The Ghost House (18 page)

He watched and waited until he could stand it no longer. The bolt had slid across the kitchen door over an hour ago and the lights had dimmed. It looked as if he would have to wait for another time. He was a cold-blooded killer and he didn’t have a clue how to get into a locked house – not exactly a hard core criminal then. Creeping past the barn he decided to go home. It was probably the best idea he’d had in the last twelve hours. He was cold and kept shivering but his head was burning and hot to the touch: he must be coming down with something. Better to go home and dose himself up with some paracetamol and go to bed.

It was a beautiful night. The moon was full and bright, illuminating the path. In the distance he saw a flash of white dart between the trees and felt as if he wasn’t alone. He shivered again. His mind was playing tricks on him, making him see things. There were no noises coming from the woods and it would be impossible for someone to walk through the undergrowth in the middle of the night without making a noise. He never passed anyone on the path which led back to the road and not, far from the car park, he pushed the dog lead in his pocket: there was no need for an excuse when everyone was tucked up in bed.

As he drove into his street his bedroom light shone through the crack in the curtains. He knew that he had turned it off when he’d left. Opening the front door slowly so as not to make a noise he stepped inside. A creak above his head told him everything he needed to know: his mother was in his bedroom.

Slipping off his shoes he crept up the stairs avoiding the third step from the top, it squeaked. He paused on the top step. All clear thought had left his mind and had been replaced by a swirling black mist. This time she had gone too far.

The door to his room was pulled to. His hands bunched into fists as he pushed it open. His mother turned to look at him, accusation in her eyes. In her bony fingers she clutched his photographs and it was obvious that she remembered the woman in them. His computer, which he had forgotten to shut down, jerked into life as his leg hit the corner of the desk. The image that appeared on-screen was one of the teenage slut with her legs wide open and wearing no knickers. His mother flinched, the disgust on her face taking him to the edge.

He strode to where she was standing, stretched out his arms and wrapped his fingers around her bony throat, squeezing as hard as he could. It didn’t take much before her eyes began to bulge from their sockets. She clawed at his hands in a pitiful attempt to fight him off but she was too frail to make a difference: he was too strong. Her lips moved as she began to recite the Lord’s Prayer and he felt the anger inside him swell. His entire body shaking he squeezed so hard he felt the hyoid bone in her neck snap. Her body went limp and it was over. He’d finally done it yet tears of frustration rolled down his cheeks and landed on the wrinkled cheeks of his dead mother. Her eyes were open and she stared at him; she was still watching him from the grave – what a mess. The black mist subsided and every bit of strength drained from his body. He laid her on his bed as his knees gave way and he sank to the floor, his eyes fixed onto the computer screen.

He sat like that for hours until the moon disappeared and the body next to him cooled. There was no going back. The police would come for him sooner or later. His hand had been forced and now he would have to make his move. Whatever it was that had taken over his soul wouldn’t let him stop now. He stood and looked down at the woman who had wiped his tears as a child whenever he had hurt himself and she had died terrified, knowing she had given birth to a monster.

He pushed the guilty thoughts away. He had no time for emotion now; he switched it off and didn’t think he would ever turn it back on.

Bending over he picked her up in a clumsy fireman’s lift. For a frail old woman she was a lot heavier than he’d expected. He managed to manoeuvre her down the stairs and through the narrow kitchen. He opened the utility room door, as he squeezed through a hollow sound echoed in the small room as her head hit the doorframe. He smiled, the chest freezer was the only place her could think of to put her for now. The miserable cow had never filled it with food. At least now he had a reason for it until he could figure out what to do with her.

Lifting the lid he pulled the sliding tray out from the top. He took hold of the packet of cheese and onion pies, which were the only things in there, and put them on the side. He then began to lower her inside, which was much harder than he had imagined. After ten minutes of struggling to get her to fit he finally shut the lid.

Humming to himself he picked up the pies and took them into the kitchen. Shutting the door he wedged a chair under the handle for good measure; he didn’t want to risk her coming back to life and escaping. Turning the cooker on he put the pies on a tray and placed them inside. Sitting at the table he waited for them to cook. It was funny how much of an appetite he had considering he’d murdered his mother.

