Whispers in the Dark

by Jonathan Aycliffe

  I have asked Mother to invite the Reverend Watkins, but she says he will not come here. It has something to do with an old quarrel. I have decided to ride down to the village tomorrow with Oliver. I need to talk to someone.

  He was in the old place today. Darker and more solid every time he appears. No matter where I go, he manages to find me.

  12 December. I saw the minister today. He is a young man and has only been two years in the parish. I asked him, and he says he knows nothing about a quarrel. He sat and listened while I told him all I have seen and heard. At first I think he believed me touched, but after a little while he fell very silent. He asked me many questions, and at the end spoke with me most earnestly. He says my life may be in danger if I stay at the hall. When I asked him why, he merely said that he had heard things about the house, things some of his oldest parishioners had told him. I pressed him for details, but he claimed that was all he knew, that the house has a bad name in the district. He knows more than that, I’m sure of it. At least he has promised to visit.

  Mother asked where I had been. I said, to the blacksmith’s to have one of Oliver's shoes reset. She looked as though she did not believe it, but she said nothing. She and Uncle Anthony are together much recently.

  Noises tonight. No night without them now. The thing in the garden is almost at the wall. There is something in the corridor while I sleep. I hear it rustling. Is it enough to lock my door?

  13 December. Reverend Watkins came today, but Mother sent him away as though he had been the devil himself, and not a man of God. She guessed that I had been to see him. In the end, I told her everything. She looked at me as though she thought I was mad, as I had feared she would.

  At dinner, Uncle Anthony told me I was to say no more about what he called my “delusions. ” Otherwise they might have to have me locked up. On my way to bed I noticed—oh, please help me, somebody—that a new lock had been put on the door of the little chamber at the top of the stairs near my bedroom. I saw Johnson there earlier today. If I can, I shall escape tomorrow. Reverend Watkins will help me.

  Nothing in the garden. I think it is here now. Inside the house. It will be a long night. I saw him in the passage outside my room this evening.

  That was the last entry. The rest of the pages were blank. I sat shivering, as though I had turned to ice. More than anything, I wanted to believe that Caroline had escaped as planned. And yet the book I held in my hands was surely the best evidence against that. For surely she would not have left it behind, however carefully hidden. Unless . . .

  The only hope I saw was that an opportunity for flight had suggested itself unexpectedly and that there had been no time to worry about such trivial things as her diary or her dresses. I wondered if she had taken Oliver, if that was how she had managed to get away.

  And yet, however much I wanted to believe in Caroline’s escape, in my heart I knew it was unlikely. She had written her diary that night and placed it behind the shutter as usual, for me to find all those years later. The next day something had happened, and she had never returned to her room. I thought of that other room, the one with bars on the windows, and Antonia’s threat to have her daughter locked up. Was it her weeping that I had heard?

  A terrible thought struck me. What if they had kept her locked up until now, a lonely prisoner in that awful room, with Johnson as her jailer? That would explain so many things. Perhaps she had indeed been mad, perhaps she had imagined all those things she said she had seen or heard. And perhaps—I shuddered at the thought—she was allowed out of her cell at night, to take a little exercise while Antonia slept. Those footsteps I had heard outside my door, might they not have been hers? That would explain Mrs. Johnson’s insistence that I lock my door. She might be given to violence. That could explain the blood I had seen on those white cloths. And was it possible that the figure I had seen in the garden two days before, the young girl in a gray dress, had been none other than Caroline, allowed out by mistake?

  This explanation, disturbing as it was, nevertheless gave me a little comfort. I deliberately put out of my thoughts my own memories of voices singing at the folly or a dark shape creeping slowly across the lawn.

  In order to reassure myself further, I determined that I should approach the Reverend Watkins myself. Mrs. Johnson would surely know if he was still vicar of Kirkwhelpington. Or, if he had since been moved, as was probable, the new vicar would be certain to know an address to which I could direct a letter containing my inquiries.

