The Haunting of Maddy Clare (7 page)

The barn was only a small distance behind the house, down a rough-worn path. The mist had not dissipated; it curled around my ankles and calves as I walked, and I was glad I had kept on my coat and hat against the chill. There was no sound but the scratch of my footsteps and the dripping of water from the trees. I longed to hear even a single birdsong, but none came.

The building itself was just large enough for a few horses, now long gone, and the food and other necessities to keep them. It was well built, snug, and tidily painted, placed against a backdrop of trees like a piece of jewelry in a silk setting. I realized I had been expecting a run-down, ancient structure, listing perhaps, in keeping with a space that was supposed to be haunted.

I stopped before the big wooden double door and listened, but all was silent. I pushed the heavy arm up from its latch, opened the door, and stepped in.

It was as if I had stepped into an entirely different building.
I looked around in wonder. In contrast to the tidy exterior, a hurricane of destruction had come through here. The stalls for the horses had been all but destroyed, burst apart and flattened close to the ground, their doors leaning crazily from their remaining hinges. Some powerful force had touched nearly everything, exploded bales of hay, torn slats from the half wall separating the storage area from the barn proper; tackle lay flung about the floor, some of the heavy leather ripped to pieces. Dim, gray light came through the high windows; it did little to illuminate the ruined interior, creating only dark blue shadows and looming shapes. The silence in the barn was utterly deadening, so quiet I imagined I could hear my blood beat and a ringing in my ears.

I looked about, a little wildly, imagining movement from the corner of my eye. I could see nothing. I closed the door behind me, shutting out the wet outdoor light, and took a tentative step forward, then another. No sound; nothing moved. There was only the damp smell of old horses, mixed with a strange metallic scent. I did not have the courage to wonder what the metallic smell was.

Suggestive power,
I thought bravely to myself, thinking of Mr. Gellis and the portrait.
They have told you this place is haunted, and so you will believe it so.

My knees were trembling, but I made my way forward, into what I estimated was the center of the barn. My footsteps sounded loud on the soft earth floor. I set down the suitcase and, with shaking hands, opened it and set up the recorder.
Suggestive power,
I thought again to myself. But I would not let myself think that if there was no ghost to record, Mr. Gellis would send me back to London and my adventure would be over.

I turned the switch to
ON
with a sound that echoed in the stillness.

Something moved behind me.

I whirled. There was only the gloom, and the door of the barn, now seeming miles away. I wondered how long it would take me to run to it.

There was another movement, glimpsed this time from the corner of my right eye; again, I turned, and again, I saw nothing. The hat I wore was of the day’s style, with a low brim pulled close around the face, like a bell; I felt a stir of panic that I could not see properly from my peripheral vision. I quickly pulled off the hat and set it on the floor next to the recorder.

I pushed strands of wayward hair from my face and looked around again. It was warm in the barn; whether unnaturally so, or whether I imagined it in my panic, I could not tell. I shakily raised the camera and placed my finger on the button.

Did something move? What was the creaking sound I heard, faintly over the ringing in my ears? Why was a clammy sweat forming on my skin? Why could I not breathe? The tension snapped in me and I took more steps forward, toward the ruined stalls, unable to bear it. “Hello?” my voice croaked into the stillness. “Hello?”

I heard the creaking sound again; this time, I saw the source. One of the stall doors dangled from a half-ruined hinge, suspended from the upended timber of the destroyed frame. As I watched, the door began to sway, deliberately—forward, and back, and forward again. There was not a breath of air to stir it.

This, then, was the Falmouth House ghost at last. I stumbled forward a few more steps, toward the swinging door. I raised the camera and clicked it blindly, unable to think in my panic of what the lens might see. The door continued to move, forward, back, forward, back again.

It began a sort of mesmerized panic in me, the rhythm of that
swinging door; I stared at it, unable to look away. I was still terrified, and yet I was strangely soothed—perhaps a little like a rabbit looking into the eyes of its predator. My heart beat wildly in my chest. And yet I stepped closer, crouched lower for another angle, wound the film, raised the camera, and clicked the shutter again. A swinging door, after all—isn’t that what one would expect at a haunting? It was not so outrageous a thing to see. I would document it. If the photographs did not show anything, then the creaking of the door must surely be audible on the recorder. Mr. Gellis would—

There was another sound, behind me and to the right. The door stilled. I froze. The sound was coming from the direction of the window, and it was strangely familiar. I could not turn my head; I only stood paralyzed, watching the door as it slowly swung to a halt.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
A familiar sound, but my brain was too wild to place it. It grew louder. I couldn’t breathe. As I gasped silently for air, I realized the metallic smell had grown stronger. And I began to shake with terror as I finally recognized the sound.

Heels, barefoot, kicking against the wall. Something sat in the sill of the high window, and kicked its heels as it dangled its feet.

It was behind me, only six feet away.

I could turn. Now I could turn. I could see it. All I had to do was turn.

I couldn’t move. I felt a strangled sob come from my throat. The heels kicked louder—summoning me, demanding my attention, wanting me to turn and see. I sobbed again. What kind of thing would I see, sitting in the window? Would it even be human?

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
I could not do it. It wanted me to look;
she
wanted me to look. But I could not. Sobbing again, I stood where I was and closed my eyes.

The heels continued. The heat rose; I was not imagining it now, nor the metallic smell. I clenched my eyes shut, willing them not to open. Why? I didn’t know—only that at all costs I must not do it, must not turn and look. To turn and look would be a mistake. Every nerve in my body screamed it.

