Hauntings Page 3

“And did you?”

  “No,” he lied. “Well, maybe the cat. I guess Rags needs to go on a diet after all.”

  She didn’t smile, and he knew he wasn’t fooling her for a moment. He got up and turned his bedside lamp on, then turned out the overhead light and got into bed. “It’s okay, love, really. Go to sleep.”

  She wormed her way under his arm, and soon fell asleep there. Alan lay wide-eyed in the dark, waiting for what might come next. He heard the usual sounds of a house relaxing, but nothing more. Time passed, and the light in the room went through gradations of shadow as the sun rose and tried to peek through the curtains. Still he lay, unmoving, unwilling to disturb his wife as she rested – he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming. Something wanted to announce itself, and their lives would never be the same.

  ~*~

  The next few weeks were quiet, for the most part, and Mary almost began to believe that they’d imagined it all. The birth of their daughter wasn’t far away now, and life seemed to consist of hospital visits, shopping trips for last-minute ‘essentials’ such as armloads of nappies, babygros, creams… you name it, they bought it, eager to be fully prepared. In between those trips and spring-cleaning the house to make sure everything was done ahead of time, there hadn’t been much time for anything else to intrude. Now, all was finished, and her thoughts began to turn to what it would be like to greet her child. As they pulled into the hospital car park for a final scan, Mary felt the baby shift, not so much kicking as turning around entirely, forcing her to stretch out in the car seat, something that wasn’t exactly easy.

  “You okay?’ Alan asked, alarmed.

  “Yeah,” she answered, sighing. “She’s just having a kick around in there, I think.” The baby shifted again, and she winced. “Now I need to pee.”

  Alan grinned, and pulled into a parking space. “Hang on, then. Won’t be a minute.”

  He was true to his word, and five minutes later she let herself into the Ladies and locked herself in a cubicle. Pain lanced through her abdomen, making her cry out – then the baby lurched, and Mary passed out. When she came to, she was leaning against the cubicle wall, and her head throbbed. She put her hand to her forehead and it came away bloody. Had she fainted? Gingerly, she stood and looked into the bowl, fearful of what she might see. There was nothing there, and the pain had abated; perhaps all might yet be okay. She heard a murmur of voices outside, and realised Alan was probably out there, worried. How long had she been out? She tidied herself up, washed her hands, and wadded some tissues against the cut on her head. Then she let herself out into the corridor, where Alan stood, concern etched on his face.

  “Mary!” He came to her, and looped an arm around her waist, coaxed her hand away from her forehead. “What happened?”

  “I fainted, I think,” she whispered. “I feel a bit sick.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s sit down for a minute.” He led her to a chair, and busied himself cleaning the cut on her forehead, then got her a cup of water from the cooler in the corridor. She drank it, then nodded, a little bit of colour returning.

  “Thanks, I’m okay now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded again. “I’m fine. I just got woozy for a sec, that’s all, and the next thing I knew I was waking up.”

  “Well, at least we’re in the right place,” he said. “Come on, let’s get this scan done, and let them know what happened.”

  ~*~

  The scan went without incident, and Mary found herself watching the movements of her baby in wonderment, Alan by her side. The child kicked and turned, and Mary saw her daughter was sucking her thumb. It still didn’t seem real, yet within a couple of weeks she’d be here, and they’d be a proper family. Things would never be the same.

  The baby turned towards the probe again, and Mary froze as she opened her eyes, seeming to look straight at her. “Can she do that?” Mary asked.

  “Do what?” the nurse asked, her attention on whatever it was the scan was telling her.

  “Can she open her eyes?”

  The nurse looked at the scan more closely, then, her brow furrowed. “I don’t think so, dear. Perhaps she was just fretting, eh?”

  Mary watched as the baby stirred, then went back to the normal foetal position. Dimly, she could hear a baby crying again, and wondered how close they were to the maternity ward here. “Is everything okay with her?” she asked.

