The Curse of Wetherley House

by Amy Cross

  “Sit her up,” Doctor Edge says calmly. “Come on. Hurry.”

  Hands grab my arms from either side and haul me into a sitting position on the bed, leaning my back against the wall. I'm powerless to resist, and I immediately start to close my eyes again as soon as the tongs let go of the lids.

  “No!”

  Suddenly I'm slapped hard on the side of the face, and my eyes briefly flicker open for a few seconds before closing again.

  “Give her the injection,” Doctor Edge continues. “And don't make me keep hurrying you every step of the way.”

  I let out a faint murmur, but a moment later I feel another needle sliding into my body, this time in my right arm. Whereas the previous injection stung, this is merely cold, and after just a few seconds I open my eyes properly and look up at the doctor, finding that my vision is no longer blurred. Outside the window, birds are singing in the morning light.

  “The child needs milk,” the doctor explains, “and unfortunately Mrs. Carmichael...”

  His voice trails off for a moment.

  “Well,” he continues, “let's just say that I was correct to have a back-up plan. Mrs. Carmichael has produced only a feeble dribble, whereas your body still produces a great deal.” He turns and heads over to a nearby table, before returning with a set of metal clasps and tubes, which he immediately sets on my sore belly. “This is a device of my own invention,” he adds, “and it has been thoroughly tested. You want the child to grow up strong and healthy, don't you? Then you must sit still and not make a fuss. You can still help the child by providing milk.”

  “Where is she?” I whisper, trying to get up from the bed but finding that I'm far too weak.

  Ignoring me, Doctor Edge pulls my gown open and attaches one of the tubes to my right breast. I feel an immediate tightness, and a moment later he attaches the other tube to my left breast, taking a moment to check that the cup sections are sealed before arranging the tubes that run across my belly and down off the side of the bed.

  “What is this?” I ask. “Where's my baby?”

  “You don't have a baby, Marguerite. Stop with that nonsense.”

  “Where's my baby?”

  “You don't have a baby.”

  “Bring her to me,” I stammer. “For the love of God, she needs me! She needs her mother!”

  “She's with her mother now,” he replies, as he attaches a metal section to one of the tubes and starts screwing it into place. “She has everything she could possibly need, with the sole exception of milk. Now pay attention. Milk is the only thing you can do for her now, and I'm sure you'll want to help, won't you? There's a good girl, Marguerite. Now, I must inform you that there will be some discomfort.”

  “What are you doing to her?” I ask, reaching out to him, only for him to effortlessly push my weak arm away. I try again, but already I have lost the needed strength.

  “It's all for the best,” he continues. “Mrs. Carmichael will be able to give the child the life she deserves. I'll admit that the manner of the birth was somewhat unconventional. Pioneering even, one might say. There aren't many doctors in this land who would be able to perform such a feat, nor are there many who would be willing. I would dearly love to write a paper explaining my achievements here at Wetherley House, but of course there are undoubtedly those who would be aghast. It is despicable how crude morality so often gets in the way of medical and scientific achievement. To take a child from one mother and implant it in another, and then to birth it in the usual manner, is no mean feat. I warned Mrs. Carmichael about the dangers, but evidently this method was very important to her.”

  He takes a moment to adjust the device that is attached to my chest, and as he does so I notice old scars around both his wrists.

  “One day,” he says, turning to me, “this kind of work shall be commonplace. Of that, I have no doubt, and when it happens I am sure that my name will be celebrated around the world. You should see the joy on dear Mrs. Carmichael's face, now that she has given birth to a child of her own, and -”

  “She's mine!” I gasp. “What have you done with my daughter?”

  “She's not your daughter.”

  “Give her to me!”

  He shakes his head. “You don't understand.”

  “You tore her from my body!” I hiss, reaching for him again, only for him to once more swat my hand away. “I carried her for nine months! She's my girl!”

  “So you're another one, are you?” he mutters, eyeing me with displeasure. “I had hoped that, since you had such a good view of my work, you'd understand.” He sighs. “God will see to it that I am amply rewarded in time. I suppose you to be simply a hysterical and emotional creature, incapable of looking at these things in the proper manner. That is a pity, but not entirely unexpected given your sex. Fortunately, you do not need to appreciate the role you have played in this great work, in order for that role to have value. I have learned so much from these past few days. So very much.”

  “What are -”

  “And for now,” he adds, as he starts pumping the lever on one side of the device he's holding, “you can still help the child. Doesn't that thought fill you with some sense of purpose, at least?”

  I open my mouth to ask again what he has done with my child, but suddenly I feel an immense pressure in my right breast, accompanied by a growing, cracking pain. I let out a gasp as the pressure builds, and then I hear the sound of liquid dribbling into a metal pan. Looking down, I see that the nipple has cracked open, and that milk is running out through the gaps.

  “That's good,” Doctor Edge says, leaning over the side of the bed and peering at something on the floor. “Strong, healthy milk. Just what the child requires.”

  “What are you doing?” I groan, as I feel myself sinking deeper and deeper back into a daze, kept awake only by fear and pain.

