I hope you find a good man, one who will cherish you and protect you like I should have. I won’t ask for your forgiveness, but instead, I hope any memories you have of me don’t hurt you. I want you to be happy.
I have one request. Please don’t tell our daughter I was violent. If she ever asks about me, tell her I adored her and wanted to be her father. Say she made me happy, that I loved her, and that I wish I could have been with her as she grew up.
All of my love to both you and your daughter.
Guy.
He wiped at the cool tracks of dampness running down his cheek then set the two sheets on top of each other at the head of the table. The final message only took a moment to write, and it went on top of the other pages, where it would be seen first.
This house is dangerous. Leave immediately. You’re not safe as long as you’re in it.
If, by some miracle, he survived, he could tear up the papers before leaving. But that was a very ominous if. Guy let his shoulders slump. The notes were the best he could do for the people he cherished, and he hoped they would be enough.
The scraping footsteps persisted as Amy traversed the upstairs hall like a pacing tiger. Guy scratched his fingers through his hair then stood, squared his shoulders, and moved towards the stairs.
The upstairs hallway was nearly perfectly lightless. Guy fixed his gaze on the landing as he climbed the steps, one hand running along the dust-shrouded bannister. A shadow flitted across the dark ceiling. Guy licked his chapped, blood-tinged lips.
“Amy?” He came to a stop on the landing and glanced to either side. The master bedroom’s door shifted open, drawing inwards in a smooth, slow arc. Guy hesitated for only a second before stepping inside.
If she wanted to kill me, she’s had a multitude of opportunities. Guy squeezed his hands at his sides and straightened his spine. It might still be possible to reason with her.
“Amy? I want to talk.” He scanned the room’s shadows. The space was too dim, and Guy regretted not bringing the lamp with him. “Can you hear me?”
Something icy ran across the back of Guy’s neck. He sucked in a startled gasp. He could feel her behind him, hovering just an inch away, but he didn’t want to turn. If he turned, he would have to confront those awful, glassy, staring eyes.
Her words were so soft that Guy could barely hear them. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I know.” He swallowed, squeezing his shaking hands together to hide the tremors. “I want to go home.”
“This is your home, Thomas.” She laughed.
The sound made Guy’s stomach clench. “I’m not Thomas, and this isn’t my house.” He tilted his head to catch a glimpse of her bloodless lips smiling from behind his shoulder. “I want to leave.”
“Don’t be silly, my darling. You can’t leave. Not ever. You promised you’d stay with me.” Long fingers topped with hash nails dug into Guy’s arms. She kissed the nape of his neck. “I’ll make you happy.”
A shudder ran through Guy in response to her touch. He twisted just far enough to see her features. “I told you I’m not Thomas. My name is Guy. You killed the real Thomas fifty years ago. Don’t you remember?”
Amy’s face twitched. Her eyes darkened, and her nails pierced his skin. Then she blinked. The smile was back in place, but it felt tenuous, dangerous. Anger flickered under the surface. “Darling, you’re not making any sense. I’ve been excessively patient. Why do you insist on playing these games?”
Guy hated seeing the bloodless, distorted face, but he refused to let himself look away. He felt like he was walking a razor’s edge. Saying he wasn’t Thomas made her furious. He didn’t think her temper would hold if he followed that line of argument any further, and even if he could break through the delusions and convince Amy that her lover was gone, he doubted he would be allowed to leave the house alive. He tried a different tactic. “What do you want from me?”
“Your devotion.” The kisses moved up his throat, then her teeth nipped the sensitive skin just under his chin.
Guy locked his muscles into place to stop himself from flinching away. “In what way?”
“I was willing to die for you. Will you do the same for me, Thomas?”
“You want me dead?”
“Yes.” The delight was clear in her voice. She pressed her body against his back. It didn’t feel fully solid and was horrifically cold. Something sharp prodded at his side, just below his ribs. A knife? “We can be together then. Forever.”