The house was truly silent for the first time in his life: he could get used to this. The timer on the cooker pinged and he took out his pies. Yes, he really should have done this a long time ago, it had improved the taste of his food no end. He finished a second pie then rummaged around in the kitchen drawer until he found some paracetamol. He swallowed four with a gulp of the whisky his mother kept hidden at the back of her baking cupboard. Then he took a black bin bag from the cupboard under the sink and went upstairs to strip his bed. He placed all the bedding into the black bag and re-made it with some fresh. He then picked up his stash of photos, which had fallen to the floor, and began sticking them onto his bedroom walls, saving the best for last.

A few days ago he had ordered a giant poster of his favourite picture of the woman from a website. He had hidden it on the top shelf of his wardrobe. Taking it out and unrolling it he stood on his bed and pinned it to the ceiling. His work done, he lay on top of the bed fully clothed and stared at his pretty woman until the morning sun began to filter through the clouds and his breath slowed until his eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep.

Mike woke up feeling refreshed for the first time since he’d been arrested. It’s true what they say, there really is no place like home. He showered, shaved and got dressed; picking out the new shirt that Annie had bought him for Christmas, but which he hadn’t worn, and his best jeans. He opened one of the many bottles of aftershave she had also bought him and sprayed himself. It was nice and he hoped that she would like it.

The first place he rang was the hospital who told him she’d been discharged six days ago. Now he just had to find out where she was staying. He looked through the address book she kept by the phone. Her brother’s number was written in red pen on the inside front cover. Of course, she had mentioned that he’d asked her to look after his animals. He picked up the house phone and dialled Ben’s number and let it ring. On the tenth one she answered and he heard her voice, she sounded groggy. He put the phone down then swore at himself. What if she dialled 1471? She would know it was him; no one else would be ringing from their house. He could have kicked himself. He waited to see if the phone would ring but it didn’t. Hopefully she was too tired to care about the caller and if she did it didn’t really matter because he was going to be paying her a visit very soon. He wanted to surprise her and show her how much of an effort he’d made.

Now she was awake Annie filled the kettle: she needed coffee. Will followed her into the kitchen.

‘Did I tell you how sexy you look in those shorts.’

Her face flushed red and she turned away from him. He walked over and kissed her on the back of the head, below the line of staples. ‘In fact, you are the sexiest woman that I’ve ever woken up next to and not had sex with.’

She pulled away from him opening the fridge to take out the milk. ‘Thanks Will. You mean I’m the only woman you’ve never had sex with. You know you don’t have to lie all the time, it’s fine. I know I’m not your usual cup of tea and you don’t have to keep treating me like a damsel in distress. I’m not going to crack or shrivel up and die. You don’t owe me anything and I don’t want a babysitter, I can look after myself.’

Will took hold of her elbow and turned her to face him. Annie felt stupid after that little tantrum but it needed to be said. She didn’t get what the attraction was for him. He moved closer and bent his head towards hers, his lips brushed against her soft, pink mouth. Annie tried to pull away but couldn’t – she didn’t want to. Her insides felt as if they were on fire. Frantic hands began to pull at each other and she sighed as Will scooped her up into his arms and carried her back to the sofa and lay her down. He paused, unsure whether to continue but she reached up her arms, wrapped them around his neck and drew him down towards her.

Annie looked to the window and screamed. There was a man’s face pressed up against the glass. Will jumped up and ran to the kitchen door to see who was outside: there was no one around. He hadn’t actually seen the face but Annie appeared behind him, all the colour drained from her face. She couldn’t swear on it but she thought it looked an awful lot like Mike. But that couldn’t be because he wasn’t allowed to set foot in Barrow.

I was so busy this morning sorting out my things that I did not sit down until mid-afternoon to take some tea and read the newspaper. I picked up
The Times
and the headline made me distraught. There had been not one but two more murders in the East End of London. Both Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes had been found with their throats sliced open and other unspeakable atrocities committed against them. It read that the first victim’s body was still warm when it was discovered and that the murderer must have been disturbed doing the dreadful deed. I felt my heart miss a beat when I read the next line; it described how a red handkerchief had been found across the victim’s throat this time. Edward always insists on new handkerchiefs and I had packed into his trunk some brand new red ones I had bought from the haberdashery shop that had opened in town. I was horrified but continued to read. Because the killer had been disturbed this had resulted in the death of another unfortunate woman. She had been mutilated in a way that was not so dissimilar to an earlier victim.