  “This will take a while,” Doctor Edge continues, still working the pump by hand. “While I am here, perhaps you would like to hear how I made these several discoveries, and how a humble, hard-working boy from Kent became one of the country's most preeminent and pioneering medical figures. I suppose I was gifted with a good mind from an early age, but a gift is not always enough. One must work hard and show rigor, and good old-fashioned discipline played no small part in my astounding achievements. Why, by the age of fifteen, I had already invented my first medical device, to the astonishment of my parents. I think that was when they realized that they had on their hands a truly remarkable and intelligent child. And it is when I realized, in turn, that I am a genius.”

  As he continues to tell me his life story, I turn and look over to the window, and I see that snow is falling outside. And as the pain builds and this cursed man continues to drone on and on, all I can do is tilt my head back and scream.

  Marguerite

  “This will be our home,” Robert says with a smile as he helps me down from the carriage. “Wetherley House. It has been in my family for generations, and here we shall live good, happy lives. I know you have come a long way to be with me, Marguerite. I promise that, in return, I shall provide you with every comfort.”

  I remember this moment.

  I remember it so well.

  Even as I step away from the carriage and look toward the beautiful house, at the end of our long journey from the port at Dover, I know that this is a memory. A dream, perhaps. Yet though I am certain I should find some way to force myself awake, I cannot help but let myself enjoy the memory for a moment longer. After all, Robert is holding my hand, and he feels as real as he felt on the day I arrived here at the house. Perhaps I am weak, but I want this dream to last forever, so that I do not have to wake and return to the nightmare.

  “Are you alright?” he asks after a moment.

  I turn to him. “Why do you ask?”

  “You are crying, my dear.”

  He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and uses it to dab tears from my face.

  “These are tears of joy, I hope,” he continues, soundin
g a little uncertain. “Tears of anticipation and happiness.”

  “Our child,” I whisper, feeling a slow, burning pain in my belly. “I must go to our child.”

  “We shall have many children,” he says with a smile.

  “I must go to her.”

  “She's not born yet.”

  “But she is,” I reply, as a sense of panic starts rippling through my chest. “I must find her.”

  “Now that we are married,” he continues, “we should indeed begin to prepare for the future. There is an excellent doctor in town, and I feel sure -”

  “There!” I gasp, looking toward the house again as I realize I can hear a child crying in the distance. “She needs me. She is calling out for me.”

  “My darling?”

  Stepping away from Robert, I start making my way across the lawn, finally breaking into a run until I reach the front door. Finding that the house is locked, I hurry to the nearest window and peer inside, but all I see is an empty room. Hurrying to the next window and then the next, I am still unable to see anybody inside the house, but the child's cries are getting louder and louder, and more pained too.

  “Marguerite?” Robert says as he wanders toward me across the yard. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Don't you hear her?”

  “Hear who?”

  Turning to him, I realize that this is not part of the memory. This is something new, something that is entering my thoughts from the outside world as if the dream and the nightmare are knotting together. As Robert stares at me, in fact, it takes a few seconds before I realize with a growing sense of horror that something appears to be wrong with his face. The flesh has been torn away, exposing a shattered section of bone as if he has been struck by some terrible impact, and the front of his shirt – though white and clean a moment ago – is now bloodied and ripped.

  “Marguerite?” he continues, with a faint, nervous smile. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

  “I must...”

  Behind him, the horses wait with the carriage.

  Too horrified by Robert's appearance to utter another word, I turn and run to the next window, but still I can see nobody in the house. Making my way around to the rear, I find the back door but quickly discover that this, too, has been locked. I pull and pull on the handle, and then I try pushing, but it is as if the house has been sealed completely. Still, my child is crying inside and I know I must find some way to get to her. After all, she needs her mother. Finally, overcome by a sense of profound panic, I start banging my fists against the door's glass panel, hoping against hope that somebody will finally let me into this infernal house so that I can nurse my daughter.

  “Marguerite?” Robert says as he steps up behind me. “This is no way for a lady to behave.”

  I can see his damaged face reflected in the glass, but this does not stop me. Slamming my fists harder and harder, I feel the entire door shudder, and a moment later the glass shatters. My hands crash through and thick shards of glass dig deep into my wrists, deep enough that I feel them scraping against bone. Blood begins to pour down my arms, yet somehow the blood feels so very cold, as if I am being chilled. I struggle to free my wrists from their impalement, but now I find that I cannot move my hands properly at all, as if my fingers have stiffened.

  “Let me inside,” I stammer, shivering now as I feel my entire body starting to freeze. Tears are streaming down my face and I try to grab the door's handle, but I cannot curl my fingers at all. “What is happening to me?” I gasp. “Dear God, help me! I have to get inside! I have to get to her! I have to get inside and -”

  ***

  Suddenly the barrow jolts over a bump and I am shaken from the dream.

  “I have to get inside!” I gasp, opening my eyes and immediately looking toward the house. Heavy snow is falling and has already carpeted the lawn. I can hear my daughter crying inside the house, yet after a moment I realize that I am naked in this wheelbarrow, and I am being taken down toward the forest.

