People in the Walls

The house creaked loudly as the storm winds battered it. I always imagined that it was like being on one of my father’s ships as they made their way through the China Sea during a typhoon. He had been a jute importer, Gerald Bracknell & Co., back in the days when the high masted vessels plied the oceans of the world seeking produce to turn into riches for themselves.

‘Windwearie’ had been built from some of this wealth before I was born. My heavily pregnant mother’s first sight of the house was three months after the builders had left. Her reaction had been a sharp intake of breath which my father had taken as awe, but in fact, as she confided to me after I had attained my teenage years, was a fierce feeling of misgiving.

After my birth I was handed over to a nanny/ housekeeper. Mrs Berkinshaw was a sullen, odious woman who although purporting to having had children, displayed none of the maternal, loving demeanour one would expect. When I was ill she dosed me with castor oil, promising that it was the only way to fight off the infection… how I hated her!

Now, I was mistress of the house, but due to my advanced years and infirmity, had to rule from my bed chamber.

The door to my bedroom creaked open and in waddled, dear old Dawes, a butler to the family for many years. He was old now but had been a spruce young man when he arrived. I remember that dapper man as if it was yesterday, but there had been many yesterdays since and the years had not been kind to him. Oh, old age, it is a real leveller.

“Your  supper, Ms. Mathilda,” said Dawes, laying a tray, upon which sat two pieces of lightly buttered toast and a mug of cocoa, down in front of me.

“Thank you Dawes,” I said wearily. “It sounds as if it is going to be a wild night.”

“Yes madam, they say that the foul weather the Americas have been experiencing has crossed the ocean to give us a taste.”

“Oh dear, I suppose we will just have to bear the brunt.”

“Goodnight, madam. Sleep well.”

After Dawes had shut my bedroom door and descended the stairs to his apartment, I realised that no sleep would visit my bed that night. What with the ferocity of the wind and its effect on the fabric of the house, I was to have a perfect background for my visitors.

It was one year after my poor, dear mother had passed away that a true black, gloom descended on ‘Windwearie’. The house had been in mourning for the customary year and my father had just returned to his transactions in and around the China Sea. He may still have been under the crushing depression left by mother’s sudden demise, for he was careless in his dealings and fell foul of one, Akhabir Khan, an Asian businessman. Khan was purported to have connections with the Purple Kris, an evil group made up of mercenaries, turncoats and sorcerers. He accused my father of swindling him out of many thousands of pounds and threatened him with repercussions if the debt was not honoured. My father reported Khan to the authorities and the businessman was hauled off to prison. The man was ultimately freed by bribing the prison officials, but now my father had a powerful enemy.

Several weeks after the unpleasant incident a large packing box arrived at ‘Windwearie’, it was addressed to my father, but in his absence, Mrs Berkinshaw was authorised to open it. As the packaging fell away it revealed an ornate wooden box roughly having the dimensions of a good sized coffin. Dragons and other fantastic creatures were carved into its lid and sides, their eyes were inlayed with precious stones. Brass metal straps encompassed it and ran to a large metal lock, which was securely locked. Mrs Berkinshaw was furious and stamped her feet. “Whoever would think of sending a locked box without a key?” she had shouted angrily before ordering two of the servants to carry it down into the basement where various tools were kept.

It was not until late the following evening that the odious housekeeper turned her attention again to the box. This time she announced to the servants and kitchen staff that she would not be thwarted. Various drills and cutting equipment had been laid out ready for the assault on the casket.

I remember it was another stormy night, with lightning and rolling thunder claps which shook ‘Windwearie to its core. I had been sent to bed to say my prayers and prepare for sleep, but had I known what was to transpire I would have prayed longer and harder for deliverance.

I could make out the sound of hammering and sawing coming from the bowels of the house. It echoed up the stairwell as I lay awake hoping that it would finish and I could get some peace to sleep. All at once there was an almighty crash from the heavens which coincided with a scream of terror. The following silence was truly deafening and I lay petrified with fear, hiding beneath my bedclothes.

All at once I felt a tangible chill enter the room; it was as if a north wind was breathing its icy breath over everything. I threw back the bedclothes and groped for my overgown which was fur lined, as I pulled it on I could see my breath in the air, the temperature was that low. A gloom had spread itself about the room hanging below the ceiling and swirling about the frieze high up in the room. As it swirled I could imagine an evil looking face that dissipated and reformed over and over. With a scream I ran from the room and down the stairs…right into the arms of Mrs Berkinshaw.”Olivia,” she had grunted as she staggered from the impact of my retreat. “What are you doing down here?”

I could see in her face that she had had a shock and I wondered what had been terrifying enough to cause this woman fear. “What did you find within the box?” I asked tentatively. “Was it treasure?”