I reminded myself that Edward would not be the only man in England to own some red handkerchiefs and he told me himself that London was a very big place. I should thank my lucky stars that I only have Edward to contend with and not some murderous madman. Although, selfishly, I have to admit that he is hideous enough. I still have the bruises and marks from his last visit home. I am counting the days until Alfie comes to rescue me – my very own knight in shining armour – and then we can begin a life filled with love and laughter instead of one filled with fear and loathing.

I cannot think of anything that these women may have done which would deserve such a dreadful fate. How sad and lonely to have lived such a desolate life and then die in such a way. I do not understand why but I feel as if I have a connection to these women. Maybe it is because I know all too well the hardships of a working class life. I feel as if there is something just out of my reach. I am going to church tomorrow and will light candles for each and every one of these four women and while I am there I will pray for their souls as well as my own.

The Times
once again is full of stories of yet another horrific murder of an unfortunate woman: poor Mary Jane Kelly.

Edward never came home this weekend as he promised when he finally telephoned me last week and I was grateful that he did not. I kept my voice polite because I do not want to arouse his suspicions that I am planning to leave. He telephoned again at lunchtime and I asked him what he thought about the murders and he began to rant most vehemently about a man called George Lusk who had formed a vigilante committee and was in every newspaper. He told me that the man had nothing better to do and was probably trying to mask the fact that he was indeed the man responsible for these murders. It was all so very strange but I listened to him and just agreed when I thought he would expect me to.

When he finished ranting about Mr Lusk he then informed me that I was ruining his life and that I was nothing more than a spoilt servant and he wished he had let me rot in the cellar when he had the chance. My hands were trembling when I replaced the receiver back onto the cradle. Why does he behave like a madman? He is getting worse and I am so very grateful he was not coming home. I have decided that if I never see that man again it would not bother me in the slightest.

All day my mind was plagued by thoughts of Edward as well as the terrified faces of all the murdered women who had been so savagely attacked: I could not get them out of my head, they were etched into my memory. I went into the drawing room where I had left a pile of newspapers with all their dreadful stories on the sideboard. What was it that kept drawing me back to them again and again? I lay all the newspapers out onto the huge dining table and then took a pair of scissors from the drawer and began to cut out each article and lay them next to each other. There were so many it took me a long time but I cut and snipped until I was satisfied. There were pictures of the women both when they were alive and dead. I cut out the picture of a letter that had been sent into The Central News Agency. It had been named the Dear Boss Letter. In it the writer taunts the police. I put it next to the pictures of the victims. I did not know why I held such a morbid fascination with these murders or what my reasoning was for doing this. The man responsible must be so very angry to be able to use such savagery on another human being, it would have to be someone who took great pleasure in inflicting pain upon another person.

An awful thought began to form in the back of my mind. I knew a man just like that all too well. He has the foulest of tempers and a terrible cruel streak, a man who has a penchant for brand new handkerchiefs. I knew I was being ridiculous but the thought would not leave my mind and I had to go to my writing desk to retrieve the diary I used to keep track of birthdays and important dates and also Edwards visits home. I went through it and wrote down a list of the dates Edward had been home on a sheet of paper and then checked the dates of each murder. Edward had returned to London the day before each murder occurred and, to make it worse, the last few times he had been angry and upset with me when he had left.

A sickness began to fill my stomach which I could not blame on the baby growing inside of me. For I think I know who this murderer is. I am too frightened to speak his name out loud. Not just for my own safety but that of everyone around me. I reread each article with a cold feeling of horror numbing my insides. It is quite clear the police have no idea what is happening nor who is responsible. There is so much written in all the newspapers about the murders it looks to me as if they are going around in circles. They have been inundated with so much information that it is preventing them from looking at it in a clear way.

