Whispers in the Dark

by Jonathan Aycliffe

  I opened my eyes. Mrs. Manners was still sitting facing me. Her head was slumped forward on her chest, which was rising and falling with great effort. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. Her grip on my hands was growing tighter. I continued to concentrate on Arthur.

  It started almost without my knowing. The first thing I noticed was that the room was growing cold, although the fire still blazed as brightly as ever. It was the same unwholesome chill I had experienced at Barras Hall. Mrs. Manners started to breathe very heavily indeed. And then, over the sound of her breathing, I heard something else. Not Arthur’s voice, which is what I had been expecting, but a sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind. I could not identify it at first. Then it began to rise in volume and I realized with a thrill of deep unease that it was the sound of several voices whispering. They were coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

  As they grew louder I tried to make out what they were saying, but nothing seemed to make any sense, as though they were speaking in a foreign language or in a variety of different tongues. I heard my name repeated several times, “Charlotte, Charlotte,” in different voices, each time with great intimacy, as though a close friend were summoning me. Then, behind the whispers, a man’s voice, rough and angry, the words still unintelligible.

  Suddenly the voices faded and were replaced by a child’s voice singing.

  Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;

  Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;

  Change and decay in all around I see;

  O Thou, Who changest not, abide with me!

  Suddenly the voice was broken off. The room was utterly silent, except for sounds of labored breathing from Mrs. Manners. I could feel my hair rising. I knew something was about to happen.

  Without warning, the flames in the two gas burners sank very low, almost to the point of extinction. The Are died down as though someone had thrown water on the coals. The room was almost dark now and growing colder every moment. Mrs. Manners began to moan and toss her head from side to side, though she did not once let go of my hands.

  At that moment I heard a sound that made my flesh creep. Footsteps in the passage outside the room. Just like those I had heard outside my bedroom at Barras Hall. They approached the door. “Please,” I prayed desperately, “let it be Florence.” But I knew these were not Florence’s footsteps. Something rattled the door handle. Mrs. Manners gave a loud cry and jerked her head back violently.

  The next instant a tremendous force hurled the door open, sending it crashing against the wall. The doorway remained empty, utterly empty. But I could feel it now, that same dark presence I had known at Barras Hall. At first, there was silence, and then I heard something: a rustling sound, the same sound I had heard in my bedroom in the dark. It was in the room with us.

  Suddenly Mrs. Manners opened her eyes. The rustling grew louder.

  “Charlotte! Help me, Charlotte, help me!”

  It was a girl’s voice. With horror, I realized that it had come from Mrs. Manners’s throat, but it was not her voice.

  “Charlotte, they’re hurting me! Oh, God, help me!”

  Mrs. Manners’s mouth opened and closed without real relation to the words, like the mouth of a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  “They want you back, Charlotte. You have to go to them. He won’t stop hurting me until you go back.”

  “Who are you?” I asked in desperation.

  “Caroline. My name is Caroline. You have to come back to us. He says he will hurt Arthur, he will hurt him if you don’t come back."

  “Where is Arthur? I want to see him.”

  “It isn’t possible. Not here. At Barras Hall, but not here. Please, you have to come.”

  I tore my eyes away suddenly, for I had become aware of something else in the room. In the corner farthest from me, I saw someone—or something—standing and . . . standing and moving, except that its movements were so unnatural, so distorted they were not like movements at all, but displacements of the shadows that surrounded it.

  At that moment Caroline screamed, a scream of such fantastic pain and horror that it still echoes in my head today. Mrs. Manners arched her back, pulling her hands from mine, and crashed back into her chair as though hurled there. I made to reach for her, but she shook her head violently.

  “Get out of here!” she hissed. Her voice was weak, almost inaudible. “For God’s sake leave.”

  I made a grab for her, intending to pull her from the chair and drag her with me from the room, but as I did so she summoned up what strength remained to her and sent me hurtling in the direction of the door.