“No…”stuttered the woman. “just some stinking bits of cloth, now get back to your bed, this instant!”

Some days later I learnt from a thoroughly frightened young valet who had been present at the opening of the box, that rather than just foul smelling, soiled material, it had looked as if a body wrapped in cerements had been lying within the casket, but that upon being exposed to the air the form had collapsed leaving just its wrappings and the pungent odour of rotting flesh. “We just slammed the box closed and ran out of the basement,” explained the young man. “But, it felt as if something was following us as we made our escape.”

For the following weeks before my father’s return the house was not a quiet one. Mrs Berkinshaw blamed the mice, the wind and the settlement of the house’s timbers, in fact anything than admit that an evil presence now occupied ‘Windwearie’ and was bent on driving us out.

Each night I demanded that a candle burnt by my bedside as in the dark all manner of things could be heard creeping, scuttling and dripping onto my floor. Sometimes the smells that permeated were a mixture of sour, spicy and downright revolting. I knew decisively that something had escaped from the wooden box and it was not of this world. We were a beleaguered house held in thrall by something powerfully evil.

My father arrived home some months later in time for my seventeenth birthday and knew right away that all was not as it should be. He called for Mrs Berkinshaw to come to his study and after closing the door, demanded an explanation from the woman.

She attempted to blame the servants for opening the package and ultimately the casket, but father explained that it was she who had been left in charge and so it was her responsibility. Father realised that his adversary, Akhabir Khan, was the root of the trouble and although conscious of the man’s infamy, equally knew that if his housekeeper had not opened the accursed item, possibly, the trouble could have been handled more prudently.

That night Father went out and did not come home until the small hours arriving with a cart, out of the back of which, he and one of the servants carried four bulky, blanket-covered items into the house.

Strangely, that night, the house was silent and the presence that seemed to haunt the house was absent. The atmosphere felt warmer and I noticed some of the servants actually smiling! What had Father done and what were these objects that he had brought in?

I crept downstairs as quietly as I could and on the bottom flight of stairs I peeked through the banister rails down into the great hall of Windwearie. Father had inscribed a large five pointed star on the flagstones and he stood in the middle of the strange design, the blanketed forms that Father and one of the servants had carried in, lay at four of the five points.

“I command you to appear, djinn!” shouted my Father, into what seemed the empty air.”I command you in the name of Falgassa, head djinn of your sect!”

Suddenly a strange greenish light began to materialise in the air, above Father’s head. It strengthened as I watched and took on the shape of a tall flame, continuously flickering. “You summoned me infidel!” a voice from within the flame called loudly.

“I have fulfilled your requirements, spirit, now leave my house and never return!”

The flame lowered until it hung above one of the blanketed shapes and then it stretched out and ignited the blanket covering. As it turned to ash, I saw to my horror that it was a corpse that was exposed. The eyes were missing and the mouth hung open.

“Where is the fifth, infidel?” the spirit screamed. “You have not completed the ritual!”

“I am awaiting the arrival of the fifth,” my Father said turning towards the end of the hall as the front door opened and let in some sort of wolf. It was carrying a bundle in its teeth and as it moved into the light, seemed bewildered.

“My familiar, Grydak has provided the remaining piece of this cosmic jigsaw!” said Father as he called the wolf towards him. The animal trotted up to him and gently laid the bundle down on the previously, empty fifth point.

“I go,” screamed the djinn. “But, be warned if you leave, but a chink in your armour, I will return…and I will not be alone!” Suddenly, there was a noise like a rushing wind and the flame disappeared.

How I managed to get back to my bed undetected, I will never know. My legs felt like rubber and the scene that I had witnessed seemed to be burnt into my brain. Pulling the sheets over my head, I shivered in the darkness till merciful sleep took me and gave me a welcome oblivion, until I was awakened by Mrs Birkenshaw.

“Breakfast is ready, please make your way down to dining room,” she said in a sepulchral voice.

As I descended the stairs I wondered if there would be any trace of last night’s happenings, but I was relieved to see that the great hall’s floor was devoid of anything save some small rugs. I could see no sign of any of the blanketed corpses or of the inscribed star. There were, though, a pile of parcels wrapped up in silver and gold foil. It was my birthday and Father had brought my presents with him when he had returned home. He descended the stairs from his bedroom and bade me begin discovering what he had bought for me.

As I opened the boxes and found beautiful clothes and jewellery, Father watched on with a strange look on his face.

Eventually, after I had opened all the gifts and had given Father a hug and kiss, I asked him why he was not happier than he was, I mean, it was my birthday.

“Go and have your breakfast,” he said. “I will explain when I have completed my toilette.”

“You are to stay with your cousin Agatha, Mathilda,” my Father announced when he had joined me at the dining table, looking as smart as ever, not a trace of the sleepless night he must have had.

