The Sound of a Scream (6 page)

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Authors: John Manning

BOOK: The Sound of a Scream
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She was about to forget seeing him this night and head back to her own room, when suddenly Ben’s advice came back into head. She shouldn’t barge into the boy’s room, but she felt she ought to confront the situation right then and there. She was his governess after all; Mr. Witherspoon’s letter to Mother Angela had said she would have charge over both the boy’s studies and his domestic chores. And tonight he’d stated clearly that she was to be the authority in his life. She figured she’d start now.
She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned.
Suddenly a cold shiver went down her back.
That awful clown might be standing behind that door.
No, she told herself, that was one of Christopher’s elaborate pranks. And she would ask him about it, right now.
She opened the door.
As she had suspected, the eight-year-old was lying on his bed, earbuds tucked snugly in his ear, as he tapped, tapped, tapped on an iPad. He looked up at her in sudden surprise—a look of stunned horror—big round brown eyes staring out from white sockets in the shadows of his room.
“Christopher, I wanted to come in and introduce myself,” Daphne said, loudly.
The boy, eyes still wide, removed his earbuds.
“I’m Daphne. I’m your new governess.”
“And that’s the last time you’ll ever just walk into my room without knocking,” he said, furious.
“Oh, but I have knocked. You just couldn’t hear me.”
He moved forward on the bed and Daphne got a better look at him. He was a fat little kid, with a mass of brown curls and freckled, pudgy cheeks.
“Doesn’t matter,” he spit. “If I don’t answer the door, then I want to be left alone.”
“Nope,” Daphne replied. “That’s not how it’s going to work. If you want to be left alone, I’ll respect that. But you’ve got to tell me so when I knock.”
“But if I’m listening to my music I won’t be able to hear you.”
“Then listen to it at a slightly lower volume.”
Daphne stood at the end of his bed, facing him. She was pleased with herself that she didn’t tremble or hesitate. The boy saw that she was serious. He groaned.
She figured she’d won the first battle of wills. But she suspected there many more to come.
“We can get more acquainted in the morning, but I wanted to come in tonight and at least say hello.” She smiled as her eyes narrowed at him. “Since, after all, when you called to me earlier this evening we never actually got a chance to meet.”
He made a face at her. “I never called to you.”
“Come on, Christopher. I heard you. Your door was ajar, you heard me walk by in the corridor, you called to me, I came in here... .”
“I was out at the stables.”
“Then who was calling my name from your room?”
A crooked smile suddenly made its way across the boy’s chubby face like an eel swimming through water. “Maybe it was the ghost,” he suggested.
Daphne smirked. “You’ll have to think up a better excuse than that.”
Christopher lay back on his bed, seeming to enjoy the conversation now. “No, it’s not an excuse. You mean no one’s told you about the ghost that haunts Witherswood?”
“No, but I expect you’re about to.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t want to scare you on your first night here!”
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
“But there really is a ghost. I’ve seen it many times. And I know who it is, too.”
Daphne sighed. “Who is it, Christopher?”
“My grandfather.”
Daphne didn’t reply right away. After what she’d just learned about the boy’s grandfather, Pete Witherspoon Senior, she felt a little unnerved taking the conversation in that direction.
“I think you’re a very imaginative, clever boy. Too clever for your own good.” She turned to leave. “So long as we understand each other, I’ll say good night for now and you can go back to—”
“I think I’ve scared you after all.”
Daphne turned back to look at him. Had he seen her faint earlier? Had he been hiding in the room when she opened that closet door and saw what she thought she saw? Had he had a good laugh at her expense, his prank having succeeded beyond all his expectations?
But how could that have been a prank?
That clown was real.
And far too tall to be a little boy dressed up.
“No,” Daphne said, but her words no longer had the authority of a few minutes earlier. “You haven’t scared me, Christopher.”
“Did anyone tell you that my grandfather was a serial killer? He killed seventeen people, mostly little kids. One of the adults he killed was his own son.”
“This is not something I wish to speak about,” Daphne told him.
The boy laughed. “My father thinks I know nothing about it. But there are ways of getting onto the Internet even when he thinks he’s proofed the house from any wireless intrusion. I’ve read all about Grandpa. Fascinating guy.”
