As she pulled on her clothes, her thoughts turned to Clive. Was it him? Had he found her somehow and was he trying to drive her mad? It was the sort of thing he would do and she knew that she should run. Only she had run enough. If this was Clive, then she would face him one last time, and God help her, she would win.
9
Rosie left the bedroom and the sound of whispering drew her towards the stairs. It was almost too quiet to hear and yet seemed to lead her on. Was she being sensible? She remembered the instructions from the Duncan’s. That she should not go upstairs. Sensibly, she should not want to. If someone was up there, she should walk to the priest's house, Nicholas Aubrey, and get him to call the police and yet she felt compelled to go look.
Her shoes clicked as she walked down the hard wooden floor towards the entrance hall and the stairway. The noise made the house seems so empty, so hollow and her breath caught in her throat. What was she doing?
It didn't matter, still she was pulled towards the stairs and when she arrived at the hallway the black cat sat on the bottom step barring her way. Its orange eyes seemed to warn her away more than the crimson rope that was strung across the stairs. The eyes challenged her, warned her and yet she felt compelled to answer that challenge.
As she put her foot on the first step, the cat let out a mournful meow. Rosie stopped and thought she heard a whisper behind her. It was almost like the sound of a little girl, sneaking about in the dark. It chilled her blood and raised the hairs on her neck. She turned around but there was nothing there. The sun shone through the kitchen windows and the house seemed so normal, so beautiful and full of peace.
She should just go up and have a look. It was only normal, curiosity after all. Once more she put her foot on the step and the cat blocked her way. Maybe it just rushed towards her to rub against her legs. To demand attention and yet it felt very different. Pushing past it, she took another step but the creature leaped backward and struck out at her. Hissing, it swiped a claw at her leg. Sharp nails pulled at the heavy denim of her jeans and before she could react it clawed at her again. Rosie stepped back, a little perturbed. The cat seemed to relax and she reached down. Before it could claw at her hands she plucked it up and swept it into her arms.
“There, there,” she murmured against its silky coat. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
Gently she held it against her body and stepped over the crimson barrier rope.
The cat let out a mournful yowl and leaped from her arms. It landed deftly on the wood blocked floor and sprinted into the kitchen. Then it was gone and she felt all alone. It was as if the sun went down as the cat went out and the room felt a little colder.
Ignoring the cat, she began to climb the stairs. The deep crimson carpet was spongy beneath her feet. Obviously expensive and well cared for. The mahogany wood on each side was polished to perfection. There was not a speck of dust in sight. Yet the higher she climbed the thinner the carpet beneath her feet and the more run down the place began to feel. There was dust and cobwebs and in places the wood was scratched, the varnish peeling. Perhaps Matron couldn't climb the stairs; perhaps that was why it was so run down?
It was darker too.
As if the sun couldn't quite penetrate and chase away the gloom. Though she felt compelled to go forward, part of her wanted to turn and run. Yet she had to keep going, even though her footsteps had slowed and her heart beat against her chest like a warning. Little by little, she climbed until she made it to the top floor.
The corridor spread out both left and right. It was dark and gloomy. All the doors were closed and there were no lights. She looked around for a switch but couldn't find one. Maybe she should forget this? Yet something still pulled her onward. It was more than curiosity... was more like a compulsion. So she closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.
Which way should she go?
Left, she was pulled towards the left. Opening her eyes she stepped onto the landing and down the corridor. Cobwebs clawed at her face and she fought them away.
There were doors leading off each side. Coming to the first door on the left she tried the handle. It was loose and rattled in her hand. Yet it turned easily and she pushed the door open. It was lighter inside, yet still dim, as though the windows were dirty and could not quite let the sun shine through. The room looked like it had once been a bedroom. Pale faded peach paper peeled from the wall and hung down in tatters over a damp patch on the plaster. For a moment she thought it was skin hanging off the wall. Ignoring the hammering of her heart, she shuddered and shook the image away.
The floor was bare wood and covered in bits of old paper. There were six old metal-framed bunk beds. Three on either side of the room. Something about the room felt sad. It did not live up to her idea of the romantic mansion house that the lower floors gave her. No privileged lady would have lived in this room. Whoever had stayed here would be cramped and unhappy. She did not know why she felt that and yet she knew that if she closed her eyes she would see children. They would be hungry and cold and dressed in rags. Their large eyes pleading out of dirty faces beneath unkempt hair. At night they huddled together by the light of a single candle. They kept as quiet as they could and hoped that the door would not open.
She moved towards the window, her footsteps causing dust to rise and a cough escaped her. It echoed around the room in a most comical manner and her gloomy mood was broken.
Turning around on the spot, she sang the scale. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti. The notes echoed around the room and caught up with her own singing. She did it again, louder and with more gusto. It sounded like there were two of them and then three she carried on and soon she was laughing. After all it was just an empty house. A little run down, which made it a touch sad, but there was nothing more here.
The echoes had stopped and she was about to start singing again when she heard another voice. It was someone singing. A sweet voice that carried through the gloom. At first she was scared and yet it was just an old nursery rhyme. The sound must be traveling from outside. Perhaps someone was walking past.