  The nurse hummed and ha-ed for a few moments as she went over the results, then nodded. “Looks good to me.” She looked at Mary then and smiled. “You’ll be able to see for yourself soon.” She gestured to Mary’s clothes and said, “You can get dressed now, you’re all done. The doctor will have these in time for your next clinic appointment.”

  Mary busied herself getting dressed, while Alan looked at the picture the nurse had given them of their baby. He had a beatific smile on his face, and Mary felt a pang at her misgivings. She was letting her imagination run away with her; the baby was fine. And it was all theirs.

  ~*~

  Mary’s due date was close now; the baby was only days away. She woke, restless, on the Monday; and lay quiet for a while so that Alan could sleep. After a few minutes she couldn’t lie still anymore and got up quietly, careful not to disturb her husband. She wandered into the hall and prowled through the upstairs of the house. Nothing stirred. The cat lay comatose on the hall carpet, purring gently as it slept.

  The wind sighed in the eaves, and Mary paused. Something rustled, and she looked behind her. Rags had sprung to her feet and was crouched, fur bristling, hissing at some unseen foe. There was nothing there. The hall was empty, and the only sound was the sighing of the wind, and the distant rumble of Alan’s snoring.

  The wind grew louder, and Mary heard the creaking start in the bedroom. She whimpered, and told herself it was a draught – the double glazing was faulty, that was all. They’d have to call the builder back and get him to fix it. Alan shifted in his sleep, and moaned, and Mary took an involuntary step forward. She couldn’t leave him alone in there. Squeaaaaak… squeeeeak… the sound was louder now, more insistent. Mary became aware of a shushing sound, and stopped – she didn’t want to go into that room. She didn’t want to even be in the house, let alone in the bedroom, but Alan was in there, alone, and she couldn’t desert him.

  The bedroom door was ajar; had she left it like that? She couldn’t remember. She pushed it further open, and stepped inside.

  The bedroom was in shadow, save for a shaft of dim light that fell on the cradle from the window. Mary moaned as she saw that the window was different now… the modern glazing was gone, replaced by an old-fashioned sash window; paint peeling and rust patches clustered around the lock. The wind howled through a crack in the glass, and the cradle rocked faster.

  Mary’s feet moved without conscious instruction, and as she edged closer she saw a dark shadow squirming in the depths of the cradle. The crying was louder now, and Mary saw a darker shadow open in the midst of where the phantom infant’s face must surely be. This was the source of the crying; the cradle bore some remnant of a child that had expired in its midst, the sadness palpable around it now, a cloud of misery that reached out to devour everything around it.

  A shadow moved past Mary, and she flinched. She watched as it moved towards the cradle, spectral arms reaching out to pick up the dead child and clutch it to its phantom bosom. Mary saw skeletal fingers clutching at non-existent tresses as the baby wailed and wailed, desperate for comfort that would never come.

  She screamed as she felt the first pains, and simultaneously saw the baby’s head turn towards her, arms reaching for her, her body responding even as madness closed in.

  ~*~

  Alan woke, then, and found his wife unconscious on the floor. He leapt from the bed, and struggled to lift her, but finally he got her on the bed. Her breathing was shallow, her expression pallid, and he groaned as he saw the dark stain spreading on the sheets. “Oh Jesus, love,” he crie
d. “You’re bleeding. Oh God.” He went to pick up the phone, but her hand gripped his wrist, and he saw her eyes flutter open briefly.

  “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded. “Please.” Her eyes closed again, and she screamed as another spasm ripped through her.

  Alan quickly dialled the emergency services, and called for an ambulance. Details given, he slammed the phone down as she rallied once more, and went to his wife.

  “Lean on me, love,” he said as he sat beside her on the bed. “Help’s coming. Just hold on.”

  Mary smiled, then; her face so sad as she stroked his face. “She’s coming, Alan. Don’t let it get her.”

  Mystified, Alan nodded, and held Mary’s hands as she breathed through another contraction. He heard a cry, cut off suddenly, and saw his daughter lying on the sheets even as she breathed her last.