  And yet, if my mind were to be set to rest on Caroline’s account, I had to acknowledge that further information could leave me a prey to darker thoughts. What if she had indeed escaped? What if the minister had smuggled her away from here and was now willing to tell me that she was alive and well in another part of the country, married possibly, as I had first imagined her? In that case, if Caroline was not mad, had never been locked up in that room, whom had I heard weeping? Whom had I seen in the garden? And what was it that Caroline had seen and heard in Barras Hall all those years ago?

  Mental excitement kept me awake longer than usual, but in the end, exhausted by my thoughts and the day’s exertions, I undressed and slipped into bed. Sleep came quickly.

  It was very dark when I woke. I did not emerge from sleep slowly, as I usually did, but quite abruptly, with almost no transition. One moment I was sleeping, the next I was lying fully conscious in that darkened room. It is important that you understand this, Doctor, that I was not asleep. What happened next was not a dream.

  I knew with absolute certainty, just as I had known earlier, that someone else was in the room with me. There was no sound, not even the sound of breathing, but I knew I was not alone. I lay there for a very long time while the most terrible thoughts passed through my head. At last I could stand it no longer. Whatever might come of it, I determined to have a light with which to confront my visitor.

  A candle and a box of matches always lay by the bed, on a little low table on my right-hand side. Gingerly I stretched out for them. Fumbling in the darkness, my hand touched something soft and unfamiliar. My heart almost stopped beating as I moved my hand again, sick at the touch. And as I did so I realized what lay beneath my fingers. Human hair, long and thick, on a level with the edge of the bed.

  I screamed loudly and tore my hand away, rolling frantically to the other side of the bed, scrambling out of my sheets and blankets, and finally tumbling to the floor. My mind was not working at all, I was in a blind, animal panic, utterly terrified by that single, repulsive touch. I lay in the darkness like someone stunned, unable to think or act.

  On the other side of the bed there now began a singularly unpleasant rustling sound. Even now, all these years later, I can still hear it if I am ever foolish enough to let my mind go blank. It is impossible to describe it adequately. Dry, insectlike, powdery, as though something long dead were alive and moving. It seemed to be creeping closer. As it did so I slid fearfully back across the floor until my back struck something hard and angular.

  I realized that it must be a leg of my dressing table. And in the next instant I remembered that the oil lamp was still on it. I was confronted by an intolerable choice:

  I could sit there in the darkness, listening to the sound slowly approaching me, or I could light the lamp and see it face-to-face. Either prospect filled me with horror.

  Yet to remain in the dark, waiting for it to reach me, was more than I could bear. I scrambled to my feet and found the matches in their usual place by the lamp. It was a matter of moments to scratch a flame into life. With a trembling hand, I raised the glass and put the flame to the wick.

  Steeling myself, I turned. The still-flickering flame cast an uneven light across the room. Shadows bounced against the walls and then grew still. There was nothing. The rustling noise had stopped, and the room was empty.

  Then, suddenly, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye. As I turned my head I saw her: a young woman in a gray dress, watching me intently. The
next second, a shadow covered her. When I looked again, there was no one there.

  CHAPTER 21

  Jasper was waiting for me the next morning in the kitchen, full of energy, eager for a walk. I went out with him after breakfast. Anything to be away from the house. Antonia seemed distracted and had no time for lessons. I was rather relieved, for I found it hard to be with her, knowing all I did. At lunch, Anthony told me there was news of Arthur and that they still hoped to find him in time for Christmas. For the first time I suspected that he might not be telling me the whole truth.

  The events of the previous night remained imprinted on my thoughts all day, the way a nightmare lingers, only much more real and solid. I became steadily more preoccupied with the question of what had happened to Caroline, and wondered if a similar fate awaited me. But what exactly had been her fate?

  After lunch, while feeding Jasper in the kitchen, I asked Mrs. Johnson what she knew of the vicar.

