Authors: Spike Black
3—
She slid her feet off the edge of the bed until her heels hooked onto the side of the mattress, giving her purchase.
2—
Silas’s voice echoed through her mind, like a stuck record on the devil’s turntable.
What
is
that? Breakfast’s ready! What
is
that? Breakfast’s ready! What
is
that? Breakfast’s ready!
1—
She took a deep breath.
You can do this.
She wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but she thought her heart might explode, either way.
GO!
Oona leapt from the bed, the springs groaning, her toes catching around the bed sheet and pulling it with her. She stumbled as her feet hit the floorboards, but she kept her balance, unhooking the sheet, not looking back, not daring to look back - if she turned and saw anything, anything at all, it would be the end of her.
She ran for the door, grabbing the round handle and forgetting in the moment whether she was supposed to turn or push or pull. She tried all three and none seemed to work.
The bedsprings groaned again. Was he getting up? Was he behind her?
She turned the knob.
No.
Pushed.
No.
Pulled.
Dear God, please…
The door sprang open.
She exploded onto the landing and turned sharply, hurtling down the staircase.
Be careful
, a voice cautioned.
You’ll do yourself an injury.
But there was no time. She had to get away.
The steps were tall and close together, and she saw herself overbalancing, in slow motion. Soon she would topple off the staircase and her skull would hit the linoleum of the kitchen floor with a crack, her brains spilling out like bloodied egg yolk…
But no. She regained her balance, racing down the remaining steps. Her bare feet smacked the linoleum as she made it down.
Silas was at the sink, singing
Here Comes the Sun
. He turned, holding a frying pan and wearing an apron with a country cottage emblazoned on the front.
He saw Oona and his face dropped.
She realized she must have looked a sight as she gasped for breath, her eyes wide with fear.
“What’s wrong?” he said. “You look like—”
Don’t say it.
“—you’ve seen a ghost.”
She could only stare at him. She tried moving her mouth but no sound came out. And he was wrong, anyway. She hadn’t
seen
a ghost. Only heard it.
And felt its breath on the back of her neck.
“Are you alright?”
Oona wanted to confess everything. To confirm for him that he wasn’t crazy.
You’re right about ghosts, Silas. They
do
exist, after all.
But as Silas moved closer she saw how amazing he looked. He was young again, almost fresh-faced - the Silas he had been two months ago.
She realized she couldn’t do it to him. She couldn’t drag him back there.
She forced her head, which felt like a huge boulder on her neck, into a slight nod. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes, I’m fine.”
She noticed that her hands were trembling and hid them behind her back.
Silas showed her the contents of the frying pan. “Bacon?”
Bacon?
She wanted to shake him.
There’s a ghost upstairs in our bed and my entire belief system has just crumbled around my feet and you’re asking if I want bacon?
“I did it just how you like it,” he said. “Extra crispy.”
She fell into the chair. Silas placed a plate of bacon and eggs before her. She almost vomited.
I’m not sitting for breakfast, you fool. I’m sitting because if I don’t, I’ll collapse onto the floor, curl up into a fetal position and start crying. And once I start, I fear that I’ll never, ever stop.
“Looks like it’s going to be a lovely day,” he said. “Ketchup?”
She gazed out of the window, squinting at the brightness that greeted her sore eyes. If she had not been in a traumatized state, she would have chuckled at the irony.
It really was a beautiful morning.
***
Oona shivered as she wandered the lower level of the cottage in her nightdress.
That’s the problem with discovering you’re sharing your bed with a ghost,
she thought.
You don’t stop on your way out to grab your robe.
She considered asking Silas to get her clothes for her. But he’d want to know why she couldn’t just get them herself, and that was a conversation she couldn’t have. No, she’d have to just tell him she was having a lazy day in her nightie. In the freezing cold.
He’d think she’d gone mad, and maybe he’d be right.