  Mary sobbed, and reached out to her baby, then screamed and started batting at the bed. “Get away! Get away from her!”

  Alan heard the distant whoop of the ambulance’s siren, signifying it had found the lane to their cottage. He ran downstairs and unlocked the front door, leaving it ajar for them – they’d be with him in moments. Then he ran back up the stairs to his wife.

  ~*~

  When he opened the door, he stopped in his tracks; unable to process what his eyes insisted he was seeing. Mary was crying, stroking their daughter’s lifeless body – and a shadow was reaching out, ushering what looked like a phantom infant towards her still form. He screamed as the shadow-child reached his daughter, and ran forward. The shadow drew back, clutching the long-dead infant to its chest, and vaguely he was aware of Mary shouting “The cradle! Get rid of the cradle!” He rushed over and lifted the cradle, grimacing as it fought in his grip, the spirit of whatever poor soul had lost her baby in the cradle trying to wrest it from him, to be returned to its place by the window. He wrenched it free, and – opening the window as wide as he could – hurled the cradle out into the night. There was a flash as it hit the ground, and he saw, just for a moment, a young woman clad only in a white shift, holding a screaming infant out to him, pleading for her child. “Save her,” she sobbed. “Save my baby!”

  The ambulance reached them then, the blue light’s strobe casting the nightmarish scene in an impossible light. It drove over the cradle – the spirit screamed and was torn to shreds, fingers of mist dissipating in the wind even as the sound was fading, fading. Then the night was still, apart from the normal sounds of the wind, and of the ambulance parking and its crew getting out and coming to the door.

  ~*~

  The child on the bed mewed and moved, mouth open in a maw of distress as its little arms and legs waved around. The ambulance crew took one look and, while one went to Mary and started to examine her, the other wrapped the infant in a blanket and gave it the once over. Satisfied it was a healthy birth, he offered the child to its father, who was crying in the hall.

  “This one’s a fighter,” he said, smiling. “She wants her mother.” He looked back into the bedroom and then held the child tighter. “You can give her to her in a minute.”

  Alan smiled. “Mary’s okay?”

  “She’s fine, sir. A bit shocked, hysterical, really; but then she’s been through a lot.” The man smiled at him, then, his expression kindly. “They’ll both feel better when Mum can give baby a cuddle.”

  Alan nodded, and took his daughter from the medic’s arms. He looked down at her face, pink and distressed, and took the waving fist in his own. The baby quieted, and he smiled at her as she watched him, curious now rather than afraid. “Come on, little one,” he whispered. “Let’s go and see Mummy.”

  On the Grey Road

  Alison Littlewood

  The road was grey and empty and headed straight across the moor, and to Paul it came as a relief. The route that wound upward towards this place had seemed to be deliberately holding him back; and he wasn’t a tourist, wasn’t here for the view. Now the ground spread away on all sides, rust-coloured with bracken, divided by silver gashes of water and edged by the Highland peaks beyond. There was nothing else to be seen, no houses, no people, only the road cutting through it all, taking him onward to the place his mother had died.

  I’ll come and see you, he’d said, after the divorce. But the divorce was finalised a year ago, his father moving south, his mother north, as if repelled like magnets with similar poles, and Paul still hadn’t got round to making the trip. The heart attack had been sudden, the funeral held where his grandparents lived, in Wiltshire. There was nothing here he wanted: only a property that was left to him, a house he had never seen – and a raging hollow inside, one formed as much from anger as sorrow. She had only been forty-three. She was looking forward to starting again.

  After a time the road began to fall, dropping steeply, edging around a gorge where white water poured from the mountains. Ahead and below, blue water shone; it was Loch Leven, and Paul knew his journey was almost done.

  ~*~

  The house was small and cramped and it was odd to see his mother’s things there. It was in a row of other small houses, all made of grey stone, thatched in what looked like blackened heather. Water hung in the air, too listless to fall as rain, and it was cold.

