Blackened (3 page)

Footsteps on the stairs. Light, quick, Eddie footsteps. No! Pain flares in my chest; I must protect Eddie.

Gripping the poker, I swivel on my knees and face...nothing. There is no dark, evil figure only the jaundiced walls of the living room.

Eddie runs in holding his puzzle.

“Can we play? Please? Just for a little while before my lessons?”

He glances at the poker in my hand. My knuckles are white.

I was so sure there was something behind me. I could feel it. A shiver trickles down my spinal cord and my arms goose.

Not wanting to frighten Eddie, I say we can have a go at his puzzle and gently replace the poker in its brass bucket.

Together we run upstairs and into his bedroom. We never play downstairs just in case Father happens upon us.

C
HAPTER 3
T
HE
G
IRL IN THE
G
ARDEN

Dear Mama,

Your wonderful letter has stilled my nerves a little.

As instructed, I have watched Eddie over the last few days and I am pleased to report that he has been his normal, happy self. He and Jack played chase in the back garden this morning and it was lovely to see his little face light up. I became so involved in watching their game that I almost thought I could see Jack's carrot-orange hair! At one point, I could have sworn I heard two little boy voices giggling, not just one. The scene warmed me and my lips wear a slight smile as I write these words.

Father keeps to his study. Indeed, I have not glimpsed him for days. Sometimes, on rare occasions when his door is ajar, I hear his quill scribbling away with a ferocious speed that is almost frightening. This morning I dared, for the very first time, to creep up to his door and lean my ear upon the oak. Forever more I shall wish that I had not, because the sound I heard was not a scribbling quill but the wretched curses of a man possessed.

I turned and fled at once. Your warning resounded in my head and I heeded it. However, I now feel dragged down by guilt. It weighs heavy on my shoulders and I cannot shake the feeling that ignoring Father is wrong. Mama, are you certain that Father is irredeemable? Perhaps if I showed compassion and attempted to understand him he would gradually change back into the man he once was...After all, can a man so cursed be truly dangerous?

When I go to bed this night I am prepared for the disturbing sound of his anguished suffering to haunt me. Never have I heard such a sound.

As always, I look to you for guidance Mama. Please do not be angry with me for questioning your previous warning. I hope you can understand my predicament.

Your loving daughter,

Lisbeth

*

Eddie is sleeping soundly. I creep down the stairs, past Father's locked study and out into the back garden.

The night is dead. The moon is a faceless coin. A white owl hoots and two bats flutter frantically. My breath mists but I am not cold. For once I have the presence of mind to wear a blanket - Mama's old blanket. Tears threaten as I inhale her inimitable smell. Vanilla sweetness. Citrus. Warm musk. My entire body aches, wrapped with longing; longing for my previous life, longing for the family I once had.

With heavy heart, I tentatively step further into the dark garden.

The grass is cold and dewy. I scrunch up the blades between my toes. The bare bones of the trees arc against the blackened sky, fighting for survival in the biting cold.

I feel brave for leaving the cottage and entering the garden at the dead of night, but as I take three small steps my chest coils and anxiety inflates in my chest like a blood-soaked sponge. I attempt another step, but my right foot will not co-operate. It is paralysed. It will not move. Frowning, I attempt to force it forward but to no avail. Trapped by my own cowardice I glance around, fearful of the shadows and what lies beyond. I am also angry, angry at myself for failing such a trivial task.

I look into the gloom sourly contemplating my inability to control my emotions, and I am struck by the idea that I am not alone. The bats are gone and the owl is silent. But I am not alone. I can feel it. Something is in the garden with me. Something or someone.

Unexpectedly, hot, immobilising fear does not come, for this unannounced presence emanates not hatred but something very different. Something possibly good.

A cool breeze lifts the black tendrils of my hair, and I catch a figure out of the corner of my eye. I turn, gasp.

A woman of similar age to my own stands only two yards away. Her back faces me and she is naked. In the blackness of night, her alabaster skin is pure, opalescent. Her slim arms hang motionless by her sides. Her hair is as long and inky as my own, but glossy as a panther's pelt. She must be so cold yet she stands perfectly still; not an inch of her body shivers. My own toes are numb as is my nose and the tips of my ears.

“Hello?” I say quietly.

Without turning, she says, “Hello Lisbeth!”

Her voice plays a merry tune.

I hesitate, shocked and a little nervous, “How do you know my name?”

Instead of answering she laughs a fairy-light, tinkling sound. It is the sound of daisies in Spring.

I wonder how long it has been since I last laughed.

I step towards her, “Are you not cold?”

“Ha ha! I do not feel the cold any longer. I do not let it touch me!” she says.

Her tone is so light, so abandoned of cares, and though I cannot see her face, I can tell she is smiling.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Bethan. Similar to yours!”

She laughs again and I wish I could join in.

“Why are you here?”

Before she answers, I hear Eddie scream. Alarm takes over all else.

“Oh what a shame,” she says, “you had better go.”

I lift my skirts preparing to take flight, but hesitate, “Will you come again?”

She laughs, “Yes! Of course I will.”

“Good,” I say before rushing back to the cottage.

*

I dash into Eddie's bedroom. For a moment I cannot distinguish his small body in the bed, but as my eyes adjust to the darkness I see his tousled hair and white face. Stumbling forward I take his face in my hands.

“Are you okay my darling?” I whisper urgently.

But he lies motionless; a mere statue, a sleeping prince. His only answer is a heavy sigh.

I feel his forehead. It is slick with perspiration. He frowns, but slumbers deeply. His little chest rises and falls draggingly. The nightmare has passed.

I leave the room and gingerly pull the door to.

Suddenly exhausted, crossing the landing and flopping onto the bed takes an immense effort.

Too tired to undress, I sleep.

