, as if she blamed her for the bruising. You’re not well, she’d told her, raising her hand to her collar. We should see less of each other, we need to concentrate on getting better.