Hauntings Read online

  I will, however, leave you with a request if I may. This evening, as you sit here enjoying a drink and the amiable company of friends, if you should happen to hear something in the scraping of a chair leg or the creaking of a door, perhaps wrapped within the gusting of the wind as you leave, or even in the sound of a hand pump being pulled as beer pours into a glass… Should you suspect that somewhere in these mundane sounds you catch the hint of a distinctive melody, don’t listen.

  I know that you’ll want to. Human nature is such that you will doubtless be itching to fasten onto that sound, to isolate, define and identify it. It’s imperative that you resist any such temptation.

  Both for the sake of your own sanity and for the sake of your family and loved ones, I beg you, please, don’t listen. Leave any attempt to capture the uncatchable to someone else, to someone who has less to lose than you do. Don’t Listen.

  The Cradle in the Corner

  Marie O’Regan

  Mary stared in horror at the monstrosity standing before her.

  “Do you like it?” Alan asked. He stood there, all proud of himself – chest puffed out, huge grin on his face. How was she supposed to destroy that?

  She released a breath that shook on its way out into the world, surprised not to see actual smoke. Calm, woman. He thinks he’s done a good thing. “It’s… different, I’ll say that for it.”

  The smile froze, and she rushed to smooth things over, make it better, as usual. He was only trying to do something nice. “I haven’t seen one like that before. Where’d you get it?”

  The smile returned and Adam knelt by the cot, eager for his wife to share his enthusiasm. “In a little antique store in town; I know how much you love old things.”

  She laughed. “It’s definitely got that going for it.”

  Alan sat back, his face serious now. “I know this needs work, love, but that’s what I want – a project. And once it’s been painted, got the right drapes and stuff – you’ll see; it’ll be beautiful.” He leaned across and passed her a leaflet he’d picked up from the carpet. “See? That’s what it should look like when it’s done.”

  The cot in the picture was far from today’s image of a wooden cot with bars up the sides and a high mattress. This one looked more like a laundry basket on legs; wire frame on crossed iron legs that resembled the bottom of a laundry rack – a precursor to today’s Moses basket, sort of. A cradle, rather than a cot, and in lamentable condition. Mary smiled, feeling slightly better – a cradle was only for a little while. “It’s beautiful, love. Will it be safe, though?”

  He nodded. “Yep; by the time the baby’s big enough to sit up, she’ll have moved on to a cot. The cradle can be stored away at that point.” He looked up, then, eyes sparkling as he asked, “Where do you want it?”

  Looking round the bedroom, with its low eaves and quirky corners, Mary was at a loss for a moment. Then she saw the perfect spot. There was a recess by the window on the east side of the room that featured a cushioned window seat that she could sit on while she fed the baby, or sang her to sleep. The window itself was double glazed, secure from draughts, and caught the sunrise every morning. “Over there,” she said. “In the corner, by the window.”

  Alan grinned, and hefted the cradle over to the indicated spot, angling it so that it wasn’t too close to the window itself, yet would catch the sun’s warmth during the day. “Perfect,” he said. “Looks like it’s always been there.”

  Mary shivered as a shadow passed in front of her, obscuring the sun and letting a sudden chill into the room. The cradle looked wrong, now – cold and hard –bare as it was of any drapes or covers. The metal seemed to darken before her eyes, and there was an odour of mildew, and decay. “Put it away for now, love,” she said, and moved away. “Let’s go downstairs and have a cuppa.”

  Alan looked up, then, and frowned when he saw his wife. “You okay? You look really pale.”

  She crossed her hands over her bump, protective of her child even as it kicked playfully against her palm, and backed towards the door. “I’m fine, just a headache…” then she was gone, her footsteps thudding down the stairs as she headed for the kitchen.

  ~*~

  “Feeling better?”

  Alan’s voice broke Mary’s concentration, and she blinked as she registered his presence. She was sitting in the rocking chair by the fireplace, rocking blankly back and forth as she stared into the dormant hearth – her concentration had been absolute, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what she’d been thinking about. She nodded, and took the cup of tea he offered gratefully, cupping it in her hands, eager for warmth.

  “I am, thanks,” she said. “I can’t think what came over me.”

  “You’re bound to get queasy or achy now and again, I suppose,” he answered. “You’ve still got what, six weeks to go?”

  “About that,” she agreed. “Maybe I just need something to eat.”

  He grinned as he put a plate of toast beside her. “Thought you might say that.”

  “You know me too well,” she said, “thanks, love.” She took a piece of toast and grinned as she sat back. “This baby’s going to be the size of a whale, I’m sure. All I do is eat.”

  “It’s nice to see,” he answered. “At least you’re not being sick all the time now.”

  “True.”

  Mary cocked her head as something creaked overhead. “You know, we really ought to get those floorboards checked.” The noise came again, louder this time, as something moved across the bedroom floor.

  Alan sat quiet, listening. “Either something’s wrong with the floorboards or the cat’s so heavy she sounds like a person, now.”

  Mary choked on her toast, laughing. The laughter died when she saw Rags lying on the rug in front of the fire, looking like nothing more than a huge, furry cushion. “Definitely not Rags.”