  Inside the house wasn’t any warmer. Paul stood in the lounge and spun in a circle, taking in the small television, the nick-nacks, the photographs on a shelf. He went to pick one up, saw a picture of himself as a young boy, his mother smiling next to him. His dad was nowhere to be seen.

  He looked into the kitchen, then a small room that had been turned into a study, papers strewn across the desk. The last room was his mother’s bedroom and Paul didn’t go in, just stood in the doorway. The bed wasn’t made and it looked as if she could have stepped out of it five minutes ago, got up and stretched, could have been pottering around elsewhere in the house. That made Paul’s back prickle. He shook the feeling off; he was being stupid. It was like when he was a young boy, and a friend had switched off the light and told Paul not to think of ghosts; it just wasn’t possible. He closed the door to his mother’s room and went to find a radio or something else with which to fill the house with noise.

  ~*~

  Paul drew the curtains against the gathering dark and settled into the most comfortable chair in the room, a mug of coffee steaming on the table next to him. He realised he’d forgotten to bring a book and instead selected one from the shelf: A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. He’d never liked Dickens, not really, though his mother had encouraged him to persevere; odd that she only seemed to have succeeded now she was gone.

  There was a sound – a soft tap at the door – and Paul started. After a moment, he rose to answer. When he reached the hall he could see that the front door was already partway open and a short woman stood in the gap, her fine white hair blowing like candyfloss around her scalp. She didn’t smile but she pushed something towards him, and he caught its scent: apple pie.

  “I thought ye might need it, hen,” she said. “I didnae know ye’d arrived a’ready.”

  Paul blinked, wondered if he was supposed to have been expecting her. He glanced at the open door.

  “Ah, lad, we’re friendly round these parts. We don’t lock our doors. Are ye no goin’ ter offer a neighbour a cup o’ tea?”

  He apologised, stepped back and invited her inside.

  The pie was still warm from the oven, generous and deep. They ate slices of it, the neighbour – Mrs Lennox – on the sofa, Paul on his mother’s chair.

  “I was sorry about your mother,” she said. “She was nice. Friendly. A nice woman.”

  Paul found himself unable to answer. He nodded, tried to swallow pastry that was clogging his throat.

  “Perhaps she found what she wanted now though, eh?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well, you know. The way she was chasin’ here and chasin’ there – wanting to know about all the ghosties an’ goblins.” said Mrs Lennox. “Enough to turn your hair white.” She tossed her head and smi
led.

  “She was what?” Paul frowned. His mother hadn’t been like that, had never shown a second’s interest in such things. He tried to recall if she’d ever mentioned anything on the telephone, but he couldn’t remember her even reading a scary novel, unless he counted A Christmas Carol.

  “Ay, sweet, she went all o’er the place after it, she did. Especially around this time o’ day.”

  “After it?”

  “Well aye, the greyman, o’ course.” She said greyman as if it was all one word, raised her eyebrows as if thinking him a fool. For a moment, Paul wondered if he was; or if maybe she had wandered into the wrong house.

  She let out a sharp laugh. “Now you’re thinking I’m losing my marbles, are ye not? I see it.” She set down her plate, leaned forward, tapped her finger to the side of her nose. “I’m not, laddie. I know what your mother said, not that it matters now, bless her soul. But she went up in the hills after it, she did. Supposed to walk the tops, they are, terrifying anyone who goes there.” She paused. “She thought it were himsel’ that was taking the others.”

  “Others?”

  “Of course: the others.” She looked suddenly old. “The others. The ones who died like she did.”

  Paul stared at her, shook his head. Where had she got such strange ideas? But then, she’d probably done the same thing to his mother, come round here spinning wild tales, and his mother would have been too polite to laugh at her. Now Mrs Lennox didn’t look at him, just took small sips of her tea, staring into the fireplace. He wondered what she was seeing; certainly not the same thing he did.

  As soon as he could he showed her out, muttering pleasantries, though he was still thinking about what she’d told him. No: if his mother had been chasing some ghost, it was because she’d become interested in the area, its colour, its stories; nothing more. She simply hadn’t been that credulous.