Why wasn’t the real Thomas trapped here after his death? Is it because she killed him, instead of him choosing to die? Shivers wracked through Guy. He wet his parched lips. The words were almost impossible to say, but he forced them out and added as much conviction as he was capable of. “All right, I’ll stay with you. But I want something first. My mother will miss me; let me call her to say goodbye.”
Amy’s fingers squeezed his arms a fraction tighter, burning the flesh, then she stepped back. Both her touch and the icy chill she brought abated.
Guy turned. The hallway was empty. He closed his eyes and placed his hand over his heart, which galloped painfully. He wanted to drop to the floor and give his body a chance to recover, but he had no time. The phone’s battery was nearly dead.
He followed the hall towards the trapdoor. The house stayed mercifully silent. Only Guy’s ragged breathing disturbed the stillness. He stopped under his duct-taped tripod blocking the trapdoor. That was one thing he hadn’t planned for—he had no way to cut the structure apart. But as he stared at it, the tape shrivelled up, falling off the boards like magic.
Guy stepped back as the structure collapsed. As the third board clattered against the wall, the trapdoor fell open, and the retractable ladder tumbled down to clatter against the carpet. Guy glanced behind himself, but he was alone. He rubbed at the raised hairs over his arms then stepped onto the ladder and began climbing.
Chapter Thirty-One
The attic felt disconnected from the downstairs room. Stepping into it was like stepping into another world—and it was a dark, twisted one. Guy tried not to stare at the shadows coiling along the walls and ceiling. It was impossible to tell whether Amy was in the space with him, hunched behind the cluster of crates she’d made her home, perhaps, or if he’d grown so paranoid that he was imagining her everywhere he went.
Guy took the phone out of his pocket. Two percent battery. One bar. He held the mobile like a drowning man clutching a fragment of wood. Fear thudded through his veins. After this call, he would be out of options. It was a Hail Mary before he was at Amy’s mercy.
He dialled the emergency helpline.
It was answered almost immediately. Before the person on the other end could speak, Guy snapped, his words rushed and urgent, “189 Greenhaven Street, Faulconbridge. I need he—”
Burning-hot pain pierced the centre of his back. Guy’s hands spasmed, and he dropped the phone. It clattered to the floor. The screen remained lit for another second, then it went black as the battery finally failed.
Guy gasped and took a staggering pace forward. Amy stood behind him, her expression contorted, a red-coated kitchen knife clutched in her hands.
“Liar!” she shrieked. Saliva flew from her mouth, and a vein bulged in her colourless neck. “Liar, cheater, traitor!”
Guy raised his hand against the blow, but he couldn’t stop it. She plunged the knife into his stomach. He doubled over, but only a thin whine of pain escaped his throat. Amy drew the knife back out and thrust it home a third time.
She clutched him close, and her freezing breath ghosted over his neck. “Why do you torment me like this, Thomas? Why do you make me fight so hard for you?”
“No—” Guy’s legs gave out.
Amy fell to the ground with him, her arms tangled around his torso like a lover. A loud rushing noise filled his ears. He blinked, but he couldn’t see. He tried to move—to push the spectre away from him—but his limbs only twitched.
Amy’s expression shif
ted from fury to gentle concern. “Shh, be calm now, my dear. We can be together still. I’ll take care of you.”
She twisted the knife. Guy’s vision went black.
* * *
He stood in Rookward’s library. The shelves and chairs were familiar but wholly different to the view he’d become used to. The bookcases were overflowing with untitled volumes of all sizes, and the furniture had been returned to its original state: clean, attractive, and impeccably matched to the room’s décor.
Two children stood in one of the doorways. They were dressed in what Guy’s mother would have called their Sunday best. The girl’s hair was tied back into bunches at the back of her neck, and the boy’s shoes glinted in the golden light. But their faces were empty. Neither had eyes nor a mouth, only gentle slopes and ridges to indicate the spaces where the features belonged. Guy recoiled and bumped into one of the chairs. The children neither moved nor spoke, but stood straight as a pin.