  “Leave!” she shouted.

  I picked myself up and staggered out into the passage. I was truly terrified now and could think of nothing but getting out of the house and into the street. My legs were numb, they would scarcely hold me upright. I threw open the front door and stumbled through it. There was a small flight of stone steps leading to ground level. Gripping the handrail with all my strength, I climbed down to the pavement. My breath was jerking rapidly in and out, white and frosted against the light of a street lamp. I had left my cape and gloves behind, and in the sudden cold of the night air I felt myself shivering. But nothing would induce me to turn back into that house.

  My mind was a blur. I could scarcely remember in which direction I had come. I looked up and down the street: surely the hotel was that way. I took a couple of steps, then stopped as I heard something.

  On my right, slipping out from shadows into the narrow pool of light shed by the lamp, a horse-drawn carriage came into sight. The horses’ feet rang out sharply against the stillness. I looked up at the driver. It was Hutton. Behind him sat Anthony and Antonia. They were watching me with unconcealed interest.

  Anthony stepped down from the victoria. In a few paces he was by my side. He took my arm in a strong grip against which I knew it was useless to struggle.

  “It’s time to go home, Charlotte. Come with us and nothing will be said about what has happened today.”

  I pulled once, but he only tightened his grip.

  "We only want what is best for you, my dear. We have always wanted what is best. Come now, we have a long drive home.”

  I said nothing. What was there to say? Still shaking, I mounted the little steps into the open carriage. Antonia bent over and helped me onto the seat beside her. She smiled and kissed me affectionately on the cheek. Anthony got in and sat facing us.

  “Let’s go home, Hutton,” he said.

  As the carriage started forward I looked around. Standing by the street lamp, watching us leave, were the two lawyers, Stephen Melrose and John Parker. I understood then how I had been betrayed.

  CHAPTER 30

  We drove back to Barras Hall, along roads deep in snow. A cold moon rose over the fields to stare down on us all the way, very white and pitiless. On either side of us, trees seemed to hurtle past. Their branches were frosted. They were tall and unevenly spaced. Hutton thrashed the horse into drifts in which I was sure he would get stuck, but somehow we managed to pull through and clamber on toward our destination. I was given a blanket in which to wrap myself, but left otherwise uncomforted.

  For most of that journey we rode in a grim, angry silence. From time to time, passing through some treeless hollow bathed in moonlight or a rise among moorland, my cousin Anthony would fix on me a steady, unfriendly gaze.

  The silence was only broken as we passed through the lodge gates and onto the drive leading to the hall. It was Anthony who spoke. I could not see him very well, for the moonlight was much obstructed here by high trees. But his voice came to me clearly across the crisp, shivering air.

  “We are almost home, Charlotte. Perhaps this is the proper moment for me to address a few words to you. Neither my sister, Antonia, nor I can guess what your motives were in running away from us so precipitately. We have treated you well. Taken you in as one of our own family. Lavished kindnesses on you that you had neither reason nor title to ex
pect. Opened our home and our hearts to you. All of that you have thrown back in our faces in an act of open ingratitude. We are bitterly disappointed.

  “Mr. Melrose has told me some of the wild accusations you have been leveling against us. I do not have to tell you how shocking they are to us. But most shocking of all is the revelation that you have been snooping in my study and poking your nose into my private papers. More, that you went so far as to steal some of those papers in order to build up some elaborate fantasy about Antonia and myself. I cannot say how it hurt and grieved me to learn of that. In your favor, I can only conclude that your years in the workhouse coarsened whatever sense you may have had of virtue and morality.”

  He paused, expecting possibly some plea on my part, a denial of what he was saying. I remained silent, and he continued.

  “For that reason, we are willing to regard the whole matter as closed. What is done is done. We have spoken with Parker and Melrose, and received their solemn assurance that nothing more will ever be said on the subject. Nevertheless you must expect that certain changes will be made. In return for our indulgence, much will be expected from you. There will be alterations in your behavior.