“Christopher, that’s enough.”
“Do you know how he’d kill the kids? He’d cut them up into little pieces and feed them to his dogs. The police dug up more bones on our estate than you can find in most cemeteries. I’m sure there are still more out there if we just went out and looked.”
“Okay, from here on in, ground rule,” Daphne said loudly, trying to regain the upper hand. “We will not talk about this—ever! Your father does not wish it brought up.”
“But there’s one more detail you’re going to love, Daphne. Really!”
“Good night,” she said firmly and walked briskly toward the door.
“Do you know how good old Grandpa would get the kids to come to him?” Christopher was asking.
Daphne’s hand was on the doorknob. She didn’t want to know the answer. She wanted out of that room more than anything before that hateful little boy could speak another word.
“They all came to him,” Christopher said. “All sorts of kids just flocked to see Grandpa. Boys and girls, black and white, rich and poor. From all around they came just to see him. So he had quite the selection from which to choose the best dog food.”
Daphne was moving through the door, but Christopher went on speaking, shouting now so she’d be sure to hear him.
“And do you know why the kids came to him, Daphne? Do you know why?”
She was almost out into the corridor.
But she wasn’t quite fast enough.
“Because, Daphne,” Christopher said, exultant, “he was dressed like a clown!”
FIVE
Daphne could hear the boy’s laughter echoing in the dead-silent house as she ran down the corridor back to her room.
What a mess she’d just made of that first encounter. It had started out well, but she had let Christopher get to her. She had handed over all control to him.
But he had frightened her. She couldn’t deny that.
Was what he had told her true?
Had Pete Witherspoon Senior really dressed as a clown to lure his victims to their deaths?
And did his ghost really haunt this house?
Slamming and locking her door behind her, Daphne had another terrifying thought.
Did his ghost haunt the entire village?
Is that what she had seen at the inn? That clown sitting in the last booth? Had it really been the ghost of the serial killer who had once lived in this house?
“And if so,” Daphne whispered to herself, trembling as she leaned up against the door, “is his ghost killing again?” She thought of Maggie, her throat sliced in the stall of the ladies’ room.
This was all absurd. Completely and utterly absurd. She pulled herself away from the door and switched on the lamp in her room, taking comfort in the golden light that suddenly surrounded her. She didn’t believe in ghosts. That wasn’t the way Mother Angela had raised her. She had raised her to believe in God, and to believe in herself. She had taught her to be strong and confident. “There is nothing you can’t handle,” the good mother had taught her. “Nothing you can’t accomplish. You just have to believe in yourself.” Others might try to distract her, tempt her, confuse her, scare her, Mother had said. But Daphne only needed to trust her own heart and mind. Then she could never go wrong.
This was just Christopher’s way of trying to scare her, Daphne reassured herself. There was no doubt a perfectly logical explanation for the strange things she’d seen, heard, and encountered tonight. Maybe the clown she had seen at the inn was merely stopping by on his way to some child’s birthday party. And in her anxiety over Maggie’s murder, she’d imagined that little clown doll in Christopher’s room was the same figure she’d seen at the inn. Christopher had no doubt been hiding, and had seen her faint—so now he was just making up stories to scare her further.
She decided to take a shower. A hot shower would feel good, and calm her down. It had been a long day, after all. Stepping into the stream of water, Daphne let out a long sigh. She was truly and utterly exhausted. Every muscle in her body seemed to ache. She closed her eyes and lifted her face directly into the shower, letting the water cascade over her eyes, her nose, her cheeks. In that moment, she was back at Our Lady, in the shower she shared with her roommates, and Katie and Ann Marie were out waiting for her in the game room,
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
next up in their Netflix queue.
But in the next second Daphne remembered she was alone in this dark room, and with the steady stream of the shower, she couldn’t see or hear if anyone was creeping up on her.
That’s crazy
, she told herself.
I locked the door
.
Still, she felt tingly enough to quickly switch off the shower, hop out onto the marble floor, and towel herself dry. Wrapping the towel around her head, she walked around the room to peer into all the deep blue shadows. Convinced she was alone, and scolding herself for acting like a child, Daphne finished towel-drying her hair, slipped into her flannel nightgown, and finally crawled into bed.
