The Curse of Wetherley House

by Amy Cross

  “Eve?” she calls out as she approaches the other side of the door. “Are you in there?”

  “Quiet!” I hiss to Mary, before slipping out onto the landing and pulling the door shut behind my back. “I trust that all is to your satisfaction, Muriel?” I ask, forcing a smile.

  “Is young Mary in there?” she replies, reaching past me to open the door. “I must see her!”

  “I do not think so,” I say firmly, pushing her hand away. “She is very tired and she has already prepared for bed.”

  “Oh, I don't mind that!”

  “She's rather shy, too.”

  “Shy?” She chuckles. “I'll soon tickle all the shyness out of her!”

  “I'd rather you didn't,” I continue, bracing myself in case I have to physically fight her away from the door. Before I can say another word, however, I hear George thudding around downstairs, and a moment later there's a faint creak as another door opens. “What is he doing?” I ask, desperate to go to the stairs and look down, but not daring to leave the door to Mary's room unguarded.

  “Oh, don't mind George,” Muriel says with a grin. “He's just exploring the house.”

  “I'd rather he didn't.”

  “He won't break anything. He just got very excited when I told him you have a basement.”

  “Surely he's not going down into the -”

  Hesitating for a moment, I realize with a sudden sense of horror that I can indeed hear footsteps pounding down the old wooden steps that lead into the basement. Racing to the stairs and their hurrying down as fast as my damaged legs can carry me, I rush after George and catch him as he reaches the bottom step, where the pool of light from the door above ends and the basement's darkness begins.

  “You mustn't be down here!” I hiss, pulling him back and forcing him up the stairs.

  “I heard something,” he replies, trying to push past me.

  “Get up there!”

  “Is someone down here?” he asks.

  “Of course not!”

  “But if -”

  “Get out!” I scream, shoving him back so hard that he falls and lands hard on the wooden steps. “Right now! Get out of here at once!”

  Clearly startled, he stares at me with a shocked expression for a moment, before suddenly bursting out laughing.

  “Do you mean to mock me?” I stammer. “Why, I should -”

  Before I can finish, I hear a faint scraping sound over my shoulder. Turning, I stare into the darkness, and I realize that the scraping sound is inching closer. I don't see anything, of course, but the air down here is so very cold and I'm filled with a sudden urge to get upstairs as quickly as possible.

  “There is someone down here, isn't there?” George whispers, with a hint of awe in his voice. “There's -”

  “Out!”

  Manhandling him as best I can manage, I force him up the steps one by one, constantly struggling to keep him from craning his neck and looking past me. The child is most disagreeable, but somehow I manage to get him all the way to the door, at which point I give him one final shove and send him stumbling back. With that, I limp through after him and slam the door shut, before sliding the bolt across and taking a moment to get my breath back.

  “Who is it?” George asks.

  Turning to him, I see that he's already looking at the bolt, as if he means to go down again.

  “Nobody,” I gasp.

  “But -”

  “A dog.”

  “You have a dog?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “And you keep him in the basement?” He furrows his brow. “That seems awfully mean.”

  “You don't know what you're talking about,” I continue, taking a moment to straighten the front of my dress. “That dog, however, is the meanest and most vicious animal known to man, and it will tear the flesh from your bones as soon as look at you. Do you understand? If you go down into that basement again, you will end up as its next meal! If you're a sensible young gentleman, George, you will heed my words and curb your inquisitive nature.”

  He stares at me, and then slowly he starts to smile.

  “Can I see it?” he asks.

  I shake my head. Will this infernal child never learn?

  “I want to see it!”

  “It's not for seeing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because...” I try to think of an answer that will satisfy him. “I just -”

  “Did it do that to your legs?” he adds, looking down at my skirt just as Muriel comes down the stairs. “Is that why you're all crippled? Did the dog -”

  Before I even have a chance to stop myself, I slap him hard across the face. He steps back, clearly startled, and then he runs sobbing to his mother.

  “I'm sorry,” I stammer, “he just... I shouldn't have done that, but I'm afraid I couldn't help myself.”

  “He's only curious, Eve,” she replies as the boy clings to her. She runs her hands through his curly brown hair, and it's clear that she's very much on his side. “I don't use physical violence against George, as a rule. I don't believe in it.”

  “I shall endeavor to not strike the boy again,” I continue, as George turns and stares at me with a venomous, teary-eyed glare. I swear, the child looks as if he utterly hates me, and although I am trying to make amends for my actions, I cannot help but feel that he deserves several more slaps.

  “Why don't we get to bed, eh?” Muriel tells him, and George immediately starts making his way up the stairs, pulling his mother's arm so that she has no choice but to follow. “We'll be sharing the bed in your spare room,” she tells me as she heads up with him. “There's no sense making two beds dirty, and besides, George gets nervous when he's not at home. Even in his own room, he sometimes needs me to get in with him.”

  “I'm sure,” I reply, forcing a smile until they are safely out of sight. Once I've heard the door to their room bump shut, I unbolt the basement door and pull it open. Leaning into the cold air, I look down into the darkness, and I believe I can hear the faintest sobbing sound coming from far below.