Abruptly, the thumping stopped. A low sound came from the window, the echo of an angry groan, deepened by a muffling gurgle. It could have been a voice, but it was no voice any human had ever emitted. It gurgled wetly for a long moment, hissed, and was silent.

I opened my eyes.

The walls of the barn
pulsed
; there was no other way to describe it. They gave a great, fleshy bow inward, then out again. I stared in terror before I realized the heat was pricking my skin, becoming unbearable. Sensing the thing was gone from the windowsill, I finally turned around.

The barn was on fire.

Flames licked the walls, climbed to the ceiling; the ruined bales of hay were catching. As I watched, the flames raced toward the front of the barn; in seconds, they would engulf the only door.

I screamed—something, I know not what, came from my throat—and finally unfroze. I scrambled toward the door, realizing as I ran that I would be leaving the recorder to burn.

I stopped, undecided. The fire was licking the doorframe now, though the door was still passable; I might, perhaps, have a few precious seconds. I turned and ran for the recorder. Would someone
come? Couldn’t they see the fire from the house? I reached the recorder, which had stopped itself—how long had I been in here?—and slammed it into its suitcase, gripping the heavy handle with my slick hands. A sound came from overhead, and I looked up to see that fire had engulfed the roof, and one of the flaming rafters was falling straight down toward me.

I started to run and lost my footing. My legs slipped out from under me and I landed hard on the floor on my left hip. The camera banged on my chest. The suitcase hit the floor next to me. I screamed and curled, covering my head with my arms in a futile attempt to guard myself, and waited for the blow to fall.

And waited.

Nothing happened.

Perhaps, by some outrageous stroke of luck, the beam had missed me. I uncovered my head and prepared to run for the door again.

I looked around me. The fire was gone; I was in the cool, silent barn again, alone, with wet mist on the windows. The flames, the burning beams, all of it had utterly disappeared.

I looked up. The roof was as it had ever been, rafters intact. Stupidly, my panicked brain began to slow and calculate. Somehow, despite what I had just witnessed, there had never been a fire.

I sat gasping, nearly sobbing with the fear that had not yet left my veins, my hip throbbing. Slowly, I stood. I collected the suitcase again. I looked about for my hat.

Mrs. Clare’s voice came into my head.
She may try to frighten you—play tricks. She likes to do that.
My God, my God. How was such a thing even possible?

Giving up on my hat, I hobbled for the door. The heat was
gone now, as was the smell;
she
was somehow gone, though I could not know where. From the corner of my eye I saw a familiar piece of fabric and I limped over to it, picked it up. It was the remains of my hat, torn utterly to ribbons.

I looked at it for a long moment, as the last waves of terror washed over me. Then I turned and ran for the door.

I
have very little memory of my return to the inn. I have a brief picture of myself stumbling through the tattered mist, unaware of my direction, my dress soaked with perspiration turned icy cold. I was shivering convulsively, despite my thin coat, though from fear or chill I cared little.

Mr. Gellis found me, I believe. I have a memory of his voice, his hand on my elbow. He relieved me of the suitcase with the recorder in it and I felt weightless without it, as if it had been anchoring me to the earth and I could now float away on my terror like a helium balloon. The world seemed far, far away.

My next memory is of sitting on a chair at the inn, my forehead in my hands as Mr. Gellis spoke softly to me. “You’ll be all right,” he was saying. “There, now. That’s a girl.”

I lifted my head and looked around. We were in a small room furnished with a table and four stiff-backed chairs. The window, behind a heavy velvet curtain tied back, showed the day still gray
and dismal. “Is this a private room?” I asked through the cotton in my mouth.

“Yes. I’ve hired it for the week,” said Mr. Gellis. He was setting the suitcase on the table and opening it gingerly. “I thought it was best, though it wasn’t easy getting Mr. Ahearn to agree.”

I sat straighter. I was still light-headed, but the world was beginning to look a little more real around me. I had never been so happy to see the streaks on the thick windows, or the dried rings of water left on the table from drinks past. It was prosaic, blessed sanity.

“I’m gathering you saw something,” said Mr. Gellis. He had stopped fiddling with the recorder and was standing over me, looking at me intently. “You appear rather shaken.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

His gaze glittered. “You must tell me everything. Every detail. I need my notebook—yes—here it is. My pen. I need to get every impression while it’s fresh in your mind. It’s the best way. I’ve ordered some tea. Would you like some?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Mr. Gellis pulled up a chair and sat, with notebook and pen. He bent and started writing, perhaps some sort of preliminary notes of his own. Before we could begin, a barmaid came in with a pot of tea and several cups on a tray. She set everything down on the table and left.

Mr. Gellis did not look up. He kept writing. The pen was loud in the stillness of the room. I looked at his bent head, waiting.

In a moment he gestured quickly to the tea tray. “If you’d be so kind,” he said, and bent back to his writing.

I sat stupidly for a long moment. Then I stood, on shaky legs that would hardly bear me, and made my way to the tea tray. My
hip throbbed, and my shoulder ached where I had somehow wrenched it in my terrified escape. But, I told myself, Mr. Gellis knew none of this. Of course he would expect me to serve tea. I was his assistant, and I was here on his charity, so the least I could do was—

The door smashed open with a bang. A man stormed into the room—he looked like a thief: quick, dangerous, dark-jawed, and rough-dressed. A charcoal-colored cap was pulled low over his eyes. He didn’t see me, but made straight for Mr. Gellis.

“Alistair,” he said. His voice was low gravel. “Did I miss it? For God’s sake. Was there something? There was, wasn’t there? Goddamn it to all fucking hell.”

Mr. Gellis had looked up from his notebook; there was no fear on his face, only faint amusement. He tilted his head in my direction, indicating me to the madman.