The Haunting of Blackwood House (6 page)

Mara lay in her sleeping bag and held her hands towards the gas heater as she listened to Neil brush his teeth. Their exploration of the house had eaten up a lot of time, and Mara’s phone said it was nearly midnight. And its battery was low. Without electricity, it would be dead by morning.

She’d been watching her phone’s status throughout the evening. Two-thirds of the time, it displayed no signal; for the other third, either one or two bars appeared. That was better than she’d anticipated. Contact with the outside world would be limited but not quite nonexistent.

Neil turned the tap off, and his footsteps shuffled down the hallway. He appeared in the doorway and paused there, smiling at Mara.

“What?” she asked.

“You look really cute.” He came into the room, closing the door behind himself. “I like seeing your hair down.”

“Really? I’d wear it like this more except I’m innately lazy and ponytails are way less maintenance. Isn’t that a nice thought? Slight convenience is more important to me than your happiness.”

Neil laughed as he got into the sleeping bag behind her. “Would you believe I like that? You’re an individual. You’re strong.” His hand found her neck and began stroking the hair away from it. “I do love you, Mara.”

“It’s definitely reciprocated.” Her heart missed a beat as his fingers stroked the skin below her jaw.

The heater’s glow warmed Mara’s exposed skin, and the sleeping bag was unexpectedly comfortable with the exercise mats underneath it. She was feeling drowsy when Neil spoke.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“What level of personal are we talking about?” she mumbled. “I don’t mind discussing my periods in graphic detail, but I’m probably going to stay quiet about the jar of fingernail clippings I carry with me at all times.”

“Oh my goodness,” he said, delighted.

“Okay, seriously—go ahead.”

Neil didn’t answer immediately. When the silence stretched to uncomfortable levels, Mara rolled over to face him. He was worrying his lip, and she pressed her palm to his cheek to encourage him. “It’s okay. Go ahead.”

“You don’t talk about your childhood much.”

Oh
. Mara withdrew her hand. “There’s not much to say. My parents were crazy. I’m not. I got out of there, and now my life is starting properly.” Neil continued to stroke her hair. She wished he wouldn’t. She didn’t want to taint such a nice sensation with unpleasant ideas.

“I know they were spiritualists. I tried to do some research about it, but I’m sure I only grazed the surface. It was a belief that started in the eighteen hundreds, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” She closed her eyes. “
Come and have a seance at Mrs Smith’s this Saturday. Say hello to your departed husband and watch the table levitate
. For a lot of people, it was a fun novelty.”

Neil stayed quiet, but Mara knew he was curious. She took a deep breath and continued. “Of course, amongst all of the gentry who made a parlour sport out of it, there were a few who really, truly believed—same as with any wacky theory. And some of those core believers had children, and their children had children… and eventually I was born.”

“There aren’t many spiritualists left, are there?”

Mara shrugged awkwardly. She wished they could change the subject; it was setting up a dull ache in the centre of her chest. “When I was growing up, it seemed like the entire world believed. But that was only because my parents filled the house with their equally deluded buddies. Almost every day, we had friends come around to talk about their experiences or plan a meeting or discuss messages from the dead. It was an echo chamber. Anyone with dissenting views was either cut out of our lives, or they cut us out of theirs. I wasn’t invited to play with the other kids in our street. They’d have birthday parties, and I’d watch them from my window, but I never got to go—”

“Mara, Mara, I’m sorry. Shh.” Neil’s fingers, quick and anxious, brushed over her forehead.

She realised she’d been scrunching her face, and forced herself to relax. “I’m okay.”

Neil took her hand and kissed the fingers. “We don’t have to talk about it if it upsets you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. That part of my life is over.” Mara’s mouth formed the mantra she’d repeated to herself every morning for the previous four years. “It can’t touch me now.”

She rolled onto her back, inhaled deeply, and held the breath as she stared at the ceiling. The grey wood was mottled from water stains, and Mara let her eyes pick out shapes amongst them. “To answer your question—there are hardly any spiritualists left. The practice was pretty thoroughly debunked even while it was becoming the latest trend in Victorian England. The mediums were nothing more than stage magicians who claimed to have a direct line of contact with the dead. They used sleight of hand, bells attached to their shoes, incognito assistants, and other tricks to fool their audiences. They’d move pencils or small wads of paper, snuff out candles, create tapping noises, and ring bells, and the more elaborate acts could involve levitating tables or the appearance of ghostly figures—all through completely natural means.”

“How were the ghostly figures done?”

Mara snorted. “An assistant, dressed in a white gown and wearing powder, would step out from behind a curtain and startle the crowd before hiding again in the pandemonium. Most seances were done in dark rooms lit only by a couple of candles, so it was easy to fool the unwary.”