She listened intently as the singing started again, louder now.
"Oranges and lemons say the bells of St. Clément’s. You owe me five farthings say the bells of St. Martin's.”
Rosie found herself smiling and imagined one of her characters paying for some oranges.
“When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey. When I grow rich say the bells of Shoreditch, When will that be? say the bells of Stepney. I do not know say the great bells of Bow.”
The room seemed to darken and she imagined a man in a prison cell. He was her and she was him, and dread hung on her shoulders like a wet blanket as she waited in the cold, dark cell for death to come. A sliver of light heralded company and grew as someone approached the door. It should have brought comfort and yet she felt her bowels clench as fear crushed her heart.
“Here comes a candle to light you to bed.”
The candle stopped outside the door and she knew that it was there to tell her that tomorrow would be her last day; that it was over. Terror grew and her heart pounded like a steam engine. She wanted out of this.
The voice continued, haunting, and yet sweet, “Here comes a chopper to chop off your head, Chip chop chip chop—the last man's dead.”
The words faded away and the singer was now humming the tune. Rosie shook herself. What was happening? Was this more from her tablets? Just a figment of her imagination? After all that was a nursery rhyme of the time she wrote in. Perhaps she had researched it. Most nursery rhymes were based on terrible tales and her mind must be going back to her research.
Still, she heard the humming and was pulled towards the corridor and the source of the sound. Though her logical mind still believed it was someone walking past, she knew it was not. She knew that someone was in the house and yet she did not feel threatened. Disturbed and curious... but not threatened.
The humming continued and she was drawn like rats to the Pied Piper. The melodic
and hypnotic melody pulled her forward.
The floorboards creaked as she crossed the hallway and turned towards the furthest room at the end of the corridor. It was the one where she had seen a shadow earlier. The one that gave her the feeling of someone watching her. As if with a mind of their own, her legs walked past room by room and on towards that dreaded door.
The closer she got the more she could discern the voice and she knew it was a young boy. It reminded her of choirs she listened to. Wide-eyed in awe at the perfection of the notes they sang and yet this simple nursery rhyme was filled with sadness. Tears were streaming down her eyes as she reached out to the door handle. Made of brass and tarnished with age. Cold to the touch she almost pulled her hand away, yet something forced her to turn it is as the humming continued.
She pushed the door open and could see a child. Just like she had imagined his hair was all a tangle. A dirty unkempt brown, it flopped across his forehead. Old-fashioned clothes were patched to the point of destruction. Though his chin was dropped almost to his chest, dark brown eyes pleaded with her and she could not hold their gaze. As she dropped her own, she noticed he reached out towards her with work worn hands that were covered in filth. Lowering her eyes in shame she noticed that his feet were bare and dirty and they did not touch the ground!
Rosie stepped back into the corridor, her heart hammered in her throat in time to the humming. The boy floated towards her, still humming.
Then he stopped, the noise faded and she looked up into those big brown eyes. They were filled with longing and hope and she wanted to run to him and pull him into her arms. Something awful had happened to this boy, she felt it.
Stepping forward he began to speak.
“Play with me?” he asked.
It was such a simple request and one she was happy to honor and she moved a step closer.
The child lifted his head, as she did hers; he spoke again.
“Play with me, please play with me. I'm so lonely. Why will no one play with me?”
Rosie could not see his lips moving. Where were the words coming from? As if in answer, he tilted his head back exposing his throat. A vicious slash mark cut across it and the words were coming from this ghastly opening.
Rosie turned to run. Behind her, blocking the doorway, were over a dozen children. All of them had terrible injuries to their throats. On some, blood ran down their necks and clothes. On others the wounds looked as if it they were old. Though the ragged edges were red, the wound no longer bled. The children were pale and drawn. Their eyes spoke of horrors she could only imagine.
Rosie gasped and tried to step back. There was nowhere to go. She was surrounded.
With blank faces and pitiful eyes the children reached out with grubby hands and surrounded her.
10
Fingers clasped onto her clothes. Tugged at her arm. Like digits of ice they chilled to the bone as the children herded her away from the door. Pitiful eyes pleaded for a moment and then they changed. Red appeared around the rims. The eyes turned white, opaque and sunk into tiny skulls. The children were animals. Coming for her with blood on their minds. Fingers ended in claw like nails. As dirty as if they had just torn their way out of the earth and were determined to drag her back with them.
Rosie turned in a circle. Panic flapped against her chest like a trapped bird as she searched for escape.
A noise started behind her. A shrill keening. She whipped around and she saw it was one of the children.
They were pushing her back. Towards the window. Their clasping hands, grabbing and poking, pushing and shoving. The sound rose until it hurt her ears and the panic fought inside of her. Like a beast trying to escape, it blocked her airways and squeezed her heart.
Louder, the sound grew. All the children wailed like a beaten dog and yet still they craved her blood.
Circling, herding, and pushing her backward.
Screaming.
