Authors: Amy Cross
Today
“What's wrong?” I shout, trying once again to make them hear me as I sit up in bed. “Mom? Dad? Can someone
please
talk to me?”
I can hear them out there on the landing. It's two in the morning and Mom sounds like she's freaking out, and I can tell Dad's trying to calm her. Just a few seconds earlier, Mom's scream rang through the house, and now I'm waiting for one of them to come in and tell me what the hell is going on. A moment later, Scott steps into the doorway wearing his pajamas, and he stares toward Mom and Dad's room before turning to me. From the look in his eyes, I can tell he's worried.
“What's wrong?” I ask. “Is Mom okay?”
He shrugs.
“I want to know what's happening!” I shout.
“Go back to bed!” Dad says firmly from further along the landing. “Both of you!”
“I'm already
in
bed,” I point out, as my brother – who's clearly a little freaked out – steps into my room. “Scott,” I continue, “can you
please
tell me what's going on? I can't exactly get out of bed to go look myself!”
“I think Mom had a bad dream or something,” he replies, although the usual confidence is gone from his voice and he seems significantly more subdued. “I heard her... I don't know, she was whispering in their room, I could hear her through the wall, and then she started screaming.” He peers back out onto the landing. “Dad's got her back into the room now. He'll make sure everything's okay.”
“Is she okay?” I ask, starting to feel increasingly frustrated by the fact that all I can see beyond my room is a couple of square foot on the landing. “Scott, just tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Something really freaked her out,” he continues. “I don't know, Dad seems to have it under control. I've never seen her life that before, it's like she was really scared.” He looks along the landing for a moment longer, before turning to me. “What would make Mom scream like that?”
“I don't know,” I reply, my heart pounding in my chest. “I've never heard her act like this before. It's almost like -”
Suddenly I hear footsteps coming closer to the door, and a moment later Dad comes into view.
“Bed,” he says firmly. “Both of you. Now.”
***
“Lift your arm,” Mom says the following morning, as she continues to give me my latest sponge bath. “Higher, Annie. Come on, be cooperative.”
“I
am
,” I reply, holding my left arm up as high as I can manage. “I'm being
very
cooperative.
You're
the one who isn't cooperating, you won't tell me what happened last night.”
“I
did
tell you, it was -”
“Nothing, sure.” I flinch as she wipes under my arm with cold soapy water. For the first time, she hasn't remembered to heat the water for my bath. “I just don't believe you,” I continue. “I heard the way you were crying out, something obviously got to you.”
“I had a nightmare.”
“Must've been a hell of a nightmare. What was it about?”
“I don't remember.”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Was it about this house?”
She glances at me for a moment, before shaking her head. “No, of course not. What makes you ask that?”
“It's a reasonable assumption,” I continue. “We've only been here for a few nights now, I can imagine it's starting to get to you. The place
is
kind of creepy.”
“It's natural for a new house to seem a little off,” she replies. “I'm not going to go overreacting just because a few things have fallen over and a couple of bumps have woken me in the middle of the night.”
“Things falling over?” I ask with a frown. “Bumps in the night?”
“It's nothing.”
“If one more person says that to me...” I wait for her to continue, but I think she's hoping I'll just drop the subject. “Has weird stuff been happening to you?”
She dips the sponge in water again, before starting to clean my left arm. “I'd rather not talk about it,” she says eventually. “Nothing happened, it's just a bunch coincidences.”
“Yeah, like my name being -” I catch myself just in time, remembering that Dad told me not to mention the Garrett family murder to Mom. I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of keeping things from her, but at the same time I know this probably isn't the right moment to bring up something so momentously creepy. “What kind of coincidences?” I ask.
“Silly ones that don't mean anything.”
“Like?”
She sighs. “Like... Just doors...” She pauses, followed by another sigh. “It doesn't matter.”
“Tell me,” I reply, seeing the hint of concern in her eyes. “I've heard a few odd bumps over the past few days, mostly downstairs.” I wait for her to say something. “I
know
you,” I continue. “I know when you're worried, and I heard you last night. That was more than a nightmare. People don't really wake up screaming in the night from a bad dream, not in the real world, not the way
you
screamed.”
She pauses, and I can tell she's on the verge of opening up.
“Please, Mom,” I continue. “You know you can talk to me, right?”
“Don't tell your father I mentioned this,” she replies, lowering her voice, “but I just... I woke up in the middle of the night and for a moment I thought I saw someone standing next to the bed.” She sighs, as if she's embarrassed to admit such a thing but maybe also a little relieved. “It was only for a second, I was looking up and I saw this figure right there, just inches away from me, looking down and... It was such a clear image, even now I can see it perfectly, and I froze.”