I looked up from my porridge and asked why I had to go.

“The builders are coming to make a few alterations to Windwearie. It will be dusty and dirty for a week or two, so you would be better at Agatha’s house. You can take some of your presents to show her.”

Now my cousin Agatha is the most vacuous and selfish person I had ever met and two weeks in her company would seem like two years. “Must I go Father; I would rather stay with you, here?”I groaned.

So began an interminable period in which I had to grit my teeth to stop saying anything untoward and keep my arms by my sides to avoid walloping my dear, sweet cousin. If she thought before she spoke life would have been much better.

But, as time will, time passed and soon I was bidding Agatha and her family goodbye, on my way back to Windwearie. Was I happy to see the old house appearing in the distance? I imagined my arrival, seeing Father again and being able to sleep in my own bedroom. Even the prospect of Mrs Birkinshaw didn’t deter my good feeling.

Later that day as I went into the lounge to bid Father, goodnight, I noticed that an area of the wall had been replastered. The surface was darker than the surrounding walls as it still had to dry.

“Did you get all the work done satisfactorily, Father,” I asked, as I approached where he was sitting.

He looked up from the book he was reading and saw me looking at the drying piece of wall. “Yes, it has been done. I suspected dry rot in the woodwork. It always helps to ‘nip it in the bud’ when you discover it,” he said with a little laugh.

The night, as normal was stormy. Windwearie had been well named, as the area seemed to attract gales and stormy conditions. The old house was used to bracing itself against inclement weather.

As I snuggled deep down under the sheets trying to deaden the wind’s shriek, I realised that I hadn’t blown out my candle, so pulling the covers down, I leant over and extinguished the flame with a puff of my breath.

I thought that there had to be another candle alight in the room for although I had put out my bedside candle, the room was still weakly illuminated. Looking over to the far corner of my room, I was shocked to see a small glowing ember hovering in the air, getting brighter and brighter. As I watched it began to fashion itself into a figure – that of a small boy.

Nearly out of my mind, I shrieked again and again as the boy became clearer and finally I jumped out of bed and made for the door to my bedroom. I threw it open and there stood Mrs Birkinshaw, a look of fury on her face.

“Have a nightmare?” she said in a mocking tone. “Get back to bed this instant!” she hissed as she pushed me back into the room and slammed the door in my face.

I began to scream again and pull at the door handle, but the housekeeper had tight hold on the handle on the other side of the door and the door refused to budge.

Suddenly, I heard my father’s voice asking Mrs Birkinshaw what all the screaming was about. I pounded on the door and screamed to be let out. All at once the door was wrenched open and I rushed out and into my father’s arms.

“What is the meaning of this, Mrs Birkinshaw?” I heard my father ask quietly, although I knew that from past experience, he was keeping his anger under control – for now.

“She just had a b-b-bad dream, sir,” stuttered the housekeeper. “You can’t afford to mollycoddle her or she will never learn.”

“Learn what, exactly?” my father’s anger was rising.”She is still, only a child!”

”Spoil the child…” Mrs Birkinshaw began to say, but was cut off by my Father.

“Get to your room, Mrs Birkinshaw, pack your things and get out of this house – now!”

“But, sir…!”

“Go…now.”

The housekeeper glared at me balefully then spun on her heel and marched off to her room, I never saw her again.

When I returned to my bedroom with Father, I could see that the room was empty, but there was a palatable chill about it and I quickly got into bed

Father asked if I would be alright now and lit a candle by my bed.

“To give you some comfort, my dear. Good night,” he whispered, before shutting my bedroom door.

I glanced round the room to convince myself that I indeed was alone then pulled the covers up and over my head.

It was about five minutes later when I heard a scuffle from  the far wall of the bedroom.

“Matilda…” a tiny voice called out and I shivered with fright.

“Matilda…please, speak to me. I won’t harm you, I promise.”

I gritted my teeth and slowly lowered the blanket. For a few seconds I couldn’t see anything, then the figure of the child began to reappear. I made to run to the door again, but the voice spoke again. “Please, please, don’t run away.”

I sat back in the bed and witnessed a little boy looking as solid as you or I, suddenly appear.

“I am sorry to scare you, Matilda, but I must speak to you. Are you willing to listen to me?” he said sadly.

It transpired that the boy’s name was Samuel and he was four years old. He had been bought from an orphanage and strangled by two men. One had looked very smart, while the other looked dirty and unkempt. The young boy’s spirit watched from above his body as it had been hidden in an old warehouse; then, two days ago when it had been transported, covered in a blanket to an area near Windwearie where it was left. Samuel saw that the body lay there for quite some time until a dog or some animal carried it into the house.