  “The vicar, miss? Whatever will you be wanting him for?"

  I lied as well as I could.

  "I want to ask him if he will let my mother be buried in the churchyard at Kirkwhelpington. I hate to think of her in that place where they put her. They bury them in quicklime in the yard.”

  She looked at me quizzically.

  “I’m sure the vicar would have no say in that. You’d have to approach the proper authorities.”

  “Nevertheless he’d know if it was possible.” “Haven’t you mentioned this to Sir Anthony? He has lawyers and such who can make inquiries.”

  “I’d rather not trouble him. Perhaps the vicar won’t have her. She wasn’t from his parish.”

  Mrs. Johnson paused. I suspected that she wanted to keep the vicar and me apart.

  “Well, miss, if you've a fancy to move her, you could always have her buried here. At the house.”

  “At the house? I don’t understand.”

  “There used to be a chapel at Barras Hall, years and years ago. In Sir Anthony’s great-grandfather’s day, I think it was. There’s still a little graveyard left, near where the chapel stood. All the family tombs are there. Surely you’ve passed it.”

  I shook my head.

  “No. Where is it?”

  “Not far from the folly, miss. You turn off the path after it goes over the bridge, then a little down again. All the Ayrtons are buried there for ever so far back. I’m sure Sir Anthony would have no objections to letting your dear mother be put there with the rest of them. It would be more fitting.”

  “I’ll ask. Thank you, Johnson.” But I had already guessed that the place she meant was the site of the ruins, about which I had been warned by Antonia, though she had not said a word then about the presence of family tombs.

  Jasper had finished eating. I said I would take him into the garden for a few minutes. As I was about to go I turned back to Mrs. Johnson.

  “Does he ever come here?”

  “Who, miss?”

  “The vicar. Surely he must visit Barras Hall sometimes. It’s the biggest house in the neighborhood.”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “Well, miss, your cousins are not churchgoing people. Their mother, the late Lady Ayrton, had a . . . disagreement with the vicar in her day. You’ll not see them down there or him up here.”

  “That’s a pity,” I said. “My parents used to take me to church every Sunday. I liked some of the hymns they sang. What’s the vicar’s name? If I’m ever in the village, I should quite like to call on him.”

  “He’s a man called Collins. I’ve seen him once or twice when I’ve had business in the village. A runty little man with spectacles. Not much of a man, and not much of a vicar, I’ll be bound. I’d not waste your time on him.” “Has he been here long?”

  “Goodness, so many questions. I’ve got work to do, miss, or perhaps you hadn’t noticed. No, Collins is a new man. Only been here a couple of years. There was Watkins before him, but he left. Went to a big parish in Yorkshire, I believe. Or maybe Lancashire. One of those parts.”

  She stopped.

  “What am I doing prattling on to you like this? Get on with you. And take that dog out of here: he’s been in my hair all morning. He should be in a proper kennel outside.”

  That afternoon I wrote a long letter to the Reverend Watkins, addressing it “care of Rev. Collins, the Vicarage, Kirkwhelpington,” and enclosing a covering note in which I implored the new vicar to send it straight on to his predecessor. The postman was due the following morning—he paid us two visits a week—and I had resolved to lie in wait for him after he called, in order to put my missive directly into his hands. I had some stamps in my drawer, left over from several given me by Antonia a couple of weeks previously, for letters I had written to Annie and to a couple of other friends I thought were still in the workhouse.

  I slipped the sealed letter into the pocket of the dress I was to wear to dinner that evening, for I feared that were Mrs. Johnson to find it, her suspicions would be aroused. Rather than remain in my room as it grew dark, I decided I would take my bath a little earlier than usual.

  The only proper bathroom in the house was an old one situated above the kitchens. It was walled with dark wooden paneling, and in its center stood a huge Victorian tub into which one had to lower oneself with the aid of brass handles. I rather hated it, for it was cold and dark, unlike the rather pretty bathroom my mother had created at home, in which I had spent many happy hours soaking in hot water and playing with little wooden boats my father had made for me.