  Such weakness.

  After shutting the door and making sure that the bolt is firmly across, I head up to Mary's room and slip inside. My dear girl is sitting at her writing desk, studying a book of compositions, as I walk over and place my hands on her delicate shoulders.

  “He deserved that, Mummy,” she tells me. “George is a wretched little swine. The look on his face when you slapped him was priceless.”

  “Yes, it was,” I whisper, as the sobbing sound echoes in my thoughts for a moment. Finally, I reach down and kiss the top of Mary's head. “I'm so glad you thought so too.”

  “He'll go down again, you know,” she adds.

  “Will he?”

  “A rotten little child like George? Oh yes, Mummy. You know he will. He'll go down into the basement again, except this time he'll be far more sneaky.” She looks up at me with a faint smile. “What will you do then?”

  ***

  “Wetherley House is lovely,” Muriel says as we sit at the breakfast table. “There's such a lovely atmosphere about the place. I noticed it as soon as we came through the front door last night.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, supposing that she means this comment as a compliment.

  “Gordon looked rather rough this morning, though.”

  I start spreading some butter on a piece of bread, before stopping as I realize what she just said. Slowly I turn to her, and I watch for a moment as she adds sugar to her tea.

  “Gordon?” I ask finally, feeling a little faint.

  “You said he was off on business, didn't you?” she continues airily. “That was a naughty little porkie-pie, wasn't it? Still, he looked terribly gaunt this morning. You need to fatten the poor man up a little.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Gordon.” She grins at me. “I only spotted him briefly. I was in the bedroom with George and we had the door open. I happened to glance out toward the landing, and I saw Go
rdon walk right past. He didn't look in or say anything. He just headed toward the stairs and then, I suppose, he left the house.” She pauses for a moment. “I didn't hear the front door go, but he did leave, didn't he?”

  “I think you must be mistaken,” I tell her. “Gordon was away last night.”

  “Well, I saw him at about half past eight this very morning.”

  I shake my head. “No. That's impossible.”

  “George saw him too. Ask him if you don't believe me.”

  Turning, I see that George is sitting obediently at the far end of the table, having finished his egg.

  “I saw him,” he says cautiously. “Mummy's right. He did look awfully pale.”

  “I'm sure you must be mistaken,” I reply, before turning to Muriel again. “Gordon is away.”

  “Perhaps he popped back for something, then,” she replies, as she stirs her tea. “We definitely saw him. Where's young Mary, by the way? I still haven't set eyes on her since we arrived.”

  “She's in her room.”

  “But what -”

  “Cramps,” I add, hoping to end this infernal interrogation. “She is a woman now, you'll recall.”

  “Oh, it's her time of the month, is it?”

  “Perhaps we should not speak of such things in front of the boy.”

  “George?” She laughs. “Oh, I have no secrets from him.”

  “It's true,” George mutters. “She doesn't.”

  “And you'll be leaving today, I assume?” I ask.

  “We must trouble you for one more night, actually,” Muriel continues, as if the matter is settled and I have no say whatsoever. “Sorry, Eve, but the trains are a nightmare. Don't worry, though. I shall go into town today and arrange everything, and hen we shall be out of your hair tomorrow. I'm so grateful to you for putting us up like this, you've been an absolute life-saver.”

  “Another night?” I reply, feeling as if I cannot possibly stand having this woman in my home for even a moment longer. “Why not -”

  Suddenly there's a creaking sound from upstairs. I look up at the ceiling, but the sound has already passed.

  “That'll be Mary, I suppose,” Muriel mutters, before biting into a slice of bread. “I do hope we get to see her at least once before we leave,” she adds, speaking with her mouth full. “We are family, after all. In fact, I think -”

  “Excuse me for a moment,” I say suddenly, getting to my feet and hurrying around the table.

  Reaching the hallway, I stop for a moment and look up the stairs, listening in case there's another creak or any hint of movement at all. Hearing nothing, I nevertheless make my way up and head to the first open door, which leads into the spare room where Muriel and George slept last night. I pause again, before turning and looking both ways along the landing.

  “Gordon?” I whisper. “Are you...”

  My chest feels impossibly tight for a moment, before I realize that Muriel must simply have been wrong. Gordon is dead, and of that fact there can be no doubt. After all, I buried him myself. I just have to endure one more night with these intruders in my home, and then Wetherley House can get back to normal.

  ***

  “Whatever is the matter?” I shout, stumbling out of my bedroom shortly after two o'clock in the morning, as screams ring out through the house. “What's that awful noise?”

  “Where's George?” Muriel gasps as she emerges from the spare room. “What -”

  “The basement!” I hiss, struggling as fast as I can manage and quickly limping down the stairs. Even before I get to the bottom, I know I shall find the basement door unlocked, and sure enough I see that it is hanging half open. Mary prophesied that the wretched child would go snooping again, and she was right.

  The boy's cries are getting louder and louder, and Muriel pushes me aside as she races down to see whatever is the matter with him.

  “What's he doing down there?” Mary asks.