“So it was a dream, then,” I reply. “It must have been.”
She stares at me, and I can tell she isn't convinced.
“Dreams can be pretty convincing,” I point out. “Sometimes they can seem like they're really happening.”
She nods.
“But?” I continue. “What else happened, Mom?”
“I could feel it,” she replies. “I can't even explain that part, but I could feel a presence, and I just stared up at the shape and I felt this real anger being directed toward me, as if... It was dripping, too. That's the craziest part, the figure was dripping, like its clothes were soaking wet, and then after your father had calmed me down, I went back and checked the floor next to the bed and...”
I wait for her to continue.
“And what?” I ask, even though I think I already know what she's going to say.
She shakes her head.
“Were there drips on the floor?”
“Your father thinks there must have been a leak in the ceiling,” she replies cautiously.
“Was it raining last night?” I ask.
She shakes her head again.
“And is there a hole in the ceiling?”
“No.”
“So -”
“He thinks the drips caused me to have the dream,” she explains. “He's going to go up and check the ceiling properly, make sure it's fixed.” She pauses, as if she's reliving the moment, and then suddenly a relieved smile crosses her face, mixed with a little embarrassment. “It was just a night terror,” she says, as if she's trying to convince herself as much as me. “You see how easy it is to get spooked? I've been so busy warning you not to let your imagination go crazy, I forgot to keep from doing it myself.”
“But if -”
“I'll just grab some fresh water,” she adds, getting to her feet and heading to the door, “and then we can watch a movie, if you like? I feel so bad, thinking about you being up here alone and -” Stopping in the doorway, she looks out to the landing for a moment, almost as if she's nervous. She glances both ways, before forcing another smile and stepping out. “Everyone else is out,” she continues, clearly trying to hide the fact that she feels scared. “We'll sit in here together. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?”
As she heads to the bathroom, I can't shake a sense of concern. My mother, my usually rational and level-headed mother, seems to have changed in just half a day; she's obviously shaken now and trying to hold herself together, and I'm pretty damn sure that despite everything she just told me about her experiences in the night, there's a lot more that she kept back for fear of sounding crazy. She's not the kind of person who'd ever want to cause problems for other people, so most likely she's internalizing her fears, but I have no doubt that she's scared.
I still don't really believe in ghosts, but the fact that my mother's scared of something in the house?
That
scares me.
Seventy-one years ago
“I made the potatoes a different way,” I tell Father as I put his plate in front of him. “I hope you like them.”
Picking up his fork, he nudges the potatoes, smearing them through the gravy. He seems to be making patterns; sometimes I wonder what really goes on in Father's head, and I'm quite certain that he thinks a lot more than he lets on. Men like Father – quiet, hard-working men who don't air their thoughts so much – are easily written off as simple, but I happen to believe that in many cases they're actually the most contemplative people of all. There are definitely currents in Father's moods, and I understand why he never opens up to Mother. Perhaps, however, he'll learn over time that he can talk to me a little more. I'd like that.
“I used goose fat,” I explain, starting to worry that he won't like the change. “I thought... Well, I know how much you like goose fat on lamb, so I thought it might work equally well on the potatoes.”
I watch as he cuts off a slice and slips it into his mouth.
“If you don't like it,” I continue, “I can go back to doing them how Mother used to.”
He chews for longer than usual, before swallowing.
“They're fine,” he mutters, as he starts cutting off a section of meat. “You're a good cook, Annie. That's one of the few things I don't mind you learning from your mother. You're actually better than her.”
I can't help but smile with pride.
Hearing a faint bump from beneath the floor, I look down and find myself wondering what, exactly, Mother is doing down there. It has been two days now since Father dragged her down, and she hasn't been back up since. Father hasn't explicitly told me that I'm not to check on her, but I feel I need his permission and I'd rather not ask. He'll tell me when he's ready. I know she's still alive, because I can hear her sometimes, but I haven't yet summoned the courage to ask Father about the situation directly. I feel it's his job to discipline her, not mine, and I should be patient. For the past couple of nights, I've heard her screams from down there, so I assume he's getting the job done just fine.
Right now, however, I can hear a scratching sound. It's almost as if she's reaching up and trying to claw her way out through the ceiling. A moment later I hear a faint snap beneath my feet. Did one of her fingernails just break off?
“Don't go worrying about her,” Father says after a moment. “Don't think about it.”
Turning to him, I realize my concern must have been obvious.