  There came the sound of a door closing, and then the house was quiet. Both Mary and Alan sat watching the cat, listening to the usual sounds – the clock on the mantel ticking, the boiler clicking on as the temperature dropped, water rushing in the pipes – but no more creaking overhead. For a moment Mary wondered if it might be sounds from next door, but then she remembered this cottage was detached. It had been their dream home, and they’d only bought it when they started trying for a baby.

  “This is an old house,” Alan offered. “Bound to make noises; it’ll be the floorboards settling, or something like that.”

  Mary nodded. “Must be.” She smiled, and turned to the toast again, her voice a little too bright as she continued, “Must be boards relaxing in the heat or something.”

  ~*~

  Mary lay in bed that night, twisting and turning as she tried unsuccessfully to sink into a deep and blissful sleep. Alan lay next to her, snoring gently, oblivious to her restlessness. The cherry blossom tree in the garden cast shadows that walked across the walls and ceiling, spindly branches reaching for the door on the far side of the room. The wind moaned as it sought entrance to the house, failing miserably thanks to the new windows they’d put in just before finding out Mary was pregnant. A door banged and Mary flinched, jerked into full consciousness. There was no further sound, and gradually she relaxed, happy to believe Rags was on the prowl, probably after some small creature that had braved the cat flap and gained entrance to the kitchen. She heard a faint yowl, and smiled. There was nothing Rags loved more than to present them with whatever she’d chased during the night as a gift over breakfast. Hopefully this time she’d offer it to Alan, before Mary got downstairs.

  Something creaked, closer this time, and Mary froze. The creaking came again, and something moved fitfully in the darkness. Mary gazed around the room, and saw the cradle move. Shocked, she watched as it rocked, ever so slightly, in the shadows. A faint creak came again each time it moved, and Mary got out of bed, making for the window, normally draught-free; perhaps Alan hadn’t shut it properly?

  She reached the window and rattled the handle; nothing. The lo
ck was securely fastened, and there was no trace of movement in the net curtains that hung there. Looking down, Mary could see the cherry tree’s branches whipping back and forth in the wind, but she could feel nothing of the night’s fury standing by the glass.

  She tested the cradle, then. It creaked once more as she rattled the frame, the noise instantly recognisable. Perhaps a screw was loose somewhere? She resolved to get Alan to check everything carefully whilst he was absorbed in his restoration project – it had to be safe before the baby came.

  A wave of dizziness swept over her, making her sway. Her left hand moved automatically to protect the baby; her right finding its way to her back, which was starting to complain at this nocturnal wandering. She crept back into bed, chilled, and curled up against Alan’s back, resting her icy feet against the warmth of his legs. True to form, he just pulled the duvet further up, making sure she was covered even in his sleep, and she smiled as his arm came up and rested on her hip, patting it. The baby kicked again, this time connecting with his back, and he huffed half-heartedly before settling back down. Sleep hurtled towards her, and she realised as she fell helplessly into its grip that somewhere a baby was crying.

  ~*~

  The next few days were filled with the sound of Alan’s off-key humming as he first sanded, then painted the cradle a beautiful shade of very pale pink, and – at her insistence – carefully checked all the screws and fastenings he could see. Humming was a habit of his when happy, and Mary liked to hear it. He insisted the cradle was safe, nothing was loose now (if anything ever had been), but she still heard creaking in the night and pictured the cradle rocking – even though she couldn’t actually see it doing so. And sometimes there was a whining noise (it must be the cradle, she reasoned, it couldn’t be anything else), making a sound eerily reminiscent of a fussing infant. “It must be the wind,” he said, and she could hear the patience leeching out of his voice a little more every time he had to say it. Finally she gave in, and didn’t mention the creaking any more – but night after night, there it was, taunting her. She couldn’t sleep, and when she did manage to doze, her dreams were filled with the sound of a baby crying, and someone – a woman – wailing in the night.

  Tuesday morning, and Mary woke to find Alan already dressed, ready to put a third and final coat of paint on the cradle. Fabric swatches were laid out on the dressing table for her to look at, and the window was open, letting in a chill wind.

  “Morning, sleepy,” he said, smiling at her. His smile faded as he looked at her, and she spoke more sharply than she’d intended.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “At least…”

  “What, Alan?” She sat up and rubbed her eyes, shivering as the draught reached her sweat-soaked skin.

  “Another bad night?”

  She groaned. “Is there any other kind, these days?” Heaving herself upright to rest her back against the pillows, she blinked and focussed on her husband’s worried face. “Do I look that bad?”

  “You don’t look good, love, I have to say. You’re feeling okay, aren’t you? Apart from the sleep thing, I mean.”

  Mary nodded. “I’m just tired, that’s all. I keep hearing that thing creaking at night –”

  “It’s not the –”

  “I know you say it’s not the cradle, but what the hell is it, otherwise?” She’d snapped before she could stop herself, and stopped before she could say something else, something hurtful.

  Alan’s face fell as he replied. “I don’’t know. I’ve checked the cradle, the floorboards… nothing seems to creak. Maybe you’re just dreaming it?”

