by Peppi Hilton
16
IThe winter months had seemed long and harsh, and the turn of another year into the next did nothing to abate the onslaught of what was already turning into a bad season; it looked as if the appalling weather was set to continue. But the New Year brought with it a more positive outlook for the future, and an opportunity to rid one’s mind of the past. The months which had passed since Gottschalk’s demise, had given Francine the confidence to think about the changes in her life, which would help to close the door to the terrible things she had witnessed and experienced. Sufficient time had moved on to reassure her that the gruesome and hideous Gottschalk had disappeared for good.
As her New Year’s resolution, Francine had stripped her walls of all the religious and protective items, which had been there for many months. She had tried to restore a modicum of normality to her life, starting with her apartment. She had called in the decorators to give it a fresh coat of paint, and a new look. She wanted to rid it of the clinging memories of the past year’s horrific events. She replaced the furnishings and made sure nothing resembled what it once was. It was all finished immediately after the New Year, and her peace was restored. She was back at work, eating normally, and feeling better. She would never get over what had happened to her, and the haunting memories of Kelly’s fate would stay with her always - she would cherish her memory for the rest of her life. The pain of not having a memorial for her was beyond the normal anguish of bereavement, but she knew in her heart it was for the best.
Although Francine had lived a happy life in Skipton, she knew it was time to move on. She had already looked around for alternative places to live and had settled on Wilmslow, which would take her far enough away from the bad memories, whilst remaining close enough to work. Suitable properties for her to purchase were in short supply, but she was prepared to rent, if need be, until the right one came along. Once the selling season began in March, she would have her apartment valued and put it up for sale.
Everyone had been glad to see Francine back in Chambers, and relieved that she had fully recovered from her mental exhaustion. There was an avalanche of work coming in, and there was certainly sufficient of it to Keep Francine occupied for quite some time to come. In order to catch up with the overload, she decided to take some work home, not only would it keep her mind occupied of an evening, it would also help her to get on with it, uninterrupted, away from the buzz of Chambers. At the end of the day, she loaded boxes full of files into the boot of her car and took it all home.
The next day she rose early to a lovely, crisp January morning, a refreshing change to what had been up to now. She drew back curtains, and opened blinds, to let the sun stream in. It lifted her spirits.
She made herself a coffee and carried it to the kitchen table, where she had left her files from the previous night. It was a very pleasant room to work in. The table, facing the balcony, captured the wonderful views across the canal and the rooftops beyond. She couldn’t help but think what a pity it would be to leave it all behind, if she did choose to move away. Both she and Kelly had been so excited at purchasing their apartments. Francine’s was paid for her by her absent parents, and Kelly was able to purchase hers, outright, from her inheritance. They had grown to love the small Georgian town, even though neither of them was born and bred there. But Francine had to work hard to stop herself from dwelling on past events, and so she quickly switched her thoughts to the day’s work.
She spread some of the files across the table and opened her diary. The date was the 13th and it took no time at all for her to realise the implications of it. It was the date of the appointment - that fatal day which had taken Kelly to The Grange. It was also, of course, the anniversary of Gottschalk’s hanging. A shiver ran through her body at the recollection of those awful events. She had chosen not to tell anyone, anything. She knew no-one would believe her, and it was pointless. She wanted, and needed, to forget. She cast the thoughts quickly from her mind.
She delved into her work and tried to keep her mind focused on it. It wasn’t easy. Constant images of him crept into her mind and she was struggling to keep him out. She closed the diary so that the date would not continually remind her. She got up to make another coffee - and then another, and another. The saga continued up to mid-morning, and the interruptions were making her frustrated.
She broke off what she was doing and made herself a bowl of cereal. As she sat eating it at the table, whilst admiring the view opposite, she began to feel anxious. A strong feeling of dread seemed to be overtaking her thoughts and feelings, and she couldn’t quite pull herself together. She got up from the table, walked over to the balcony, and opened the doors. The fresh air was good, but there was a wind stirring, and it was chilly. Some of the barges below were covered in tarpaulins for the winter months, and the car park across the canal was filling up with vehicles. She liked the hustle and bustle of the town, although it was never overcrowded, or loud. It was considered genteel, and attracted a good selection of people of all ages. Ever popular with tourists and day trippers and coach parties coming in regularly on market days, the town was increasing in popularity, having been voted one of the best places to live in the country. And it was a great place to live.