“Sorry,” I reply, heading to the stove to fetch my own food.
“Some people never learn properly,” he continues. “It's a curse.”
“How...” I pause. “How long will she be down there?”
“How
long
?” He lets out a loud sniff, which is his way of laughing. “Well, I sure as hell don't have any plans to let her up again today, so I think she'll be waiting a good long time.” He sniffs again. “We'll see.”
“Of course,” I reply, setting the food on my plate before heading over and taking a seat opposite him. I don't have much appetite, but at the same time I know that Father thinks family meal times are very important. He's a real family man, and I know he appreciates the time we spend together, even if he doesn't say as much. As I settle and prepare to eat, however, I can tell that he's troubled this evening, to the point that he seems to have lost his appetite.
I wait, hoping his mood will recover.
“If you don't like the food,” I say finally, “I can -”
“It's not the food.”
“Well...” Pausing, I try to work out what I've done wrong. “Is it... If I've displeased you in any way, Father, I would rather know at once, so I can remedy my behavior. Mother never really taught me very much about managing the house, I suppose that's another of her failings but I'm sure I can learn if you just...”
My voice trails off as I watch him close his eyes. Whatever's wrong, he's clearly very troubled indeed.
“What is it?” I ask, getting to my feet and making my way around the table. Stopping behind Father, I put my hands on his shoulders, and immediately I can feel the tension. His muscles are rigid, especially on the right side, and I can't help wondering whether all his recent exertions have left him injured. I'm sure there are plenty of simple cures for such things, but I wouldn't know where to start. If only Mother had taught me properly, I'd be better placed to take over her duties. Still, I saw her massaging his neck and shoulders once or twice, so I start trying to do the same.
“Go back to your seat,” he says after a moment, rubbing his face as if he's tired.
“I know you didn't sleep well last night,” I tell him, keeping my hands on his shoulders. I'll go to my seat if he tells me again, but for now I would prefer to stay close, to maybe find a way to help him. “Was that my fault? Did I move too much during the night and keep you awake?”
“It wasn't that.”
“If you wish,” I continue, “you could strap me down so that I -”
“It wasn't you,” he says again, with just a hint of irritation in his voice. Reaching up, he pushes my hands off his shoulders. “Quit doing that, girl, and quit talking so much. You're giving me a headache.”
“I'm sorry,” I tell him. “I'm just... Mother really should have taught me what to do.”
“I will go back to sleeping in the other room tonight,” he replies. “I think it might be best.”
“But why?” I ask, shocked by the idea. In just a few nights, I have become accustomed to having Father next to me during the night. “Father, if I'm doing something wrong -”
“You're not,” he replies, “I just...”
He sighs.
“Let me show you that I can be better,” I tell him, looking down at the back of his head. “Let me prove myself to you.”
“Annie -”
“You
should
be in
my
room,” I continue, trying not to sound too panic-stricken as I try to think of a solution. “People should sleep near each other, it's only right. I mean, for warmth if nothing else, but also for safety. Or... I could be in
your
room, I suppose.”
“Your room is for you.”
“It's for both of us,” I point out. “If you wish, we could add your name to the door and -”
“I'm going to bed,” he says suddenly, getting to his feet and pushing past me. Stopping in the doorway, he glances back at me with tired, labored eyes. “I usually take a plate down to your mother after dinner, but tonight I'm too... You'll have to do it. No cutlery, she's not allowed that. God forbid that woman gets hold of a fork in her current state. Tell her I'll be down to talk to her in the morning. I think it's time we start thinking about bringing her back up.”
“But you said -”
“I think she's most likely learned her lesson by now.”
“You can't be sure of that,” I reply, feeling for some reason a hint of concern at the thought of Mother returning. The truth is, I've rather liked having her out of the way, and the idea of bringing her back up feels like a defeat. “Don't rush things, Father.”
“Take her some food,” he mutters, turning and heading out into the hallway and then up the stairs.
Making my way to the door, I stop and listen to his heavy footsteps. When he gets to the landing, he seems to hesitate for a moment, as if he's not sure which room to enter and which bed to sleep in, and I hold my breath for a few seconds until I hear the boards creak and the sound of my door opening. With a faint smile, I realize that he's entered my room after all, which is how things should be. I can handle anything down here, truly I can, so long as I know that I shall be able to sleep alongside him tonight.
Looking down at the kitchen floor, I realize that there's one more task I must complete before I go up to join Father.