The door leading to the foyer opened, and Guy felt his heart skip a beat. Amy stood in the entryway. The pale-skinned, glassy-eyed spectre that had tormented him was gone. Her dark hair cascaded around her shoulders, and her ruby-red lips curled up, drawing attention to her high cheekbones and sparkling eyes.
She swirled a magnificent red dress around herself as she strolled towards Guy. “Hello, darling.”
He swallowed. The eyeless children continued to stare. He nodded in their direction and forced his voice to work. “Did you do that?”
“I made them for you, my dear.” She tilted her head to the side, sending her diamond earrings bouncing. “They’re the perfect children, aren’t they? They don’t speak, and they don’t judge. They’re there when you want them and never when you don’t.”
It’s sick. You’re sick. Guy swallowed the words. He backed away from Amy as far as he could, but she cornered him against one of the bookcases.
She lifted a hand and caressed Guy’s cheek. Her flesh was warm, but the rings on her fingers were chilled. He shivered.
“This is the way it was always supposed to be,” she whispered.
Guy’s stomach clenched as she ran the hand from his cheek down over his chest. He was wearing a suit, he realised. It was crisp and dry, unlike the clothes he’d been wearing in the attic.
Amy played with the buttons as she smiled up at him. “You and me. Delighting in each other’s company. Forever.”
I’d prefer death. Again, Guy swallowed the words. Infuriating the woman wouldn’t help. He needed to keep his mind clear, but it was hard when she kept shifting closer to him.
“I’ve longed to dance with you, my darling.” As the words left her mouth, music filled the room. Guy recognised a waltz. Amy nodded to the children, and like machines, they strode out of the room. She placed one hand on Guy’s shoulder and tugged his arm around her waist.
Guy’s stomach revolted against the touch, but an idea had occurred to him, and he battled the impulse to pull away. Instead, he put his arm around her waist, squared his shoulders, and led Amy into the dance.
He hadn’t waltzed since his prom, when he and Savannah had been a couple. He remembered the way she’d rested her head against his shoulder. He’d never felt so warm or giddy before. He latched on to the memory, one of the few that hadn’t been tainted by his temper or the accident, and twirled Amy through the room.
She closed her eyes in delight as she they danced. They kept the pace brisk and smooth. Guy swirled her out of the library and into the hallway. Dozens of pictures hung on the walls. They showed Guy and Amy together, embracing and, in some cases, kissing. Guy looked happy in the pictures. He forced his lips to mimic the smile as Amy sighed against his shoulder.
“I knew it would all be worth it,” she murmured.
Guy led her into the dining room. The table had been cleaned and set with lit candelabras and two settings of fine china. He danced with Amy around the table and into the kitchen. A roast in the oven smelled so good that saliva flooded Guy’s mouth. He spun her in a little twirl in the centre of the room then pulled her close. She pressed one hand against his chest and leaned her head on his shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice how plastic his smile was.
“I knew, as soon as I met you, we were meant to be together.” She rubbed her cheek against his neck. “It was all worth it. Leaving home, hiding in your attic while we waited for a chance to be rid of your wife—even when you left me, I knew you weren’t really gone. You would find your way back to me.”
Guy took his hand off her hip to run it through her black hair. Touching her made his skin crawl, but he stroked her slowly, how he had once stroked Savannah. Their earlier tempo had fallen to a slow step. He’d angled their bodies so that his back was to the kitchen bench. When he took his hand off her hair, he reached behind himself. Her eyes were closed. She didn’t notice as his fingers fixed around the knife left on the empty cutting board.
This is for Tiff. He tightened his hand around the cold metal. For Thomas, Louise, and their children. For forcing my mother to bury her child. For every life you’ve ruined. Rot in hell.
He thrust the knife into her back. Her eyes popped open and met Guy’s. Shock marred her face as he withdrew the knife, then she stumbled back. He followed her retreat, bringing the blade into her throat, her torso, her abdomen—any place he could reach. The anger he’d been keeping in check reared up, sending fire through his limbs and turning his vision black, and he embraced it.