Her mood was probably caused by a mixture of things, primarily the date which had probably momentarily moved her back in time triggering after-effects born of the last several months of pain and torment. She shook the mood off in the best way possible and got on with her work. An hour later she was interrupted by the sound of a text from her mobile phone. She reached into her bag and pulled it out and opened the text. She read the message.
The phone number which was registered was that of Kelly’s phone, and the same message appeared once more. It read: evil spirits attach themselves to you and all who try to intervene. She threw the phone across the room, and jumped up from her chair.
She knew he was back.
Her whole body was riveted to the spot, in fear and shock.
He had won, and it was now obvious that she was helpless against him. Her frail attempts to destroy him seemed laughable in the cold light of day.
He had been tormenting her. His cruel cunning had been all part of the game. He knew all along that he could take her whenever he desired. He had teased her, just like a cat watching a small animal which it has cornered, when it allows it those few moments of helpless freedom as it tries to escape, before finally pouncing.
The message on the text was loud and clear.
The time has come.
She ripped the page out of the diary, which she had tried to shut from her mind, and began to write on it.
Until now, she had told no-one. But in her present frame of mind, she felt it necessary to leave something behind. She needed to warn somebody of the evil which was surrounding her. What good it would do, she had no idea, but she couldn’t allow the end of her life to be just a blank page.
She didn’t know how much time she had left, but she did know for certain that the message was a warning – a warning that he was not far away. And he would choose the moment. Every move she made would be part of his plan, a power game in which she was the pawn. He would use his cunning, and manipulate every move to his benefit. She was helpless against him, and he knew it.
At the side of the date, January the thirteenth, she wrote his name:
Wolfgang Alfonse Gottschalk. 1820 - 1869
She began with the words:
To whom it may concern.
The clock ticks as the final conclusion of my inevitable destiny approaches. I know he is coming, he is here somewhere within these walls – stalking and watching. I am powerless as I wait with anticipation and paralysing fear. Until now I have survived him, outplayed him and outwitted him, according to his plan. But now I am as a blind man, with only my senses to warn me of the moment. I have known what it is to fear the dark and the silence, and all things which were once natural to me have become hideously abnormal. Evil now fills this pl
ace, I have felt it, sensed it, and I have seen it. I know his intentions, and within the hour of his choosing he will have no mercy – he will not relent.
I cannot undo what is to be done, I cannot alter the course of time – my fate is sealed.
I know the time is near.
Lacta alea est
Francine Gerard.
She didn’t know what anyone would make of her note, and part of her wanted to bury his memory and thereby shield the world from his evil. She didn’t know whether she was bringing harm to anyone who read it, by opening their eyes to his existence. Maybe he would retreat back to his own world once he had rid himself of her, if she told no-one. Perhaps if no-one knew of him, he would just fade away and retreat from the physical world which he had managed to penetrate for a while. And for a moment, she held the note in her hand, unable to calculate the consequences of her actions, she pondered on what to do.
But she placed it on the table, knowing one day someone would walk in and find it.
Let fate roll the dice.
As she stood up, she could see a wind was stirring, but the last thing she wanted to do was to close her French doors to the balcony. She felt safer with them open, she didn’t want hemming in.
She tidied the table and put her files into some sort of sensible order, and placed them all neatly together. She tried to busy herself with trivial jobs, such as washing the coffee mugs, and generally staying within close proximity of the open doors. She felt unusually calm.