  “Charlotte, you have to understand that ours is an old family, much older than Barras Hall. We have survived, we have flourished even in adversity because we have remained faithful to our traditions, traditions of which you, sadly, are wholly ignorant. But ignorance is no excuse. Very soon you will be educated. We shall make it our sacred charge to see that you understand. Too much is at stake to let you run about the countryside with tales and fables. You will learn the truth. You will see it with your own eyes.”

  He fell silent. We drew up to the front of the house. The moon was hidden behind the roof. There were only shadows here. As Anthony opened the door of the carriage Antonia leaned toward me.

  “You have two days, Charlotte. Until your birthday. If you have not learned all you need to know by then, you will regret it bitterly.”

  She said no more. Stepping down, she held out her hand to help me to the ground. Leaving the blanket in the victoria, I followed her into the house. It was cold, but my body had gone beyond shivering. Nothing had changed. It was as though I had fallen asleep and found myself reliving a nightmare from which I had only temporarily awakened.

  In the drawing room, I was told to sit down while Antonia rang for Mrs. Johnson. Anthony busied himself with a newspaper. Antonia turned her attention to me.

  “We understand you dined at the Queen’s Head, Charlotte, so you will not be in need of food. Nevertheless you must be both tired and overexcited by your exertions. That is a bad combination for the nerves. You will have to sleep tonight, otherwise I fear greatly for your health. I have asked Mrs. Johnson to prepare a draft to help you sleep. There is nothing noxious in it: she makes it from simples collected from the garden.” There was a knock at the door. Mrs. Johnson entered, carrying a tray on which stood a tall glass containing a pale green liquid. She placed it on a low table in front of me, curtsied, and left.

  “I won’t drink anything,” I said.

  “Come now. You aren’t going to be difficult, are you, Charlotte? This is only warm milk with a few herbs. A little valerian, some motherwort, chamomile, some grains of pulsatilla. All gifts from God’s garden.”

  I shook my head.

  "You killed my brother Arthur,” I said. “And now you want to kill me.”

  “Charlotte, you must stop this at once. No one has killed Arthur. He is still alive. Do you understand me? You comprehend absolutely nothing about what has been happening, whether to Arthur or yourself. You are in no position to judge our actions or those of anyone else. Now, behave sensibly and take your drink.”

  I shook my head.

  Anthony looked up from the paper in which he had seemed to be engrossed.

  “Charlotte,” he said. His voice was low and imbued with a menace I had not detected in it before. “I said to you in the carriage that I anticipated changes in your behavior. I did not expect stubbornness. My sister has already spelled out to you the general consequences of further refractoriness. I shall make her generalities more specific. If you do not drink every drop of your medicine, I shall be forced to beat you. Perhaps you were beaten in the workhouse and think you are hardened. I assure you, they could not inflict on you a tenth of the beating I will administer. And if you still persist, I will beat you again. I will beat you until you bend your will to mine. If necessary, I will whip every inch of skin from your body if that is what it takes.”

  I had no more strength in me to defy him, for all that my fears were not of bodily pain. My only hope now, and such a faint one, was that the Reverend Watkins should have my letter very soon, perhaps tomorrow, and that knowing what he did, he would come to me at once. Anthony had said he was now attached to the cathedral at Durham. Surely not even the Ayrtons could defy the church, however old and steeped in tradition they might be.

  With my eyes closed, I put the glass to my lips and drank the concoction. It tasted foul, but I forced myself to swallow it down.

  “I’d like to go to my room now, please.” “Certainly, my dear. Let me take you.”

  Antonia rose and helped me to my feet. She kissed her brother good night and. taking my arm tightly in her hand, steered me to the door.

  “Say good night to your cousin Anthony,” she said. “Good night, Anthony,” I parroted.

  “Good night, Charlotte. Sleep well.”