I remembered the last time I went into his study and he pushed a piece of paper under the blotter on his desk and left the room he was so angry with me. I looked at the letter again and studied the writing: it looked like Edward’s. I had been so shocked by the contents I had not even considered the handwriting the first time I read it. I ran to the study and approached the desk, scared of what I might find. I lifted up the blotter and a sigh of relief escaped my lips when there was no letter under there. I then opened the drawers to look for his diary that I know he keeps for when he is at home. I could not find it in either of the two unlocked drawers even though he normally keeps it in the first one, at hand should he need it. I pulled out the second one, which was full of blank sheets of writing paper. Then I took out each drawer from the desk in case it had fallen behind them and was trapped. I knelt down and bent my head and saw the familiar black book was fastened to the underside of the desk. With great care I removed it. I was so scared that Edward would walk in and catch me even though I know he is in London. After the last telephone conversation I would not be surprised if he turned up unannounced but surely he would at least let Harold know who I hope would have the sense to forewarn me.

As I opened the book a single sheet of folded paper fluttered to the floor. I unfolded it to read the first line of the letter: ‘Dear Boss’. I squirmed in horror and dropped it to the floor. I knew the only explanation for my husband to have a handwritten copy of a letter that had been sent to the newspaper was if he had written it himself: he wanted to taunt the police and the newspapers. Afraid now, I tucked it into the book and fastened it back where I had found it.

I still do not want to believe it to be true and I dare not tell anyone of my findings until I have firm proof of my beliefs. It could be a huge coincidence but in my heart I do not believe it. I made my decision that I would need to go down into the cellar and see exactly what it is he does down there for hours on end. If Edward is the monster all the newspapers are referring to as ‘Jack the Ripper’ then he must be stopped. I will need to make sure none of the staff are in when I go down there for I do not want them to be involved in this matter in any way. Oh how I am terrified of that cellar and how I wish that Alfie was here to help me to be courageous and face whatever it is that I fear down there. I now realise that it is Edward who I have feared all along.

I went back to look at the grainy photographs of each woman. Polly Nichols drew my eye the most. When I look closely I can see the slightest resemblance between the two of us. Would I be so different if I did not have the luxury of beautiful clothes and a maid to dress my hair each day? If I were dressed in my old maid’s uniform I think there would be a striking comparison. Does Edward truly hate me with so much passion that he would go out and take another woman’s life because she reminded him of his wife? I fear the answer is yes and if that is found to be true then those women have suffered the most awful fate imaginable because of me.

I could no longer look at the pictures my hands were shaking so much. I went into the hall to telephone the police and lifted the receiver but then I put it back down. What if it is all my overactive imagination? Edward would be arrested and publicly humiliated and then hanged and I could not live with myself if it was not true no matter how much I dislike him. I felt so ill that I had to go and lie down for a while so I could gather my thoughts: my head was in a spin with it all. I went up the servant’s stairs to my attic room. I did not want to look at the bedroom I shared with him. I took the cuttings with me in case any of the staff found them and, once inside, I pushed a chair against the handle just like I used to and cried myself to sleep.

In my dreams I was chased through the dark cobbled streets of London by a man dressed in a black cloak and a deerstalker hat. He carried a long thin knife, which was dripping with blood. In the distance I could hear a telephone ring and knew I should answer it in case it was Edward but I could not awaken from my nightmare. Instead I was running with bare feet as fast as I could. My pursuer was much faster and the gap between us was closing. I could feel the heat from his eyes burning through to the depths of my soul. I tripped and fell to the ground where I found myself entangled with the rotting corpse of Mary Kelly. My hands were warm and when I lifted them to my face they were stained bright red from her blood.

I must have screamed so loudly that I woke myself up. I blinked hard, feeling disorientated: it was daytime. The winter sun was shining through my tiny window and I was bathed in sweat. I felt exhausted, as if I had truly been running for my life through the streets of London. I got out of bed and stared at my dishevelled reflection in the cracked mirror above the washstand. My long dark hair was tangled and stuck to my face, my cheeks were flushed and the circles under my eyes were darker. I washed, dressed and went downstairs to a silent and empty house. Cook nor Harold or any of the others were anywhere to be seen. I remembered that Edward had given them all the day off. In a moment of rare kindness he had offered to pay for them all to go off on the steam train to Blackpool for the day. I remembered how excited Cook was and how I had laughed when she said how kind the master was – if only they knew the truth.