She pictured Weddup laying in bed next to her, still wearing the tweed jacket from the photo. His crawling, curling, spider leg fingers wrapping around her arm, the overgrown, yellowed nails digging into her flesh…
Stop it. Just stop thinking about it.
She entered the living room searching for any kind of distraction. She found herself studying the painting on the wall above the couch. She’d never paid any attention to it before, and that was unsurprising, really; it had artistic merit but it was glum. The only emotion it evoked from her was misery.
She stared at the focal point of the painting, a lonely building in danger of being swallowed by the surrounding moorland. It was several seconds before she recognized it as Cairn Cottage.
She figured she was used to the chocolate box view painted by the brochure; she’d never seen the landscape represented so honestly before. The muted winter colors, the solitary structure of the cottage amidst the stark, unattractive backdrop.
Her eyes dropped to the bottom corner of the canvas. The artist’s signature, messy but legible:
W. Weddup.
“Hey,” a voice blared from behind her, and she gasped with such ferocity that it made her throat hurt.
“You’re jumpy this morning,” Silas said, smirking.
She really wanted to hit him.
He put a hand on her arm, and she flinched. She tried to cover it up with a roll of the shoulders. He cuddled up to her, his arms wrapped tight, his hot breath on her neck, and suddenly she felt claustrophobic and hot and her limbs were worms that wanted to wriggle free.
“Get off me.” The words exploded from her mouth. She regretted them instantly.
Silas huffed. “Fine. Whatever.” He picked up his book from the coffee table, dropped into the armchair and started reading.
Oona noticed that he was almost a third of the way through his book, now.
Good for him.
She left him to it, exited into the hallway and passed the telephone table. She stopped and looked back. The guest book taunted her from its stand with its promise of overwhelming positivity, and if ever she needed a dose, it was now. She grabbed the book and flipped through, reading random entries.
“The surrounding countryside is just lovely,”
said Mrs Beech from Lowestoft.
“Already booked for next year.”
Paul and Marjorie, no last name given, from Oxfordshire: “Great walks, good food & ale and breathtaking scenery.”
Near the back of the book:
“An ideal location for exploring the countryside. Thanks.”
- Del & Rhona, East Fife.
The next page:
“Should never have come here.”
- T&S.
Oona stared at the words, dumbstruck.
The message on the facing page was written in shaky handwriting and was anonymous.
“There’s something wrong with this place.”
Her hand trembled as she turned the page. The last message in the book.
One word, etched deep into the paper.
Re-scored and underlined.
“LEAVE.”
Oona dropped the book with a scream and ran back into the living room. She stopped fast when she saw Silas.
The cat was sitting on his lap.
“Where did that come from?”
Silas sighed. “You’re more of a dog person. I get it.”
“It needs to go. Right now.”
Silas lifted the cat up and turned it to face him. “Aw, did you hear that, Maude? The nasty lady wants to get rid of you.”
The blood froze in her veins. “What…?”
“Huh?”
“What did you call it?”
“Maude.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, ‘why’?”
“Have you seen the photos, too?”
“What photos?”
She wanted to slap him for being so ignorant. “So, you looked in the album.”
“What? No…”
“Then why did you call it that?”
“Well, look at that face…” He turned the cat around. The creature glared at Oona. “She looks like a Maude, don’t you think?”
Oona eyed Silas with suspicion. “Are you fucking with me?”
Silas was so taken aback he was lost for words for a moment. “Oona…”
“Are you fucking with me? Seriously, don’t fuck with me. Don’t you dare fuck with me. Because I’ll just go.”
“Oona, what’s got into you? Are you possessed?”
“I’m not kidding, Silas. I’ll just pack a bag and leave. I’ll drive away and you’ll be stranded here. Just you and that piece of shit fucking cat.”
“Oona, please. There’s no call for all the language.”
“Oh, you don’t think so? You don’t fucking think so?”
The cat ran away as Silas stood up. He held out his arms. “Hey, hey, come here.”
