Blackened Cottage

  BLACKENED

  COTTAGE

  A.E.Richards

  Text copyright © 2012 A.E.Richards

  The right of A.E.Richards to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the author.

  The characters in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1 Father

  Chapter 2 Shadows

  Chapter 3 The Girl in the Garden

  Chapter 4 Bethan

  Chapter 5 Gone

  Chapter 6 Freedom Lost

  Chapter 7 Jean-Bernard

  Chapter 8 Villette

  Chapter 9 Bread Knife

  Chapter 10 In the Woods

  Chapter 11 Rats

  Chapter 12 Love Thy Neighbour

  Chapter 13 Graveyard

  Chapter 14 Mist

  Chapter 15 Old Firsden

  Chapter 16 Hide and Seek

  Chapter 17 Memories

  Chapter 18 Diseased

  Chapter 19 The Reaper

  Chapter 20 Escape

  Chapter 21 A Weighty Suggestion

  Chapter 22 Truth

  Chapter 23 Home Sweet Home

  Chapter 24 Mortimer Godfrey

  Chapter 25 Cat and Mice

  Chapter 26 Sacrifice

  Epilogue Hope

  Acknowledgements

  For Mum and Dad

  CHAPTER 1

  FATHER

  Dear Mama,

  If it were not for little Eddie, I fear I would lose my mind.

  Father has not spoken once since you left us. In truth, he barely glances in my direction and, if he comes near, which thankfully is a rare thing indeed, a frightful tension accompanies him and I have to fight the urge to flee the room.

  I am confined to the new house for the foreseeable period and I do not know why. I just know that Father's brief note carried a warning tone that could be dangerous to ignore.

  We are hidden away in the countryside far from anyone, in a hideous place rather aptly called Blackened Cottage, for its outer walls are painted entirely black. Sadly, the cottage is about as welcoming as the Reaper's smile. Inside, the walls are the colour of jaundiced skin. A cloying odour of rancid milk permeates the air, and dust muffles every surface as if the building has not been lived in for one hundred years.

  For me, the floorboards are the cottage's one redeeming feature. They are finest oak, beautiful when shaved of dust. You would admire them Mama.

  Downstairs there is a study that I have never entered, a small, dank kitchen and a medium-sized living room with a bricked in fireplace. A narrow staircase leads upstairs to just two bedrooms so Father sleeps in the study. I gave the bigger bedroom to Eddie. He needs it more than me.

  Father's silence does not merely estrange me, it scares me. Though Eddie says nothing, I know it disturbs him too. Occasionally, I catch Father staring at his reflection with a strange intensity. His eyes seem darker these days, and my spine prickles when he enters the room. Mostly he keeps to his study, for which I am glad.

  I spend my days tutoring Eddie in Mathematics and English. He is a good pupil. He works hard and asks a lot of questions. Fortunately, he has ceased asking about Father. It is almost as if Eddie has accepted our new reality far more readily than I.

  Loneliness burns my chest, but I cannot leave – not while Eddie is so young. We celebrated his eighth birthday yesterday. Just he and I. I made him a puzzle. It was his only present. Either Father forgot or he no longer cares, but I dare not approach him to ask.

  Oh Mama, I cannot believe you have been gone a year. Would that you could return and take us away from all of this.

  Father's footsteps are on the landing! I must hide this. 'Til tomorrow Mama,

  Lisbeth

  *

  I hide my letter just as Father's footsteps pause outside my door. My heart drums even though I am almost certain he will not enter my room. The floorboards creak once, twice, thrice. He is moving away. I let out a sigh and unclench my fists. He has never hurt me or Eddie, but I can feel his soul darkening. His mind slipping.

  Eddie is in the garden but it is getting dark so I gently open my door and tiptoe down the staircase. Every board creaks and gives a little underfoot. I wonder how long it will be before a step gives way. A tiny part of me hopes that when that day comes, Father will be the one who crashes through the floor. Things would be so much easier if he were not around.

  Immediately I feel guilty for the thought and bite my lip until it stings.

  I creep past Father's study. As usual, the door is firmly shut.

  With bare feet and strumming heart, I hastily exit the living room. In this house, I cannot walk slowly.

  Eddie is play-fighting with Jack. Jack is his imaginary friend.

  Jack is also eight years old. He has carrot-orange hair and freckles. He wears an old-fashioned sailor uniform. Eddie says Jack wears the same thing every day.

  “Time for supper, Eddie.”

  “Can Jack come too? Please, please, please?”

  I search his delicate, innocent face. His brown hair flops down over his right eye. He always reminds me of a puppy. Unconditionally loving. My heart twinges. I brave a smile.

  “Jack can most certainly join you – as long as he minds his table manners.”

  “Yes!” Eddie exclaims, “Come Jack, you can sit next to me.”

  Not for the first time, I glimpse a form beside Eddie as he hurries into the cottage. I shake my head, certain I am imagining things.

  Following quickly, I leave the garden with its dark cords of ivy and enter the kitchen.

  I decide to explore the garden tomorrow in the daylight when Eddie takes his afternoon nap. Eddie tells me it is far bigger than it first appears.

  *

  My Dearest Lisbeth,

  Times are hard. I miss you and Eddie dearly. I am sorry for leaving you with that soulless man, but you are strong, kind and good and I am hopeful that your loving spirit will ferry you through the loneliness that you speak of.

  With regards to your Father, do you remember what I told you before I left? DO NOT TRUST HIM. If he is electing not to converse with you this is a good thing. Believe me. He is a dire man. His soul dissolves by the day; I could feel it then, and now, so can you. Be careful. Trust your instincts.