“My spirit cannot rest, Matilda,” said Samuel. “for my remains have been used in a magical ceremony which binds me to the earth.”

Matilda remembered what she had seen from the stairs when she had witnessed her father standing in the hall with the large star inscribed on the floor. Samuel’s body had been the small bundle that had been brought in last. It had been a magical ceremony, she thought.

“What can I do to help?” she asked the spirit. “Is there anything I can do?”

In two weeks time, the great Festival of Baroc would take place, which signalled the beginning of a period named the ‘Days of Unrest’, the djinn would return to Windwearie to check for loopholes that would let it take occupancy again, Samuel explained to Mathilda.

“We have to do something that will break the circle of power that was set up during the ceremony, Samuel whispered.

“But, that will let it take over the house again and make it uninhabitable,” Mathilda hissed.

“Not if you do what I tell you,” Samuel said. “Do you really wish to leave here?”

The next day, Gerald Bracknell left for London. He called for Matilda and when she came downstairs, he told her that he was to be away for a few days, but upon his return, she would be going back to stay with cousin Agatha for two weeks. From what Samuel had told her, the period of her absence would coincide with the Festival of Baroc. No wonder Father wants me out of the way, thought Matilda.

That night, Matilda made her way into her father’s study. Mrs Potts the cook was acting as housekeeper until a replacement could be found for Mrs Birkinshaw. The cook loved her ‘after supper’ tipple which rendered her unconscious very quickly, so Matilda knew that no one would notice her presence in this part of the house. Closing the door of the study quietly, Matilda crept over to her father’s desk and checked the newly plastered portion of wall, behind it. Samuel had told her that his remains had been placed in the wall as part of the occult protection for the house.

Picking up a heavy ruler from the desktop, Matilda began to strike the wall until the plaster cracked open revealing a large hole. The smell issuing from within made Mathilda choke and she covered her nose with her hand. Carefully, feeling inside the hole she located a soft heap of cloth, it was the boy’s corpse.

A gibbous moon hung over the garden of Windwearie as Mathilda carried Samuel’s body to a spot beyond the large greenhouse. The soil was dry and light there so she had no problem digging a hole and burying her sad, little bundle.

Next, she went and found Mrs Potts and reported that the new plastering in her father’s study had collapsed and that the plasterer would have to return the next day to repair the damage. “If it is done right away Father will never notice,” Mathilda explained to the cook.

Upon returning from London five days later, Gerald Bracknell went straight to his study and Mathilda held her breath after the door closed. Her Father had brought back a lot of documents which required his attention immediately, so did not notice anything untoward. Even so, Mathilda had had one of the servants hang a large picture over the newly plastered wall to make doubly sure.

Upon arriving at her cousin’s Agatha’s, Mathilda was pleasantly surprised by being told that her cousin had been confined to bed with a slight fever. Mathilda was forbidden to visit her ailing cousin for fear of contracting any sickness and thus passed her days in trivial pursuits like walking and riding sometimes alone or with her uncle and aunt.

A week later Mathilda was called to her uncle’s drawing room. When she entered she could see that both her aunt and uncle were upset and upon being made to sit, Mathilda was told that there had been a terrible accident at Windwearie and that tragically her father had been killed.

Fighting back the tears, Mathilda demanded to know what had happened.

“When the police arrived at the request of Mrs Potts, they had discovered two bodies lying dead in the hall,” explained Mathilda’s uncle. “The second body was that of a business rival of your father’s, one Akhabir Khan.”

I had no allusions about what had killed them, for by removing Samuel’s corpse, I had allowed the djinn to return and take possession of Windwearie. Upon returning home I had returned Samuel’s remains to the wall, thus returning the spiritual protection to the house and ousting the djinn.

I felt deeply shocked by Father’s death, but I felt that as he had dabbled in black magic and had been instrumental in Samuel’s death, it had been a just outcome.

Father had left a fortune in his will to me and I had become mistress of Windwearie.

The wind and rained battered my bedroom window as I returned mentally to the present. I sipped my tea and then turning down the light till I could just about make out the furniture in my bedroom, I called quietly, “You can come out now!”

Samuel’s spirit was the first to appear. He had never aged and still had the appearance of a four year old, but with the intellect of a person much older. “Good evening, Ms. Matilda,” he whispered.

The other four spirits appeared in different areas of the room; with their remains secreted in various parts of the house, they were earthbound until a discovery was made of their earthly bodies and subsequently buried in holy land.

But for now they were my constant companions, I never learnt their names but their loyalty to me was absolute. If Windwearie was engulfed in a night storm, they all appeared to allay my fears and to ensure I was not alone until I fell asleep. What more could I ask for?

……………………………………………………………….+……………………………………………………………………………..

11/01/18

Cairniehill

Arbroath