“I hope this doesn’t make you hate me, but that sounds like a lot of fun.”

Mara turned back to Neil. Despite the ache in her chest, she couldn’t keep herself from returning his grin. “I’m sure a lot of people enjoyed it just for what it was—parlour tricks. The problem comes when people continue to believe it despite evidence to the contrary.” Her smile faded. “It boggles my mind sometimes. My parents weren’t stupid. My dad had a degree in biology, and my mother worked for an emergency helpline through most of my childhood. It’s not like they were societal outcasts or anything. But they really, genuinely believed ghosts were talking to them. Even after decades of being immersed in a culture entirely maintained by charlatans and the charlatans’ dupes, they couldn’t realise how fooled they’d been.”

“Were the tricks that convincing?”

“
I
saw through them. It all came crumbling down when I was eleven and a bell fell out of a medium’s pocket. I’d believed blindly up until then, but as soon as the seed of doubt was planted, I couldn’t stop seeing the deceit. From then on, I didn’t witness a single supernatural event that couldn’t be easily explained. Getting access to the internet helped me figure out some of the smarter tricks.”

Neil wove his arm around Mara and pulled her closer. She grinned and leaned against his shoulder.

“You really like this house, huh?” he asked.

“I love it.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

Mara peeked, one eye open. “You don’t like it, though, do you?”

Neil hesitated a split second too long for Mara to believe him when he said, “It’s a very nice house.”

“Uh-huh. You hate it.”

“No, no. I don’t
hate
it. I just… sort of…
mistrust
it.”

“Because it’s creepy?”

“Sweetheart, I’ve watched horror movies that were more comforting than this place.”

Mara chuckled. She nuzzled closer to him. “You can always cuddle me if you get too scared.”

“Hmm. I might have to take you up on that offer.”

She was in the master bedroom, facing the window that overlooked the back garden. A violent red sunset tainted the air.

This is a dream
, Mara realised.
And not a pleasant one. I should wake up.

There was a scraping, scratching noise behind her. She turned, but the motion was slow as though she were moving through syrup. The furniture was no longer decayed and tattered but plush and expensive looking. Pillows had been thrown about the room, and chairs were overturned. Brushes, jewellery, and a basin of water had been pushed off the bureau. The four-poster bed was in disarray and had two of its curtains pulled down.

The sound came from a woman at the door. She wore a long, silky nightdress, and her pale hair cascaded around her shoulders. Mara thought she might have been beautiful except for her hollowed cheeks and the manic, haunted madness in her eyes.

The woman stared at Mara for a moment, breathing heavily, then returned to clawing at the door. She brought her fingers down the surface repeatedly and rapidly, scoring the wood and staining it red from where her fingernails had broken off. She chanted something between gasping breaths. Mara, captivated and horrified at the same time, waded through the thick air to hear.

“Run, run, run,” the woman repeated, speaking the mantra as though she no longer knew what the words meant. She looked over her shoulder at Mara, and a frantic, insane terror distorted her face. “
The axe man is coming
.”

Mara gasped and started upright. The cold night air bit at her as she blinked at the room.

Neil’s arm was draped over her waist. A square of moonlight from the window blanketed his sleeping form, and Mara watched his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm as her heart rate slowed.

It’s just a dream. Probably brought on by all that excitement before bed.
She rubbed at her eyes, exhaled, and lay back down. Her heart still jumped as the dream’s influence faded. The building felt far less welcoming in deep night than it had earlier, almost as though its very nature had changed during the hours Mara had slept. She’d found it easy to be brave when Neil was with her and she could ricochet off of his cautious nature. But with Neil asleep, her bravado was sapped away by the darkness and unnerving stillness.

Somewhere deep in the house, a low, slow groan began. Mara clenched her teeth as the hairs on her arms rose.
It’s just the rocking chair being nudged by a breeze. Nothing to worry about.

The noise seemed to permeate the building and soak through Mara’s self. She stared at the ceiling while she waited for it to stop. The stains across the wood became a makeshift Rorschach test. Earlier that evening, Mara had seen a motley collection of figures and faces. In the middle of the night, though, they looked like bloodstains blooming outwards from where a dozen souls had lost their lives.

A door slammed. Mara gasped and clutched Neil’s arm. He stirred, his eyebrows contracting for a second, then relaxed back into sleep.

Just a breeze. This house has more holes than a woodpecker’s tree. Of course stuff’s going to move when it gets windy.

Mara looked towards the window. She could see boughs silhouetted against the dark sky. They were eerily still.