  In the bathroom, I found that Hepple had already heated the stove, from which the water was heated. The room was not warm, but enough of the chill had been taken off the air to make it bearable. As had become my custom, I filled the tub with as much hot water as possible before starting to undress, for the steam helped warm the air further. I did not really mind the discomfort, for the privacy and leisure of bathing here were considerable luxuries to me after the communal bathing rooms of the workhouse. After all, I was still very young, and acutely embarrassed by the changes that had been taking place in my body over the past year or more.

  I undressed now, not fully at ease even on my own, and climbed carefully into the huge bath. Far above me, the light of my lamp glimmered on the glass skylight. Once, I had seen the moon hanging above me while I bathed, but tonight there was nothing there but darkness. The bathroom was full of echoes. Each time I splashed, lifting a leg or an arm to rub myself with the enormous sponge Antonia had given me, the sound of the water would be amplified. I tried to keep as still as possible, for there was something I disliked about those sounds.

  I had almost finished when, for no perceptible reason, I began to feel terribly afraid. Holding my breath, I lay perfectly still. Not a ripple disturbed the water. There was no sound. I think I expected to hear that abominable rustling again, but there was nothing. Then I looked up, at the door.

  The upper half of the door consisted of a pane of frosted glass surrounded by smaller, colored panes, some with stars inset. Against the center pane, blurred by the rough texture of the glass, lay a shadow. Someone was standing outside.

  “Who’s there?” I called out. “Is that you, Antonia?”

  The shadow moved, but there was no answer.

  “Mrs. Johnson? Are you there?”

  Still no answer. A horrible suspicion came to me.

  “Caroline? Is that you?”

  Silence. And then the sound of the doorknob rattling, turning and rattling. I lay frozen by fear. The rattling continued for about twenty seconds, then stopped abruptly. The shadow hovered in front of the door for a few moments more, then turned and moved away.

  I remember sitting in the bath, unable to move a muscle, while the water grew cold. All the time a sentence from Caroline’s diary kept going through my head: He was in my room last night. I could not see him, but I know he was there, watching me.

  I was brought back to my senses by a knock on the door and Mrs. Johnson’s voice.

  �
�Are you all right, Miss Charlotte? You’ve been in there nearly two hours now. It’ll soon be time for dinner.”

  “I. . . I’m all right, Johnson. I must have dozed off. Don’t worry, I’m coming now.”

  I hurriedly stepped out of the now freezing water and began to towel some warmth back into myself. My clothes were waiting for me over a low stool. When I had dressed, I turned to straighten my hair in the large mirror that hung near the door.

  Though it was no longer steamed up, I could still make out on its surface the traces of letters, as though someone had been writing on it. I could remember doing so myself when younger. Holding the lamp at different angles, I succeeded in reading the words traced on the glass: CHARLOTTE, YOU MUST LEAVE THIS HOUSE AT ONCE. At the end there was a final word, almost impossible to decipher.

  It was only when I stood back that I realized what it was. A signature: CAROLINE.

  CHAPTER 22

  I spent that evening shivering in my room, missing dinner on the pretext that I had a headache. Antonia visited me and helped me get into bed. I am sure she noticed the cross around my neck, though she did not remark on it. Once she was gone, I got up again, for I could not bear to lie there like that, as though waiting for another visitation to begin.

  The message on the bathroom mirror had frightened me. The warning it conveyed fit only too closely my own apprehensions, and I was now all the more determined to get my letter to the Reverend Watkins.

  The crying began again after midnight and did not cease till a little before dawn. I snatched some sleep, starting awake every so often to see my lamp burning as I had left it. Each time I would look nervously around at the shadows with the most fearful expectation. I could hear the crying, but could not summon up the courage to venture out of my room. Nor would I have known what to do if I had.