She was asleep moments after her head touched the pillow.
So quickly did she fall asleep that she was unable to separate what was real and what was a dream. She sat up in bed, looking toward the window. There was someone looking in at her. But that was impossible. She was two floors up.
But someone was there—a woman—and she appeared to be screaming, although Daphne couldn’t hear her.
Daphne got up, out of bed, and began walking across the floor. Her room seemed different. Larger, wider, deeper. It was also hot, oppressively hot. She moved over to the window and tried to open it—but it was no use. The windows were locked.
She was in danger, she suddenly felt. Something was in the room with her.
Daphne took a deep breath. She fumbled in the dark for a lamp but couldn’t find one.
If I can just get a light on, I’ll be okay
.
But as far as she could tell, all the lamps were gone. No furniture was left at all, in fact.
Her room was as barren as—a cell.
Stop it! I’m dreaming!
She tried to force herself awake.
If only she could find a light ...
Then, ahead of her, seemingly a long way off, Daphne saw a flicker, like the small flame of a candle.
Someone was in the room with her.
“Hello?” she said, in a tiny, terrible voice.
She moved toward the light, taking several steps, then stopping, then taking several more, stopping, then several more steps after that. Surely she should be reaching the far wall by now. How large could this room possibly be? It seemed to Daphne that she walked and walked and walked ... and there was no end to the room. It defied logic. And still the flicker of light seemed the same distance away.
She heard something. A scuff.
Someone
was
in the room with her.
In the darkness.
“Hello?” Daphne whimpered.
The flicker of light seemed to be moving toward her.
It
was
a candle. As it came closer, Daphne could make out a hand carrying it, and then ... a face....
A face she knew.
In that last glimmer of candlelight, Daphne saw something that went far, far beyond the scope of her young, innocent imagination. All the nameless terrors she’d ever felt, all the creeping anxieties she’d ever experienced, all of the doubts and fears and nightmares of her life came rushing wickedly into the candlelight before her. The face in front of her began to scream, its mouth growing wider and wider until the sound itself began to take shape and crowd everything else out of the room. Daphne clapped her hands over her ears and began to scream herself.
She opened her eyes and looked down at the pink light that was striping her white sheets.
It was morning.
And she had had a dream. A terrible dream.
One that was fading from her memory even as she tried to hold on to it. All she knew was that it had frightened her, and badly.
And why not? After what she had experienced the night before, no wonder Daphne had nightmares.
Outside, the dark rainy night had been succeeded by a brilliant sunny morning. Birds chirped in the trees. The fragrance of sea air filled the room, and the crash of the surf was louder than ever, without any rain or wind to obscure its sound. It was just before seven o’clock.
Daphne was dressing when she heard a soft knock at her door.
“Are you awake?” came a whispered voice. Daphne unlocked the door and opened it. It was Ashlee, beaming up at her with a smile that seemed to reflect the cheeriness of the morning outside.
“Good morning,” Daphne greeted her.
Ashlee came into the room. She was wearing a ruffled white blouse over blue jeans. She was barefoot.
“Did you sleep okay?” the lady of the house asked her. “The storm finally let up.”
“Yes, thank you,” Daphne said, not entirely truthfully, but not wanting to admit to having had a nightmare on her first night in the house.
“Good.” Ashlee grabbed her hands in hers and smiled up at her. “I’m so sorry that Pete and I cut your welcome party short last night. It’s just that the shock—”
“I understand,” Daphne said. “It must have terrible learning about your friend’s death.”
Ashlee suddenly looked near tears, the way she had last night. “What’s worse is that Maggie and I had fallen out of touch. You know, running this house for Pete and all, I didn’t really have time to go out with her and do all the things we used to do.”
“Well, that makes sense. I’m sure she understood.”
Ashlee shook her head. “I’m afraid she didn’t. Maggie was resentful, I think. Here I was living at Witherswood, with servants and cars and drivers at my disposal. And she was still working as a waitress.”
Daphne made a sympathetic face.
“We started out together, you know. Went to high school together in Florida. We were like two peas in a pod back then.” Ashlee looked out toward the cliffs. “Times change.”