***
The metal plate clangs unpleasantly as I set it down on the concrete floor. With just the light of a candle to help me see, I look across the dark basement toward the shadows at the far end, and I wait for Mother to show herself. As the seconds pass, however, I start to realize that the room feels perfectly silent and still, almost as if...
I hold my breath.
Almost as if Mother is dead.
A moment later, I hear the faintest of scraping sounds, and I breathe again. Mother is alive, albeit scared and apparently unwilling to come any closer. I know Father has tied her with ropes, and I know those ropes are attached to the old ironing stock in the corner which means she can't possibly drag herself free, but from the mess of sour gravy on the floor I can tell that Mother must be able to at least reach the middle of the room. There's really no reason for her to hold back. It's almost as if she's scared of me, but that's a ridiculous idea.
“Come on,” I say with a smile, tapping the side of the plate with a fingertip. “You must eat.”
I wait.
After a few seconds, I realize I can hear her breathing. From the sound of it, she seems to have almost become some kind of animal.
I force my smile to remain hidden, but I can't deny a sense of relief. After all, if Mother has become such a brute so quickly, how can Father ever think to bring her back upstairs? It's amazing how quickly someone can lose their civilized manners, although perhaps Mother's manners were never deeply-set to begin with. She was from lowly, common stock when Father met her, and I've always wondered why he took pity on her and married her when they were both so young. I suppose he just wanted to get the whole thing over and done with, so he took the first wife he could find. He could most certainly have done better if he'd waited.
“You must come closer,” I tell her. “I can't just leave the plate here. Perhaps that's how Father does things, but I want to see your face. I also want you to thank me, because -”
Stopping suddenly, I think back to the moment when Father used the sandpaper on her eyes.
“But you're blind, aren't you?” I continue, having not remembered that fact previously. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for her. “Well, no excuse, you must come toward the sound of my voice if you want to eat.”
I wait.
Silence.
“Come!” I say firmly, deciding to try a different approach. “Right now, Mother! Come!”
I wait again, and this time there's a faint shuffling sound. Peering into the darkness, I start to make out the faintest of shapes, and then an arm moves into the light, dirty and almost yellow with bruises. A moment later, as if by shifting her position she has disturbed the air in the basement, I become aware of the most horrible smell, which I suppose must come from the fact that Mother has been relieving herself down here. Disgusted by the stench, I want to turn and go upstairs immediately, but I force myself to stay in place as she crawls a little further forward. Finally I see her face and, as she comes closer, the flickering candlelight picks out her damaged eyes perfectly, even marking the scratches that run across her pupils. Those scratches seem almost ghostly white now.
“Just a little further,” I tell her. “This isn't so bad, is it? What are you afraid of?”
She stops, looking in my direction but not directly at me.
“You mustn't worry about Father,” I continue. “I'm doing a fine job of looking after him, and the house too. You really should have taught me better in case this day came, but what's done is done and I'm learning quickly. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I'm performing remarkably well, it's almost as if I was born for this role.” I pause, watching her wretched face, and after a moment I realize with a flash of pride that she really
is
scared to come closer. My own mother fears me. “Do you think I intend to beat you?” I ask with a smile. “It's Father's place to punish you, not mine. Mother, really, don't be so foolish. Come closer, you must know that I won't hurt you.”
I wait.
“Come,” I continue. “If you want to eat, you have no choice. Or shall I take the plate back up?”
After a moment, she crawls a little further forward. Her clothes are torn and stained, with her pretty white dress having been ripped in several places, and her long black hair is hanging down in dirty, straggly knots. As she gets closer to the plate and reaches out with a trembling hand, she truly resembles a mangy dog far more than she resembles a civilized woman.
“There,” I say with a grin, which I suppose she cannot see, “isn't that better?”
Her hand fumbles for the plate, feeling its edges as if she's searching for cutlery, before finally she scoops some potato into her palm and moves it to her lips. I can't help but wince as I watch her licking the food from her dirty skin, but at the same time I know full well that she brought this on herself. She simply never learned how to keep Father from getting angry.
After a moment she edges closer still, as if her fear has begun to dissipate. She focuses on eating, while I watch her bare shoulder. Looking down at my right hand, I find myself contemplating the damage that I could cause if I just sliced her flesh with one of my nails. I know I told her that it's Father who doles out the punishments, but still, I should at least like to know how it feels to wield that power, and besides, I liked the idea that Mother was starting to fear me and suddenly I don't want that fear to fade. She should see Father and I as her clear superiors, especially if there's any chance of her coming up to the main part of the house again. Finally, I reach out and move a fingertip toward the skin of her shoulder, and I wait until she's almost finished eating before I quickly slice my nail against her.