  Finding the strength from somewhere, I manage to roll out and crash down against the snow. I hear voices behind me, telling me to get back in, but I quickly stumble to my feet and start running toward the house. My feet are already freezing to the point of becoming numb, but nothing can hold me back as I get closer to the house and hear my child's cries coming from within. Still the voices call out for me, telling me to get away, but when I reach the house's back door I turn the handle and find that it is unlocked. Finally I stumble into the kitchen, and now I can tell that the child is crying in the drawing room.

  “I'm coming!” I gasp, limping past the burning fireplace and into the hallway, then making my way past the door that leads into the basement and past the foot of the stairs. “I'm coming for you!”

  I can see the door to the drawing room up ahead, and I can hear voices talking happily. My legs are starting to seize and I have to steady myself against the wall for a moment, but finally I reach the door and look through to see that several women are sitting on the chairs. They turn to me as I enter the room, and their faces are filled with horror, but I have already spotted Eve at the far end of the room, cradling the crying child in her arms as she sits closest to the roaring hearth.

  “Give her to me!” I scream, holding my arms out as I limp toward Eve.

  “Whoever is this creature?” one of the women stammers.

  “Gordon!” Eve shouts, clearly startled by my sudden arrival. Her face is very pale, as if she has lost a lot of blood, and she looks rather sickly. Dark, heavy rings have developed under her eyes. “Gordon, get in here at once!”

  “Give her to me!” I shout, lunging at her. Grabbing the child, I try to pull her away from Eve, but she is held tight and a moment later a man rushes into the room and pulls me back.

  “What is she doing here?” Eve sneers. “She's upsetting Mary!”

  “Mary?” I gasp. “What -”

  Suddenly I'm struck on the side of the face, with enough force to leave me momentarily stunned. The baby is crying out now, and I try to turn and comfort her, only to feel arms grabbing me from behind.

  “I am terribly sorry,” a man says as I'm dragged back across the room, past the horrified ladies. “I shall see to it myself that your orders are carried out, my dear.”

  “Whatever is going on?” one of the ladies asks.

  “It's nothing,” Eve says, clearly struggling to stay calm. “I'm sure all families have their little secrets, do they not? Robert's wife lost her mind upon his death and has to be taken away to an asylum. I do hope that news of this unfortunate event will not become grist for the gossip mill. We've been trying to keep the situation within the family, for her sake and for the child's as well.”

  “Give her to me,” I groan, hearing my daughter still screaming as I'm dragged along the hallway. A moment later I'm pulled outside again and dumped back in the waiting wheelbarrow, which is then turned and pushed away from the house at speed.

  “I'm sorry,” a man says, “but she suddenly woke up and jumped out. We couldn't do anything to stop her.”

  “We'll talk about it later,” another man replies, clearly annoyed. “I should have known it would be too much for you cretins to actually do a job without fouling the whole thing up.”

  “I understand, but we -”

  “You've thoroughly embarrassed Mrs. Carmichael,” the second man continues. “We'll have words about this later. Watch out, she's stirring again.”

  I try once again to rise up from the wheelbarrow, but a hand pushes me back down and I see that we are now past the edge of the lawn and into the forest. The trees rise high above me as snow falls on my shivering body, and I can hear my child crying far off in the house. I try to open my mouth and call out to her, but I can't get any sound from my throat at all, and after a moment the wheelbarrow comes to a sudden halt. Before I even have time to react, I'm tipped over one side and sent tumbling into a dark pit, finally crashing down hard against frozen tree roots that crack the bones in my righ
t arm.

  Shuddering with cold and pain, I manage after a few seconds to roll onto my back, and now I see that I am at the bottom of a deep pit, at least six feet beneath the edge. A man is standing high above, staring down at me as snow continues to fall, and a moment later another man comes into view carrying dirt piled high on a shovel. He turns the shovel and tosses the dirt down, and clumps of frozen soil batter my body like hundreds of tiny rocks.

  “Wait!” one of the men says suddenly, just as another man is about to throw more soil down. “Let us show a little respect.”

  Gasping, I watch his silhouette as he slips something from his pocket, and a moment later I realize he has opened a small book.

  “Dear Lord,” he continues, “may you look upon this wretched creature and, in your boundless wisdom, see to it that her soul is taken into your care.”

  As he continues to recite a prayer, I struggle desperately to my feet, straining to reach up and grab one of the many frozen tree roots that are poking out from the walls of this grave. My hands are trembling and I can feel the threads in my belly starting to come loose, and I let out a pained wail as I try to haul myself to safety. A moment later, once the prayer is over, more frozen soil comes crashing down on top of me, and I cry out as I drop back down onto my knees and rolls onto my side. This time, when I try to get up again, I find that my arms are frozen stiff, and I can hear an animal whimpering nearby.

  No, not an animal.

  I think that wretched sound is coming from my own mouth.

  Turning to look back up at the grave's opening, I try again to call out to my child as she screams in the distance, but more soil comes tumbling down and several chunks fall into my mouth. I cannot force them out, and instead I can only shiver as I am buried alive. I reach out again and curl my frozen fingers around a tree root, and as I feel the heavy thuds of more soil landing above me, I try one final time to scream.