The Haunting of Ashburn House (20 page)

Adrienne lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the floor and scattered the box’s contents over the dusty carpet. Edith’s clicking joints passed below the window, and Adrienne, feeling as though she were trespassing, held her breath. The tapping rose, prodding and poking across the wall, then faded as the corpse moved on. Adrienne released her breath and raised the torch high as she turned over the items.

The box was full of newspaper clippings. Adrienne flipped through them and counted at least twenty.
The articles Edith cut out of the
Ipson Chronicle
s. She kept them after all.

Underneath was a small, tarnished locket. She opened it and saw a familiar face: Edith’s mother, the brown-haired lady who had lost her jaw. Adrienne felt a small prickle of unease at the fact that Edith had kept such a memento after killing her family.

She unfolded the papers and quickly read the top one. After speaking with Greg from the café and seeing the deformation of the portraits, she didn’t find much new information in the newspaper. It described the discovery of the bodies, used phrases such as
horrific carnage
and
inhuman barbarism
without mentioning any gory specifics, and urged townspeople to lock their doors and be vigilant, as the killer was still at large.

Only the final paragraph made Adrienne pause.

As the populace of our fair town well knows, the Ashburns have long been a source of controversy, whether it’s from the intrigue of Charles Ashburn’s illness and reclusiveness or the censure of their child-raising practices. As the remains of the five bodies are removed from the property, the editor ventures to suggest this is not the end of the Ashburn legend.

Five bodies?
Adrienne counted them off on her fingers. There had been Mr and Mrs Ashburn plus Charles Ashburn and his wife. Edith would have made five, but she had lived.
Did the editor make a mistake? Was there a servant or employee living at the house?
She scanned the article again, but no names were given except to note that Edith had been found alive.

She opened the next clipping. It was from the following week and expanded on the first article.

As the only survivor, young Miss Edith Ashburn faces a cold and lonely passage through life. Yesterday, following a third police interview and a doctor’s examination, she was released into the care of her grandparents, Mr and Mrs Ellsworth. They arrived in a handsome Ford automobile and are presumed to be removing Miss Ashburn to their home in Bridgeport.

While we are still waiting for an official statement from the constables, we now have some understanding of how Miss Ashburn survived the massacre. A reliable source has come forward to say that Edith Ashburn was found in the basement, in which she had been locked, presumably by one of her family members. Curiously, the Ashburn basement had a second door that opened outside the building, but young Edith did not try to escape, nor did the attacker attempt to break in.

Miss Phillips, a friend of the neighbours, is quoted as saying, “It’s really so tragic. I don’t blame her, you know, but if little Edith had run for help—that is, if she’d left the basement on the day of the attack rather than waiting to be rescued—perhaps she would not have been the only survivor.”

The Ashburn killer remains at large. Police urge any citizens with additional information to come forward.

Adrienne’s mouth had gone dry, and her head was starting to throb.
I didn’t know Ashburn House had a basement. Is the article right? Does it have a second door leading outside the building?

She dropped the bundle of clippings and lurched to her feet. The outside world was unpleasantly quiet following Edith’s circuit.
She knows about that basement entry, surely. That means the door must be locked. Otherwise, she would have already gotten in.

Adrienne crossed to the window and twitched the curtain back. A full moon hung in the sky, and it bathed the ground in a heavy, ethereal glow. Adrienne searched for any humanoid shapes crouching amongst the weeds, but she couldn’t see her great-aunt.

I locked every window and bolted both the front door and the back door. But I never considered there might be a third door to lock.
Panic was steadily growing. No matter how forcefully Adrienne tried to tell herself she was safe—that if Edith had been able to get in through the basement, she already would have—she couldn’t assuage the sensation that she was vulnerable. Exposed.

It should be checked at the very least. Best-case scenario, I find it and it’s already locked. Worst-case scenario… she’s already inside.
Adrienne grimaced.
Let’s not think about that.

She left the memorabilia spread over Edith’s carpet and hurried to the door. Her ankle began to burn again as she put weight on it, but Adrienne tightened her lips as she followed the hallway to the stairs.

The paintings were openly watching her. She tried not to look at them, but when she glanced towards the wall, she found the dead, glassy eyes fixed on her, rolling slowly in their sockets as she passed them.