The steady creaking sound was boring into her mind. Mara crossed her arms and balled her hands into fists so that she wouldn’t feel her fingers trembling.
Just block it out, and go back to sleep.

A second noise joined the rocking chair: a child began sobbing. The plaintive cries echoed as they bounced through the house, and Mara suddenly found it difficult to draw breath.

There’s an explanation for this. There’s got to be. The wind whistling through a hole somewhere, probably. It’s only frightening you because it’s night-time.

The sobs broke into a hiccup, then resumed, blending with the chair’s groans in a terrible, chaotic symphony. Mara squeezed her eyes closed and pressed her hands over her ears. The sound wouldn’t abate. She could feel her blood rushing through her veins, moving far faster than it should have for someone who’d been lying still. Every moan and every wail keyed Mara’s nerves up tighter and tighter until she finally snapped and launched into action.

She shuffled out of the sleeping bag, moving carefully so that she wouldn’t wake Neil. The building already disturbed him; he’d do better without being exposed to the nocturnal noises, too. He murmured something as Mara crawled out from under his arm, but he didn’t wake.

She took her jacket off the top of the nearby box and pulled her arms through the sleeves then wrapped it tightly around her torso as she slipped her feet into her sneakers. The air was bitingly cold. Mara took the flashlight but waited until she was outside the room to turn it on, to keep from disturbing Neil.

The torch’s light bounced off the wooden walls and half-open doors. Mara moved carefully, trying to keep her footsteps light. As she passed the master-bedroom door, it slammed closed. She felt the rush of air from its motion and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.
Just the wind. Just the wind. Just the wind—

As if on cue, the door slowly and laboriously drew open again, its quiet groan nearly drowned out by the rocking chair and the wailing cries.
I’ll have to buy a new lock for this thing.
Mara pulled the door back and stepped into the room to find something heavy to keep it from slamming shut again. A squat footstool sat beside an armchair. Mara put the flashlight between her teeth so she could drag the stool to the open doorway.

The door slammed again, and shock made her bite into the torch’s handle. She spat the flashlight into her hand and turned back to the door. The scores that marred its surface—so much like fingernail marks—stood out clearly in her circle of light.
Run, run, run. The axe man is coming.

Mara exhaled shakily. She moved to open the door again, and in the second before she touched the handle, a horrible idea wormed its way into her mind.
What if the door’s locked? What if you’re trapped in this room, just like the golden-haired woman, doomed to scrabble and scream for mercy as the shadows drown you?

“Shut up,” Mara whispered, and her voice broke. The handle’s cold metal almost felt as though it had an electric charge as she turned the knob. The door opened without complaint. Mara released the lungful of air she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding.

She pushed the door fully open then dragged the footstool in front of it to keep it that way. Then she returned to the hallway and listened.

The downstairs noises hadn’t abated. If anything, they’d grown louder. She couldn’t detect any stirring in her bedroom, though—Neil seemed to still be asleep.

She took the stairs quickly, keeping to their edges to minimise creaking. Once on the ground floor, she turned to the living room.

The rocking chair rolled wildly, bouncing from one end of its struts to the other, the motion almost violent enough to overturn it. Mara cautiously approached the chair and held her hand in front of the window to test for a breeze, but she couldn’t feel one.

The wailing continued, seeming to fill the room with its mournful weight.
It really does sound like a child crying. No wonder all of the previous owners panicked.
Mara rotated as she tried to detect where the sound came from. She found it easily: the fireplace.

Of course. The chimney’s probably half-blocked and makes the wind whistle as it travels through. And I’ll bet it’s hitting the chair at just the right angle to set it rocking, too.
Mara moved towards the fireplace, hand held outwards to feel for the wind. The wailing noise abruptly fell silent.

With the wind abated, the rocking chair began to slow its motions. Mara stayed for a moment, waiting for the sounds to resume, but they didn’t. The rocking chair settled into stillness. Quiet returned to Blackwood’s walls.

Mara turned to leave and then stopped
. I don’t want to be woken again tonight.
She grabbed the chair by its back and dragged it away from the window to resettle it below the “Home Is Where The Heart Is” cross-stitch on the opposite wall.
That should do it.

She turned back to the foyer and jumped as a distant voice startled her.

“Mara?”

Neil had woken. Mara felt a pang of guilt at the anxious tone in his voice. “I’m here; everything’s okay.”

She took the stairs two at a time. He met her in the hallway, his hair even messier than normal, and pulled her into a hug. “You’re all right?”

Mara laughed. “Of course I am. It’s not like the house is going to eat me.”

“Ha, yeah, of course.” Neil didn’t sound reassured. Mara let him keep his arm around her as they returned to the bedroom. She hoped he wouldn’t feel her trembling.