“I just pray they find the person who did it,” Daphne said.
Ashlee whipped her eyes back to Daphne’s. “Indeed! I hope they find him and give him the electric chair!” Her lips tightened into what seemed like some kind of cruel smile. “Although the state’s preferred method is lethal injection. I hear that’s not as painful.”
Daphne shivered. Ashlee’s usually sweet demeanor had darkened. She supposed it was only natural, given the fate her old friend had suffered.
“Well, enough of that,” Ashlee said, shaking off the darkness that had momentarily clouded her face. “I came here to make up for ditching you last night. I’ve had cook prepare us a little breakfast that we can eat out on the cliffside terrace. Before you get down to your duties, I thought we could get to know each other a little better.”
Daphne was very grateful. Ashlee was a bright spot in this gloomy old mansion. Sitting with her out on the terrace, watching the white waves hit the rocks below, sipping hot coffee, and enjoying the best homemade raspberry croissants she’d ever tasted, Daphne finally found herself laughing—for the first time since her arrival in Point Woebegone. Ashlee was a good storyteller. The tale of how she’d met Pete Witherspoon—she’d been his waitress at a restaurant when he was in Florida on business—was a doozy, and Daphne couldn’t help but laugh out loud as she told it.
“Well, my boss had told me Pete was a ‘vic,’ ” Ashlee was saying. “A very important customer. I was rushing around, trying to make sure he and his party had everything they needed. I was told to make sure Mr. Witherspoon was treated like a king. Well, I found out he was certainly very regal—and by that I mean demanding—when he gave me his order.” Here her voice deepened into a delicious impersonation of her gravel-voiced husband. “ ‘Now, make sure the meat is done only slightly medium rare, not medium rare, mind you, young lady, or heaven forbid just plain rare. There is a very fine middle ground, where there is no more than one-quarter of an inch pinkness. Do you understand? Just slightly medium rare.’ ”
Ashlee stood up, demonstrating with a tray of croissants the way she had brought Pete his plate of slightly medium-rare beef. “So I come along, after our chef had spent such care making sure the order was prepared just right, and Pete is sitting there with those damn long legs of his sprawled out into the aisle. And I come by just like this—” She pretended to bump into Daphne’s feet. “And boom! I trip over those long legs and go sprawling right down, flat on my face!”
Daphne laughed. “And his steak?”
“It went skidding across the floor!”
“Oh no!”
“But here’s the best part.” Ashlee seemed unable to contain a rush of laughter for a moment. “I actually went chasing after the steak, picked up in my fingers, brought it back to the table, and showed it to Pete. ‘But look, sir,’ I told him, ‘it really was exactly one-quarter-inch pink!’ ”
“You didn’t!” Daphne laughed.
“I did.” Ashlee sat back down at the table. “Of course, my manager came out and fired me right on the spot. Pete very gallantly insisted I be reinstated, and then asked me my name. The next day he called for me at the restaurant and asked if he could take me out to dinner to make up for his ungainly feet. Of course I agreed.” She smiled dreamily over at Daphne. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“It’s a wonderfully romantic story in its own way,” Daphne said.
“I’m glad you think so,” Ashlee replied, taking a sip of her coffee. “Not everyone in the family agrees.”
Daphne had seen the disapproval of Ashlee last night in the eyes of some of them. But she feigned ignorance. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.
“You might as well know the family dynamics, since you’re going to live here.” She buttered a croissant and took a bite. “Pete controls the family fortune, so his sisters and his nephews are all constantly watching out for themselves around him, not wanting to get cut out of the will. Of course, the bulk goes to Christopher.” Her eyes danced a moment as they looked over at Daphne. “And any offspring that Pete and I might have, of course. Which is why they don’t like me much. They thought Pete was through making babies. And then he gets married again.”
“Are you ... ?” Daphne asked.
“Not yet.” Ashlee giggled. “But just because he’s seventy years old doesn’t mean you can count Pete out quite yet in that department.”
“In what department?”
Ashlee hooted, taking Daphne’s question as a joke. “But I’ll give you one bit of advice. Watch out for Abigail. She’s the worst. A miserable old spinster. Probably never had any in her entire life.”

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