She stumbled down the stairs, clattered to a halt in the hallway, and raised her torch to check the surrounding area. It seemed untouched.

Where is the door to the basement? The article didn’t say. There are so many doors in this house—would it be near the front or the back?

Adrienne turned in a circle, breathing heavily, as she thought. Most of her time spent in Ashburn had been near the front of the house, so she turned to the lesser-seen rear. She checked the back door. Then, following the right-hand wall, she began opening every door she passed as she cycled through the house.
Cupboard, cupboard, laundry, cupboard, kitchen, pantry, empty room, main door…

She’d reached the front of the house, so she turned and tried all of the doors on the opposite side of the hallway. She hunted through both the sitting room and lounge room in case she’d missed something inside them, then she looked in the final empty room at the back of the house.

Maybe the newspaper was wrong.
Adrienne returned to the hallway and leaned against the bannister so that she could lift her throbbing leg off the ground.
Maybe there is no basement. Greg from the coffee shop said Edith was found inside a cupboard. Maybe there were a lot of rumours circulating at the time, and the newspaper just picked the one it thought was most likely.

As she turned towards the stairs, her light flashed over something metallic. She bent to one side to see the behind the staircase and found a tiny, square door hidden in the shadows.

You’ve got to be joking.

It blended into the staircase’s wood perfectly. The only suggestion that a door existed there at all was the glint of the small, curved handle and the dark crease that ran around its perimeter.

Adrienne got to her knees to reach for the handle.
It certainly matches the story
no matter which version you go with: Mrs Ashburn hiding her daughter, or Edith hiding herself. You wouldn’t think to look here unless you knew about it.

She pulled on the handle. The lower end rose, and a small click told her the door was, indeed, unlocked. The square swung open, and Adrienne held her breath as she bent forward to shine her light inside.

Dust motes swirled in her light like thin, anaemic snow. The space seemed to stretch on forever, but the torch was too weak to bring much of it into relief. Adrienne could see steps leading from the door to a dirt floor. Beyond that were several ancient crates and what she thought was a pile of rotting sacks. She clicked her torch off to allow the darkness to flow around and swallow her. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the dark, but then she was able to see the blue glow of moonlight far away to the right. The basement had a door leading outside, after all, and it was
open
.

Adrienne’s pulse kicked into overdrive. Very carefully, as though moving too quickly would undo the perfect equilibrium she existed in, she nudged the door closed. There was a keyhole below the handle. Adrienne tried to fit the house key inside, but the cut-out was too small.

It needs a different key, then—one that I don’t have. That’s okay; I can pull something heavy in front to block the opening. I wonder if I can move the grandfather clock.

The huge, chiming monolith was the largest and heaviest piece of furniture in the hallway and only a few feet from the door. She hurried to it, put her shoulder against the wood, and shoved. She had to strain until every muscle in her body screamed and her lungs burnt, but it scraped forward several inches.

She relaxed, leaning her back against the clock and panting.
It’s a nightmare to move. Good. There’s no way Edith’s getting in once this thing is in place.

Then Adrienne felt her body stiffen. Something tugged at her instincts. It was a vague sense—like a scent that she could barely smell—but she instinctively knew that something was wrong. Adrienne closed her eyes and tried to pinpoint the source of the uneasiness.
There—
it was the same straining, jangling noise she’d heard in her bedroom. Like off-key violins being stressed, but so quiet it was almost possible to convince herself she was imagining it.

Adrienne opened her eyes. Directly ahead and a little to the right hung the hallway mirror. The cloth had fallen off without Adrienne even realising and lay in a pool on the floor. And inside the reflection stood Edith, tall and stately and crowded by the hallway’s shadows as their gazes met.

Adrienne sucked in a sharp breath. Her eyes reflexively darted to the space beside the lounge room door where the reflection showed Edith to be standing. It was empty. Adrienne brought her focus back to the mirror.

Edith could have been a photograph for all she moved. She faced Adrienne, her hands folded over the black skirts and back straight as a post. Her face was flat, neither grinning nor contorting like the creature outside, but her eyes were hard and commanding. Even with ninety years separating them, the similarities with the upstairs portraits were eerie.

Does she want to talk? Can she be reasoned with?