  “Maybe I am,” she sighed. “I know I’m dreaming a baby crying, but either way the result’s the same. I’m shattered!”

  “You stay there,” Alan answered. “I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”

  Mary spied the cradle behind her husband, and told herself it wasn’t a rocking motion spied from the corner of her eye that had attracted her attention. The cradle was still now, no sign of having moved. But she could have sworn… She smiled brightly at Alan, to show him just how okay she was, and threw the covers back. “No, I’ll come down. I’d rather eat at the table, with you.”

  Bemused, Alan could only watch as she hurried past him and into the bathroom. The door clicked shut and he heard the lock turn. And his wife started to cry. Standing by the bathroom door, he leant against the wood, put his hand to the door and listened as she tried to stifle her sobs. Silently, he willed his wife to let him in, to talk about what was causing all this. Nothing, just the sound of Mary’s hitching sobs as she tried to get herself under control. Sighing, he gave up and went down to the kitchen to make them some breakfast. He could at least make sure she ate properly.

  When Mary ventured into the kitchen her face glowed pink, scrubbed clean to hide her tears. She couldn’t hide her eyes, though; their watery stare showed him just how upset she was, and he tried once more to solve this.

  “You’ve been crying,” he said.

  Mary shook her head. “Not really. Bit weepy this morning, that’s all.”

  “Why, love?”

  “Just tired.” She peered at him over her cup, her expression vague. “Probably hormones.”

  Ordinarily, the mention of hormones would be enough for him to leave the subject well alone. It wasn’t unusual for her to get weepy at times, and pregnancy had certainly played its part in that. On the other hand…

  “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

  Now she concentrated on the table cloth, tracing its pattern with a slightly shaky hand. She noticed its weakness and placed her hands on her lap, where the fingers proceeded to work at each other, intertwining and unlocking ceaselessly. “What else could it be?” she asked.

  “The cradle, maybe?”

  She flinched, and shook her head. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’ve seen the way you look at the cradle, love,” he said gently. “I know you don’t like it. I guess I hoped that would change when I’d finished.”

  She sighed. “It’s not the cradle, as such,” she said. “But I hear the thing creaking, night after night, and I know you say it’s not the cradle but sometimes –”

  “Sometimes what?”

  “Sometimes I see the cradle rocking.”

  Alan stared at her, shocked. “That’s impossible.”

  “I know,” she wailed, “but it does!” She was crying hard now, and he didn’t know what to do. She hiccupped as she went on, “and… and… and that baby keeps crying! It’s driving me nuts, Alan!”

  “That’s… crazy, love,” he whispered.

  “I know it is. I know how it sounds.” She wiped her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “And yet it’s true.” She attempted a smile, then, and her next words broke Alan’s heart. “Maybe I am crazy.”

  “No, love,” he said, and went to her. He leant down and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, held her tight. “You were right the first time, I think. Hormones. You’re just worried about the baby, and it’s coming out in dreams.”

  She snuffled against his chest. “You think so?”

  “Of course,” he said, willing himself to believe it. “We’ll ask the doc tomorrow, when we go for your check up, okay? I’m sure everything’s fine.”

  Mary pulled herself out of his grasp, and smiled up at him. “Hope so.” She sniffed, and then grinned. “Can I smell bacon?”

  Alan laughed. “You and your stomach. I cooked a full English; hang on.” He busied himself with the business of sorting out the meal, and tried to look happy. Mary needed him to be strong. He could do that, if it meant she relaxed. Her face lit up as he brought her meal across, and he sat back and watched her eat, aware that this woman was his world. And he wouldn’t, couldn’t, let anything happen to her.

  ~*~

  Night time once more. Mary tossed and turned, and Alan watched – intent, this time, on making sure she wasn’t disturbed. The cradle was silent, unmoving, and he’d pulled the
curtains tight shut against any possible draught. The house sat inert – joining him in his vigil.

  Midnight. The floor creaked, and Alan turned towards the noise’s source – a narrow wedge of light gleamed under the door. Was someone in the hall? Noiselessly, he rose and crept towards the light, freezing as it was cut by two black bands. Someone was standing on the other side; he could hear the rasp of their breath in the dark. The bands shifted to the left, paused, and then moved back. Alan shivered, aware the temperature had plummeted – his stomach fluttering frantically as he fought to regain control of his will. His body locked itself in position just beside the door, and refused to let him try to turn the door handle. The floor creaked once more, and Alan saw the handle turn slightly. He couldn’t move. Mary moaned and stirred – and the light went out, leaving everything in shadow. For long seconds he watched, and waited, but whatever had been there had been banished by his wife’s movements. They were safe once more. Distantly, he heard a baby whimper, and a woman’s voice shushed the child as even that distant noise faded away.

  Then silence.

  “Alan?”

  He cried out at the sound of Mary’s voice, and slumped against the door as he tried to catch his breath. “Jesus, you frightened the life out of me!”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  There was panic in her voice, and Alan switched the light on, trying to smile but terrified that his expression must be nearer to a grimace. Mary was staring, owl-eyed, at him; her face so pale. “It’s all right, love. I’m sorry.” He crossed over to her, sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought I heard something, that’s all.”