  Startled, I turn to see that she's standing right behind me.

  “You should have locked the door,” she continues.

  “The lock is broken!” I stammer, as the horrid screams and cries continues. “I never thought it necessary! I never wanted visitors!”

  “This'll be trouble,” she whispers, keeping her eyes on the half-open door as Muriel cries out down in the darkness. “Can you hear their voices? Something truly wretched is happening down there.” She hesitates, before turning to me with a faint smile. “I suppose that'll be the dog, won't it?”

  Her grin widens.

  “Woof woof,” she adds.

  “What am I to do?” I gasp, taking a step back as I hear fresh screams from directly below my feet. “Whatever am I to do?”

  “Help!” Muriel shouts. “Somebody help us! Somebody -”

  Suddenly she lets out a loud, guttural cry, accompanied by what sounds like a heavy impact against one of the stone walls.

  With tears in my eyes, I listen to George's continued screams and cries. Perhaps it makes me a wicked person, but I can't help thinking that the best thing all round would be for the boy and his mother to simply never come back up from the basement. There would be questions, I'm sure, but nothing I couldn't bat away. And now, as George's horrendous gurgles continue to rise between the cracks in the floorboards, and as Muriel shrieks in sheer panic, I feel as if perhaps I should simply push the door shut, slide the bolt across, and make sure that the problem simply stays hidden.

  So that's exactly what I do.

  As I close the door, I hear a series of loud bangs on the steps, and I think perhaps someone is dragging something up. Sliding the bolt into place, I turn and lean back against the door before slowly slipping down to the floor. A moment later I feel somebody trying to get the door open, but of course the bolt can't be moved from the other side and I know that all the hammering and all the screaming in the world will be of no help. There are tears in my eyes, but I know that I am doing the right thing, and I also know that soon everything will be alright. I just have to stay the course and ensure that I do not weaken.

  “How long do you think it'll take?” Mary asks, watching me from the other end of the hallway.

  “I can't possibly say,” I whisper, as fresh tears roll down my cheeks.

  “Help us!” Muriel gurgles, banging her fists against the door and causing the wood to shudder behind my back. “For the love of all that's holy, let us out of here! Eve!”

  “It might take a little while,” Mary points out.

  “I know.”

  “They're such screamers.”

  “I'm sure it'll be over soon.”

  “And then you'll have to go down there, Mummy.”

  I turn to her. “Will I?”

  “Perhaps not,” she continues with a faint smile. “Perhaps -”

  Suddenly the door shudders with such force that I let out a yelp, and for a moment I worry that Muriel might find some way to force her way through. I swear I heard the wood crack slightly, but then there's another, louder bump followed by the sound of something clattering back down the steps into the basement. Falling, even. I flinch and hold my breath, and now I can hear some kind of rubbing sound, and I can't help but close my eyes and pray to God that this will all be over soon. Why would God want me to suffer through this agony, when he could bring peace back to Wetherley House any time he wanted?

  Finally the screams end, although I keep my eyes tight shut as I hear occasional bumps from downstairs. In fact, I only dare open my eyes after twenty minutes or so, by which point the house has remained silent for quite some time. I am still trembling with fear, and I feel as if I shall never again have the strength to stand, but I know that I simply must go on. To do otherwise would be to display the kind of weakness that I so despise in others.

  Slowly, therefore, I start hauling myself up from the floor, until eventually I am able to stand on my trembling, damaged legs.

  “Now what, Mummy?” Mary asks from the doorway.

  “Now I think it is bedtime,” I whi
sper, turning and limping toward the bottom of the stairs.

  “You're not going down?”

  “No.”

  “Very well. Perhaps she will enjoy the bones.”

  Stopping halfway up, I look back down and see that Mary is grinning at me. At the same time, a gnawing, grinding sound is coming from the basement, and the wooden boards beneath Mary's feet are shuddering.

  Eve

  I can do this.

  Setting a pair of white gloves on my hands, I tell myself that I am far too strong to crumble. I have faced greater challenges in the past, and I shall most certainly get through this.

  I take a deep breath, before turning and opening the front door, and then I flinch as I look out at the path that leads to the front gate.

  I can do this.

  ***

  The wretched town is always so busy. As I cross the street outside the local tavern, I cannot help but flinch as I spot several familiar faces looking toward me. It seems that the locals are always so very interested in the lives of the Carmichael family, and sometimes I wonder if they spend all their time gossiping behind my back.

  There are far too many people in the world.

  “Morning, Mrs. Carmichael,” a trader says, doffing his hat as I pass.

  I briefly make eye contact with him, before continuing on my way. The last thing I want is to talk to ruffians and laborers. I dislike coming into town at the best of times, and I would not be here today if a matter of great urgency had not come up. Fortunately Mr. Trin's glass factory is close by, and I'm able to quickly push the door open and slip inside. The interior is rather dark and gloomy, but at least here I am spared the looks and glances of all those foul people outside. I can hear voices in the next room, however, so I take a moment to compose myself before heading through another door and stopping again as soon as I see several men polishing a series of large glass panes.