Adrienne licked her dry lips and prayed her voice wouldn’t crack. “Edith? I-I don’t know why you’re lingering here after death, but—”

Edith took a step nearer. Her expression remained flat, but her eyes flashed in the reflected moonlight.

Adrienne found it increasingly difficult to breathe as the torch’s light jittered in her shaking hand. “I hope you’re not angry with me. I… I’d like to leave, please. I can go right now. Walk to town. The house will be all yours—you’ll never see me again—”

Edith took a second step forward, bringing her close to the glass. She looked so corporeal that Adrienne half expected the spectre to step through the mirror. Edith’s unblinking gaze didn’t leave Adrienne’s face as she shook her head.
No.

“Please—” Sweat beaded over Adrienne’s body. Her mind, frightened and exhausted, whirled out of control as she tried to think of an argument that might sway the spirit. “Whatever happened here—whatever happened with your old family—I don’t want any part in it. Let me leave.”

Another shake. This time Edith raised one bony, pale hand, extended the index finger, and pointed down.

Adrienne frowned.
What is she pointing at? Her feet? The floor?
A drawn-out creak echoed from behind her as the little square door drifted open.
Oh no—the basement.

It was hard to tear her gaze away from Edith, but Adrienne did, turning to the door under the stairs. It had drifted open, smoothly and effortlessly, as though moved by a breeze. Fear about what might come through crashed over Adrienne, and she reached for the knife in her pocket.

But nothing came out of the door. Instead, a small grey shape caught in her shaking torchlight. Wolfgang had approached the opening. He raised his nose to sniff at the wood in the way he did whenever he encountered a new item in his domain, then he turned to the dark hole.

“No!” Adrienne darted towards him, both Edith and stinging ankle forgotten as she raced to pull her cat back from the door. She was too late. As elegant and uncatchable as smoke, Wolfgang slunk forward and disappeared into the basement.

Adrienne dropped to her knees. Her heart felt as if it might thump its way out of her chest as she stared at the black opening, her hand stretched towards it, disbelief and cold horror rising through her.

“Wolf—” The word came out as a squeak. She knelt there, unmoving, praying with every fibre of her body that the cat would reappear in the door. He didn’t.

Of course he wouldn’t. The house has him now. Swallowed whole, sucked down into its belly, where it can digest him and eventually spit out his bones.

Adrienne tried to force the idea from her mind, to purge the image of the grey tabby wandering sightless in the black for the remainder of his life, but she couldn’t.

This is my fault. He escaped from the lounge room because I wasn’t careful when I opened the door. He got into the basement because I was too slow to stop him. If he suffers, it will be on my head.

Adrienne bent closer to the basement’s entry and passed her light inside. The deepest region of the house seemed to repel illumination; it appeared to thrive on darkness and silence and desolation as ardently as its deceased owner had.

She sat back on her heels and wiped her hand over her mouth.
No, it’s not my fault. Not really. I closed the basement door; I remember it making a little click as the latch caught. Edith reopened it. Edith lured Wolf inside.

“Give me back my cat.”

She turned towards the mirror, teeth bared and face scrunched as she prepared to clash with the spirit. But Edith was gone. The mirror showed the hallway, long and cluttered and full of memories, but no dark-clothed woman.

“Give me back my cat!”

The words echoed through Ashburn’s empty rooms without answer. Adrienne pressed a hand to her chest, where her heart was burning. She was incapable of stopping the tears that dripped onto the dusty wood floor.

I promised myself I would not take any risks. The risk-free option would be to close the door, push the clock in front of it, and forget Wolfgang ever existed.

She could still remember trying to revive the soaked, bone-thin kitten on her mother’s kitchen table. A classical music CD played in the next room, and the operatic songs had washed over them as Adrienne gently massaged the lump of wet fur. Adrienne’s mother had thought the kitten was a lost cause; it wouldn’t drink the drop of the milk they’d dabbed on his lips or even open his eyes. Then the Mozart composition hit its crescendo, and right on the final beat, the kitten opened its mouth and let out a tiny peep.

Naming him had been a no-brainer after that. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. And no matter how big he grew, he was the most precious creature in Adrienne’s world.

Her only choice was whether to go into the basement head first or feet first.

“Bloody cat.” She spoke to give herself courage, but the words came out as stutters. “Always getting into trouble.”