Oona stepped back.
“Calm down,” he said, lunging forward. “Take it easy.”
He moved in for a hug and she batted his arms away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Oona, what’s the deal? You’re not being yourself.”
“
I’m
not being myself?”
“Let’s just enjoy our holiday.”
“Holiday? This is
not
a holiday, Silas. I want to leave.”
“We can’t leave.”
Her heart missed a beat. “What?”
“Let’s just stay until the end of the week, like we planned.”
“No…”
“Please. I need to work through a few… issues. There are no ghosts, I get it. I’m trying to accept that it’s all in my head. But I’m still haunted by the memories of the things I saw. So I need this extra time. Please. For me.”
He placed his arms around her. She didn’t push him away this time. But she couldn’t stop thinking about all the cat hairs he was transferring to her.
“Look,” he said, “sleep on it. If you still feel the same in the morning, we’ll go.”
Sleep on it.
That’d be nice.
“I don’t need to sleep on it,” she said, turning to leave. “We go in the morning.”
The morning
. She would have to find a way to cope until then. She thought about Silas, how burning the chair had done wonders for him, and that gave her an idea.
She ascended the stairs, each stone step causing her heart to pump faster and filling her belly with dread. She glanced into the master bedroom through the gap in the door.
She crossed the landing to the spare room and went inside. Took the framed photo of the old man off the bedside table. Thumbed the furrows made by the embossed vines on the frame.
The skeleton in the tweed jacket glared back at her as he always did, but this time she thought she detected a glint in his eye. He knew he was winning.
And that was true. Except that she was about to deliver the knockout blow.
She turned the latch on the window and flung it open.
“Leave!” she screamed.
She threw the picture out. As it sailed through the air she had a flash of doubt:
have I made a terrible mistake?
But then it hit the gravel below with a satisfying smash, and for the first time since she’d been at Cairn Cottage, she felt free.
There,
she thought, closing the window.
Good riddance, you awful old bastard.
21
“S
ilas…”
(Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.)
“Silas, wake up…”
(Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.)
“Silas, wake up. There was a bang.”
His eyes snapped open.
Huh?
“What did you say, hon?”
“A loud noise. From downstairs.”
He was groggy as hell as he slid off the bed, but he knew the drill by now. “It’s fine. It’ll be the cat again.”
“That’s what I thought, but…”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
The bedroom door rattled in its frame as Silas approached, as if blown by a breeze.
Must have left a window open
, he thought.
A cold rush of air hit him as he descended the stairs. Something clattered in the wind.
He saw much of the kitchen before he made it to the bottom but there was nothing obviously wrong. It was only when Silas reached ground level that he discovered the cause of the loud bang.
The front door was swinging open, hitting repeatedly against the doorstop.
How the hell…?
He had locked it before bed, he knew that without a question of doubt. Turned the key and bolted it twice, as always. He’d been particularly careful about that, every night since they’d been here.
“Oh, shit. Oona?”
A bolt of fear slammed into him like a heavyweight boxer’s right hook. He was almost too afraid to finish his thought.
“Oona…? It’s not the cat.”
He closed the door. Turned the key. Pulled across the two bolts and the chain. Then a terrible thought:
I’ve locked us in with whatever just entered.
He looked around the kitchen. Marched through the hall to the living room.
Nothing. He turned to leave.
The cat was curled up, asleep on the armchair.
Silas rolled his eyes. “You again…”
At that moment there was a loud bang from upstairs.
Oona
. Why was she slamming doors?
Or maybe…
Maybe it wasn’t Oona at all.
He raced back to the kitchen and bolted up the staircase, hurdling the tall steps. “Oona? Oona?”
But his stride wasn’t wide enough for the last stair and he slipped, his legs buckling beneath his weight. He slammed his knee on the stone step and a jolt of pain coursed through his body.
His screams echoed up the dark staircase.