She was suddenly startled by a loud cawing sound, and as she spun round she saw the largest crow she could have ever imagined, staring at her from the balcony. Its eyes were unbelievably Golden Yellow in colour and were almost luminous. It was gigantic and frightening. She grabbed a towel and hesitantly walked over towards it, and then wafted the towel vigorously to make it fly away. But it remained glued to the spot. Francine wafted the towel more aggressively, and marched closer to the bird to confront it, actually joining it on the balcony. But at that point it took flight. She looked above her, and round her, to see where it had gone, but it seemed to have disappeared; it had certainly gone out of sight. She didn’t care, as long as it didn’t return. She hesitated for a while, as she stood and watched the crowds below, going about their daily business. There was quite a lot of activity on the car park, and some of the canal barges were on the move, and people were generally shopping around.
But when she turned to face the open doors, she reeled back in shock.
There he was in front of her. The skeletal figure replaced by his full form. He was dressed as a Butler and looked as if he belonged to another century. His face was harsh and ugly, his black hair greased back. His eyes were staring and magnetic. And she knew this was the moment. Wolfgang Alfonse Gottschalk had come for her.
But she wasn’t ready to give up the fight yet.
She turned to look at the stone safety balustrades which were in place around all the balconies. There was sufficient width for her to stand steadily on top of hers, and she made a snap decision to pull herself up onto the ledge. She avoided eye contact, but could see him watching her as he stood motionless, at a distance. She had always been fit and agile and she calculated that she could jump from her balcony onto Kelly’s, and then onto another, in an attempt to escape.
She hesitated, unsure what he was planning, but also weighing up the risk ahead of her. Jumping seemed a far more welcoming challenge, than staying within close proximity of the evil Gottschalk. She took one last look back, and was convinced that his face had a look of triumph about it. But she was going to prove to him, that she wasn’t beaten yet.
She stood upright, took a deep breath – and leapt.
One fraction of an inch, short of the jump, was all it took to cost Francine Gerrard her life.
Although the descent took only a matter of seconds, to her it passed in slow motion, and her whole life seemed to pass before her eyes. She witnessed the crowds below her and heard their screams of horror, as she crashed towards them and to the ground below.
It was over.
The crowds quickly dispersed, running in all directions away from the grotesque scene. The place was soon full of screeching sirens, as police vehicles and ambulances sped towards the site of the accident. People from as far as the car park could see what was going on, and everyone stood back in horror. Some others who heard the sirens, followed the direction in which they were heading, in order to see what had happened, and there were some hardier pedestrians who ran towards where it was all happening, in order to witness the gruesome sight.
Rumours were spreading that it was a suicide, and everything was becoming chaotic. Speculation was rife, but nothing resembled the truth of the situation. Wolfgang was nowhere to be seen, the balcony bore no signs of life, and the French doors were banging as they opened and closed in harmony with the wind.
As the wind gathered momentum, it wafted the note from off the kitchen table and onto the floor of the balcony, where it rested for a moment.
Down on the car park below, a young woman was loading her shopping into the boot of her Blue Fiesta car. She glanced up at the balcony, where a policeman could be seen leaning over. She wondered what all the commotion was about, but her curiosity was soon allayed, as a piece of paper wafted towards her as it was swept along by the wind, finally landing at her feet.
After closing the boot lid, she stooped to pick up the paper and saw that it was a letter which had been handwritten on a sheet torn from a diary. She quickly glanced at the date and the name written beside it, and read the note with interest. She walked back round to the front of the car and opened the door. She tossed the note onto the passenger seat along with her bag, before getting in herself. She put the key in the ignition and started the engine.
More crowds had gathered in the car park, and ambulances and police cars were blocking the entrance, and a queue was forming. She had to sit and wait, along with the rest of them, and even after half an hour had gone by, nothing had moved. She felt increasingly frustrated. She looked around and weighed up all options, but there was no other way out, and everything was becoming congested.
It took forty five minutes to clear the entrance to the car park, and then the traffic began to move.
The young woman followed the cars slowly out of the entrance, one at a time, and headed for the A59, grateful at last to get out of there.
But Feeble Fee was unaware of the dark sinister shadow in the seat behind her, as she continued on her long journey home …