*

Dear Diary,

A scream! Piercing and desperate. Wretched, guttural. A scream so chilling it lingers in my ear like the sight of a hanged man in the mind’s eye.

I tried to move, I really did, but my legs resisted. Deep down I think I knew that any help on my part would be futile, and it was this that locked me in place. So I remained sitting at my desk, hands wringing, leg twitching, mind racing.

And now I am aggravated. Aggravated by myself and by her. Were it not for her I could sleep peacefully at night, undisturbed by hideous noises! Were it not for my weak mind, perhaps I could resolve things little by little, once and for all!

My face is reddening. The veins in my neck are throbbing. I am queasy and the head pains are stabbing, brutalising. The temptation to go up to Lisbeth’s room, wrap my hands about her tender white throat, and squeeze, squeeze until she is silent, until her misery is unearthed and sent to the heavens leaving me at last with some kind of peace, is strong, palpable. I feel a stirring deep within; a desire so appalling I cannot name it.

I must go.

C.C

*

I am trembling with anticipation as I leave a tired little boy to his well-earned afternoon nap and enter the garden. There is only one thing on my mind: the girl in the garden. The girl with the tinkling laugh. Bethan.

The slated sky weeps and a glacial wind whips my hair into disarray, but I care not because she is here. She is true to her word. Today she wears a black hooded cloak over a cream dress. She stands with her back to me again, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.

“You came,” I say.

She laughs, “Of course I came! I want us to be friends.”

“You do?”

I find myself shocked and a little embarrassed. Who would want to be my friend? I am dull and lifeless. I live a sheltered, odd existence. In fact, I barely exist at all.

“I most certainly do,” she returns, “but I need to know that I can trust you first.”

I hesitate, picking my words carefully.

“I can keep a secret, if that is what you mean. Also, I never venture out of the cottage so I never speak to anyone other than my little brother Eddie.”

She digests my response, lifts her hand to her face and rests it upon her cheek.

“Alright then!” she exclaims and whirls around.

Her black hood falls back exposing her whole face.

I cannot prevent a sharp intake of breath. Her body is a thing of beauty but sadly, her face is not. Her face is a nightmare made real; cruelly distorted, it speaks of destruction, terror and violence.

Above a savagely aquiline nose her flat grey eyes lie askew like those of an ill-maltreated marionette. Her cheeks, veined with violet and frightfully mottled, haunt one with their gruesomeness. And her eyebrows – perhaps the most sorrowful part of all - are eternally set into frowning sadness.

I open my mouth to express my sorrow for her plight but before I can speak her fingers are upon my lips.

“No pity, no words of compassion. I have lived with this face for a long time and it is a part of me.”

Her voice is smiling, but her lips are twisted. She is hideous but she is also beautiful, and I find myself filling with admiration.

“You are amazing,” I whisper.

“Thanking you kindly!” she says, curtseying daintily in front of me before dancing down the garden.

I follow, less afraid to venture further with such a lively, strong spirit beside me.

I can no longer contain my curiosity.

“Bethan. Where do you live?”          

She pauses and looks at me. Her aura suddenly darkens.

“I reside deep in the woods over in that direction,” she gestures to the right with a graceful sweep of her arm.

“May I ask who you live with?”

For some reason I feel this may be sensitive ground. Bethan laughs, but it is not natural-sounding.

“Let us not talk of unhappy things now. Let us enjoy the moment and live life to its fullest.”

“Of course,” I say.

Immediately the tension retreats and she grabs hold of my hand.

“Come, Lisbeth! There is so much to explore in this garden and I know you have not searched it yet.”

“I cannot be long,” I say, “soon I will need to wake Eddie from his nap.”

Bethan nods, “So we shall make the most of the next few moments!”

She drags me down the garden through the wet grass, pulling me faster and faster until our lungs are exploding and we are bursting with laughter.

I cannot believe how light I feel. My face feels funny and I realise that the muscles that are used to laugh are unacquainted to moving.

The realisation sobers me up. A frigid wind slaps my cheek. I wrap Mama's blanket more tightly around myself.

“I need to go and wake Eddie.”

“Worry not Lisbeth. We will see one another when darkness comes.”

We bid farewell and I trudge back up to the cottage.

*

Dear Lisbeth,

I cannot lie to you. Your queries concerning your Father cause me great concern.

I have told you what I know: your Father is unwell. Charles' mind is a minefield. You can never be too careful around him and you most certainly cannot trust him. He is more often swayed by the devil on his shoulder than by the angel.

Often, his mind would play tricks on him, tricks persuading him that you, Eddie and I were dangerous. That, perhaps, is why he was crying. He was probably afraid. One of his delusions probably took hold and made him concerned for his own safety.

Indeed, though I loved him once, your Father has always been tinged with selfishness. He will always put himself first. This is what concerns me most; were he to get the idea that you were out to injure him...well, who knows what he would do to protect himself?

As I said, his mind is a minefield, with each mine presenting a slightly different danger. 

Please heed this warning Lisbeth. I care only for your safe passage through this difficult life.

Lovingly,

Mama

*

Back in the cottage I pause outside Father's study. His quill scratches furiously. I move away and the floorboard creaks loudly. The scratching quill ceases. Silence.

I freeze, my breathing turning shallow and fast.

The scrape of a chair. He is getting up! Moving towards the door, towards me.

I try to step away but my feet will not respond. I am rooted to the spot by thorns of fear. Rooted to the floorboard directly outside Father’s study. Driven down, helpless.

Unable to flee, I wait with thundering heart for him to appear, but he does not. He stays on the other side in his room, his breathing slow and rattling. Serpent-like, he stands on the other side of the door, his body inches from mine separated only by a slice of wood, his stale breath flowing out of the small gap between the door and its frame. The door between us is my only protection.