Their mouths were all closed but the gash that was their throat opened obscenely. It vibrated along with the sound. That noise, that wail was of despair. It cut to her bone, sliced into her heart and made her feel all the sadness and torture they had suffered. Once they had hope. Not much. Just a little. Hope that life could be better. Only that hope had been snuffed out in a cold dark cellar that was damp and filled with water.
How did I know that?
It made no sense and yet she knew. She knew that they had died here, had been sacrificed and now they wanted her.
Why?
Still the noise rose higher and higher. She put her hands over her ears and pressed as hard as she could. The pain grew with the sound and she expected her eardrums to burst and blood to spurt out between her fingers.
“Stop it,” she whispered but the torn and mutilated necks just flapped quicker, the noise rose higher.
Did they want her to save them? To put them to rest? Or did they want her to join them in their eternal hell? Backward and backward they pushed her. Forcing her toward the window and what—a fall to her death?
Rosie stopped as her legs hit the wood of the windowsill. Still they flocked toward her. Demanding that she give before them. The cold glass touched her back. She knew she had to fight, had to escape and yet how could she. There were so many of them. At least a dozen and they wanted her with them.
Why?
Grubby blank faces, opaque eyes and those hands kept grasping, kept pushing her back. Hands scraped across her clothes, nails cut into her skin and blood ran down her arms. All the time her heart raced so fast that she was sure it would burst.
“Keep Back,” she called, but her voice was little more than a whisper.
The screaming stopped and first the boy, the one she had originally seen. The one with the brown hair that flopped across his forehead in a way that made her want to smile, started to hiss. It was a sound of disapproval and it set her nerves tingling.
“Hisssssssssssssss.”
One more started.
“Hissssssssssss.”
And another.
“Hissssssssssssssssss.”
Soon the room was full of the sibilant sound of a thousand snakes all hissing and pushing her further. Rosie leaned on the window to escape. She had to get away and she cowered back pushing her shoulders against the cold pane until she heard it crack.
The sound was as loud as a bullet. It rang out across the room. The hissing stopped and the children surged forward. Rosie overbalanced. Her hands flailed in panic. Desperate to grab onto something. To stop herself and yet there was an inevitability about it. An acceptance. Her hands flew out but she could not touch the children. Would not touch them, these things from beyond. The thought of it filled her with dread. Back and back she toppled as they crowded forward. The glass shattered with a pop and she was falling.
Falling down and down through the darkness, waiting for the crunch of impact. Shouldn’t it be daylight? The thought crossed her mind just before she hit the ground with a bone jarring crunch.
And then there was darkness.
Her eyes opened to pain and the sound of thunder. It was raining and dark. A flash of lightning lit up the sky. She was lying on the ground and she started to remember. She had been falling.
Shock raced through her, setting her nerves on edge and her skin all a tingle. The scars on her right arm and across her chest tightened and her breath caught in her throat as she sat up.
The children. Where were the children?
Jumping to her feet she scoured the darkness. They were not here, not about and the air seemed to release from her lungs.
Rain poured down, soaking her clothes and hair. Plastering strands to her face and forehead. How long had she been out? Then she remembered it was dark as she fell only that was impossible. It had been light when she entered that bedroom. Light when the children forced her out of the window.
What is happening?
Quickly, she turned in a circle. The house was dark behind her. Menacing and closed it seemed to repel her like water
off an oilskin. Round and round she turned. Desperate in the rain and the dark. What should she do? Where could she go? How would she survive this?
Then she thought of Nick, of the priest. It was light enough for her to see in front of her and what other choice did she have. There was no way she was going back into the house. No way was she facing those kids. Yet maybe she could get to his house and then she would be safe.
Setting off toward the back of the house she pushed through the rain. Shivering now as the cold penetrated through her exhausted mind. Would she find his house in the dark?
The sound of a scream rang out behind her. It was desolate and full of pain and it pushed her onward. She would run until she found something, for anything was better than here.
Soon she was amongst the trees. Panting, she pushed aside branches as she raced through the dark. The rain streamed down, and thunder rumbled in the distance. It was so much darker beneath the branches and she feared she would get lost but what did it matter?
On and on she ran as if a hound of hell was panting at her back. Chasing her, hunting her, ready to drag her down and back to that house.
A branch hit her face and she cried out and pushed it aside. The rain was so heavy now. It ran into her eyes and she blinked it away. Ducking and weaving, she ran blindly through the trees and then she saw a clearing. Maybe she had found the priest’s home, yet there were no lights.
Coming out of the trees she let out a gasp and slowed to a walk. If she could just take a moment to get her bearings then it would be easier. Only behind her the bushes shook and she could hear something coming through them. Something chased her. Looking back she started to run again. Her foot caught on something hard and she was sent sprawling to the ground. Landing heavily on her arms. She grunted in pain as the wind was knocked out of her. “Jesus!” Her face stopped millimeters from a stone jutting out of the ground.
It was moss covered and old and added to the chill of the rain and the wind... for she knew what it was: a gravestone. Was this where the children were buried? Were they all here in these woods? Had they driven her to this site to find their remains?
The Ghosts of RedRise House Page 7