He’d never intentionally hurt a human before. That was a line he’d drawn and never crossed, no matter how bad the fury—but he crossed it then, willingly and recklessly. The knife cut through her ribs, her abdomen, and her collarbone. He hacked at any part of her he could reach.
The fury turned his vision black, then red, and he tumbled on top of her, his own pulse deafening, the need to cut into the creature below him overwhelming. He didn’t try to moderate the anger but let it lend him strength as it roared through him like a hurricane. He felt bones break. Blood soaked his arms and splattered across his bared teeth, but he was senseless to the taste. The knife’s blade broke off. He tossed it aside and used his fists instead to pulp the fragile bones in the monster’s face.
Stop. The little voice in the back of his mind spoke so softly that he barely heard it. Stop, Guy, before you go too far to come back.
His fingers dug into gore and flung clumps of it aside. It felt good—cathartic—like taking a deep gasp after being starved of oxygen.
Stop, Guy, this isn’t you. This isn’t the man you want to be.
Wild laughter tore out of him. Specks of light danced across his red-tinted vision. The crackle of cartilage was beautiful; he wanted to hear more of it.
This isn’t the man Savannah wanted you to be.
Guy lurched away from Amy’s corpse. His heart thundered like a war drum. The satisfaction had vanished; in its place was horror and nausea.
He blinked as his vision resolved. He was breathless. Hot, sticky blood drenched his arms and face. Amy was no longer recognisable as human. He’d severed her arm, gouged a hole in her face, and smashed every rib. Blood mingled with the red dress and pooled across the tile floor. Guy unfurled his fingers. They shook as a bone fragment dripped off his thumb. A muffled sob slipped out of him.
I don’t want to be a violent man. I don’t want to be like her.
The two faceless children stood in the doorway. Guy hadn’t seen them enter. He knew they weren’t real, but he still recoiled, ashamed of what they’d witnessed.
The children quivered then crumbled, like two perfect sandcastles that had dried out. Their forms disintegrated into the floor, until there was nothing of them left.
The room shook. Guy staggered to his feet as paint fell off the walls in thick flakes. The fridge aged and discoloured. The tiles chipped. The window darkened with grime. Guy grabbed at the bench as his suit rippled into the rain-soaked work clothes. Red blooms soaked the fabric, and with them came the burning pain of the stab wounds Amy had inflicted b
efore dragging him into her fantasy world. Rookward shook a final time then settled, returned to its true form.
Amy stood behind him. Her face was a pulp. One arm hung low, nearly severed except for a thin strip of flesh. White ribs poked out of the hole in her chest.
Guy moaned in growing horror and grabbed one of the knives out of its chopping block. Age had stuck it to the wood, and he had to shake it to get it free. The fight had drained his energy, and blood continued to seep from the wounds in his chest and back. He wasn’t yet willing to give in to the insane woman, though.
The illusion faded from Amy at last. Colour left her skin. The shredded red dress and jewellery crumbled. They drifted away from her like soot caught in the wind, revealing the grey slip dress. Underneath the illusion, her body was intact. All signs of the violence melted away. The white cataracts grew across her eyes, and the silky black hair became matted and oily.
Understanding hit Guy, but it wasn’t a happy revelation. When she pulls me into her fantasy, she creates an alternate reality. Nothing from the real world has any influence on it… and whatever I do inside the fantasy has no impact on the real world.
Amy bellowed, fury ringing through the air and hurting Guy’s ears. He flinched. The kitchen was changing, its walls bowing in like a paper box being crumpled. He started for the door, but it slammed shut. Vines grew through the thin gap below the wood. They writhed as they extended their tendrils towards Guy. He tried to move back from them, but the tiles slid out from under his feet, and he collapsed to the ground.
Amy loomed over him, her lips bent into a snarl. When she opened her mouth, the inside was black, and the teeth were sharpened into points. A thick, obsidian liquid oozed from around the jaws.
“You coward.” She sounded barely human.
The Haunting of Rookward House Page 19