  We were just climbing the stairs to the first floor when I felt a wave of nausea come over me, followed by the most terrible giddiness.

  “You’ve . . . poisoned . . . me,” I said.

  “Nonsense, Charlotte. It’s just to help you sleep. You’ll see.”

  I could see Antonia bending over me, her face wavering in the light of the candle she carried. My legs felt weak, and suddenly I felt them give way, toppling me to the floor. Desperate to stay conscious as long as possible, I fought to keep my eyes open. I saw Antonia leaning down and heard her voice as though from a very long way away, booming at me. Then I twisted as a tight pain gripped my stomach. I turned, looking up to the top of the stairs. The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was a figure standing at the top of the staircase. The tall figure of an old man dressed in black and wearing a long black veil that stretched from his head almost to his feet.

  CHAPTER 31

  It was the afternoon of the next day when I woke. My limbs felt sore and heavy, and for a long time I could not clear my head. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I had difficulty finding my balance. Each time I tried to open my eyes, the light stung them so intolerably that I was forced to press them shut again. My head pounded with a dull ache. I had fleeting memories of terrible dreams, as though I had just spent days in a nightmare.

  At last I began to come to. The pounding in my head subsided to a lower level. I was able to move my arms and legs more easily. I opened my eyes tentatively, then looked around.

  I was not in my old bedroom. For a moment I could not say where I was, except that it was not there. But then I saw the bars on the window and realized where I had been taken.

  I staggered to the door only to find it firmly locked. In desperation, I cast my eyes around the room. The only furnishing was the old truckle bed on which I had been sleeping, covered with a couple of thin blankets. There was no fire, no chair, no mirror. The only ornamentation was the bars.

  Returning to the door, I hammered on it loudly, shouting for attention. Eventually my hands grew sore and my voice tired, and I sank down against the wall with my head in my hands, weeping. Time passed. My tears subsided, leaving me drained and frightened. I was conscious of hunger pangs and, more urgently, a growing need to use the toilet. Searching beneath the bed, I found a chamber pot. When I had used it, I covered it with one of the blankets from the bed and put it to one side.

  Going to the window, I had to stand on tiptoe in order to see out. Below me was a drab yard backed by outhouses, the whole cove
red in a thick pall of white. It was still snowing heavily. If this kept up, Barras Hall would be quite cut off. I felt quite panicky at the thought, for it might prevent the Reverend Watkins from getting here in time.

  “In time.” For some reason, I had fixed on my birthday as the most critical juncture. Something was planned for that date, and I was increasingly certain that it involved my death, just as the same day ten years earlier had involved Caroline’s.

  I went back to the bed and sat down, utterly miserable and dispirited. I had tried my best to escape, and it had come to this. Whatever happened now, it was no longer in my hands to influence events.

  I froze as footsteps sounded in the passage outside. There was a rattling of a key in the lock, then Mrs. Johnson appeared, carrying a tray. On it were a covered dish, a carafe of water, and a glass. She closed the door without a word, set the tray down on the floor, and came to the bed.

  “Have you used the chamber, Miss Charlotte?”

  “Yes.”

  She found it and, removing the blanket, covered it with a thick cloth she had brought over her arm.

  “Your food’s on the tray,” she said. “You’ll have no more until tomorrow, so make the most of it.”

  “Mrs. Johnson, why are you helping them keep me a prisoner? I thought you were my friend. You came to me in the graveyard that time. I thought you wanted to help me.”

  She seemed about to speak, then thought better of it, and turned away. As she reached the door she said, “I’ll bring the chamber back when I come for the tray. Eat your food quickly, before it gets cold.” When she left, I heard the key turn in the lock.

  The meal was substantial enough: evidently they were not going to starve me. I was suspicious of it, remembering what they had given me the night before, but my hunger got the better of me in the end, and I gulped it down. My only item of cutlery was a spoon. Did they fear I might use a knife or fork to attempt another escape? Or that I might attempt violence on myself?