Her feet went in first. The doorway was small—just a little larger than her torso—so Adrienne had to contort her body into an awkward angle to squeeze through. Her feet touched one of the stone steps, and she began wiggling the top half of herself after them.

She couldn’t see while her body was blocking the doorway, so she had to worm into the basement blind. It was a horrifying sensation to imagine that something might be lurking just past her toes, waiting for her to shift another inch into their domain.

Adrienne had to raise her hands above her head to fit her shoulders through. She was carrying most of her weight on her one good foot, and her thigh muscles were shaking.

“He probably won’t even appreciate what I’m doing for him. The ungrateful lump.”

Her throat was tightening, and the bravado-infused words came out as a squeak. As her head slid through the doorway, she gasped. The basement’s air was like ice.

All that was left was to slip her arms through the door, then she was crouched on the second step, head bent to avoid scraping the rough-wood ceiling, with little plumes of condensation rising with every exhalation.

She turned her torch over the basement. The beam caught a jumble of objects, not all of them identifiable. She thought the space must have been used either for storage or as a workshop. Clusters of equipment, from spindles to ploughs to furniture, were pressed against the walls. They looked as though they had broken well before being placed in the basement to attract a blanket of dust and cobwebs.

To her right, thirty paces away, a rectangle of pale-blue light streamed through the open trapdoor. Adrienne hadn’t seen the entry when circling the house, which meant it was likely surrounded by tall weeds. The hole wasn’t much bigger than the space she’d just crawled through, but it still threatened danger, either from things getting
in
or from Wolfgang getting
out
. If she lost the cat in the woods surrounding Ashburn, she held very little hope of getting him back.

“Wolf?” Adrienne cautiously moved off the stairs and onto the dirt floor. She kept her voice light, knowing that her cat would hear even a whisper. “Wolf, food! Come and get some food!”

He would have normally come running at that word, but the only moving shapes she could see were the clouds of dust her feet had disturbed. Adrienne swallowed, turning slowly, her beam playing over the clusters of shapes and shadows as she tried to pick out any signs of life. “Food, buddy! Food!”

A flash of something pale caught in her light. She swung towards it, but it wasn’t the cat. Instead, a small white rectangle lay on the floor.

That struck Adrienne as odd. Everything else in the basement, including the ground, was coated in a century of dust. But the flat shape was perfectly white and clean, as though it had been placed there the week before.

Did Edith put it here?
She took a step nearer and craned her neck as she strained to see more clearly. She thought it was a piece of paper.

“Wolf?” she said a final time, turning in a full circle as the word created a plume of vapour in front of her face. She couldn’t see anything, human or feline. She tightened her muscles against the shivers running through her and turned back to the paper.

As she neared it, she saw it was an envelope and not perfectly fresh as she’d thought. Small flecks of dust had developed on the surface, suggesting it had been there for several months. She bent and picked it up. A single word was written on the front:
Adrienne

Prickles of uneasiness writhed over her skin. She held still a moment, listening and waiting for the telltale clicking that accompanied Edith’s movements, but the space remained quiet.

The letter was unsealed. She couldn’t help herself; she turned it over and took the sheets out. The careful, immaculate penmanship was familiar. It had been on the small note in her bedroom, too.
Edith wrote this.
Adrienne frowned.
What’s it doing down here? Did she really expect me to find it… or… no, surely not…

She pointed the torch towards the ceiling. The basement’s rough wooden boards were nearly an arm’s length above her. They had gaps in them—not large, but a hundred years of aging and carrying feet had gradually widened them. She traced one of the slits.
This would be under the lounge room, wouldn’t it? I remember noticing how the boards had spaces between them on my first night here.

Adrienne pictured how it might have played out: the note would have been left on the little table beside the fireside chair, waiting for her eventual arrival. But some disturbance—possibly a gust of wind from an open window, a draft from the doorway, or even a bump from Edith’s elbow—had sent it plunging towards the floor. The envelope was flat. It could have slipped between the floorboards with the grace of a tumbling leaf, its absence never noticed.

It’s improbable but not impossible. I remember thinking how odd it was that the bedroom note was the only missive Edith left.

Adrienne shook the paper open with trembling fingers. The words were small and daintily formed, and she had to hold the paper close to her face to read it in the torch’s light.