  I will write again shortly. All my love,

  Mama

  *

  Afternoon birds beckon me outside. Their song is a lullaby strangely hypnotic.

  Despite the chill air, the sun is blinding.

  I pull my black shawl tighter and exhale a misty steam. My feet are bare on the long, cold grass but my toes remain warm. My gown sweeps the earth picking up damp soil that is almost black.

  I turn around and stare at the cottage. Four unblinking eyes surrounded by darkness. The queerness of its ebony coating stills my heart for a moment and I shudder. Why would someone paint a house black? Who would paint a house black? My mind creates a figure shrouded in black. Its face is hooded, but underneath its curling lips grin wickedly.

  Dispelling this unnerving image, I gather my dirtied skirts and slowly descend.

  I walk slowly between sapless oaks; dusty branches like broken limbs; a throng of dead daddy long legs on their backs. A sad thought occurs to me: Winter is starving the garden of life, just as loneliness is depriving me of hope.

  The grass tickles my ankles and calves. Crisp brown leaves cringe, crunch. The sound is satisfying but the scraping fee
ling irritates. Still, I feel freer with my soles bared. I always have and always will. It is something Mama loves about me so I cling to it.

  A jackdaw brazenly lands, stabs at the earth, rips out a worm, chokes it down. Strolls a little. Stabs at the earth again.

  I freeze and stare at it. Black beetling eyes in a puddle grey face. Sharp, stabbing black beak. Strong, hulking black body. Glossy feathers. Arrogant. Aloof. Superior.

  As I advance, I wonder how to portray such a creature, even though I know I will never capture the bird's complexity with my charcoal.

  I lift my hands to inspect the state of my fingernails, and the movement disturbs the jackdaw who laboriously lifts from the ground and soars away.

  The nails of my left hand are worse. Black grime sits there. Something reddish-brown also fills the space between fingertip and nail. Perhaps it is residual dirt from cleaning the brass. I taste the tip of my index finger. The flavour is distinct: dried blood. A stinging sensation draws my attention. I pull up my sleeve and gasp. A nasty slit runs from wrist to elbow. I realise I must have ripped it on a branch and not noticed. The pain is not much so I decide to rinse it when I have finished my walk.

  I begin to take a step and hear a scream. It is coming from the cottage. The scream belongs to Eddie!

  With storming heart I abandon my search and tear back to the cottage.

  *

  Dear Diary,

  I am sitting in my study as I write this. As always, I am tired. I am tired of this life and of the man I have become. Evil thoughts are upon me every day, nay every hour. Of slashing and tearing, of ripping and slicing. In my imagination I see blood everywhere and I fear, dear diary, that my imagination will all too soon become my reality. And when it does then what will come of me, and what might my anguish cause me to do?

  My daughter and my son are of no help. I wish they were gone from my life, buried deep underground and forgotten by all. My wife I feel sure has gone forever and I am beginning to accept it. But my children still haunt me. It is when I feel at my most melancholic and, yes, my most dangerous, that it seems their voices are at their loudest. It might be the simplest thing. My son calls: ‘Where are my shoes Father?’ and I hear it clearly and the sound grates on my soul. I cover my ears but I feel my hands turn to fists and I want to strike out. To stop their noise forever would be a blessing.

  Am I a bad man? I believe so. My children should mean everything to me I know. I should be being kind to them, speaking softly to them, playing with them. Instead I wish them gone. Gone forever so that I hear their entreatments no more. I can no longer bear the thought of them.

  My wife has left me. Some would say she has done badly by her children by what she has done and where she has gone. And yet she has at least found a way of escaping reality, whereas I am caught in a place where my brain cannot cope and where my anger rises more fiercely with every waking hour. If my children came into my study at this moment I fear what I might do.

  And yet there is a chance she may return to me. Sustaining even this infinitesimal fraction of hope is draining, but I cannot give up. Not yet. Not while hope remains. So I continue to exist in this empty shell. I cannot be a good father any more or a loving husband so now I am simply a man hanging by a thread. Control of my temper is essential but difficult, oh so difficult.

  She, of course, cannot be a mother or a wife any more either, but I cannot persuade myself to enter her world. I am frightened about what will happen if I do. Fearful of what I might do if I learn that all hope is gone. I just need more time. She needs more time. Time is a great healer, so they say.

  I know she feels like I am abandoning her but it really is better this way. Or at least I think it is. If I were to go to her...who knows what would happen? We are both capable of doing awful things. Terrible, unspeakable things. Of that I am certain.

  Sometimes, when I am out of sorts, visions flit across my mind’s eye. Visions so despicable that I dare not put them on this parchment for fear that writing them down may somehow transform them into reality. They are visions of me acting upon this heinous rage that torments my soul. They are visions of my merciless nature, savage, driven by aggression. Indeed, knowing that I am capable of conjuring up such notions scares me. It makes me aware of a dark part within my mind and of what, if pushed, I could do. I used to contain a gentle soul, but this thing that haunts me is beginning to possess my thoughts and impulses. Soon I fear I may lose myself.

  At times, I wake as if from a dream even though I have not been asleep. I wake and I see red. Literally. I see red, the hue of congealed blood. The colour taints my vision, twists all logic. And if I were to look upon her in that one moment of suspended reason, I fear I would know her as the she-devil and act accordingly.

  Am I going mad? Am I in danger of losing control and damaging the one thing I have left in this dismal world? Then again, I do not really have her anymore: her mind soured against me a long time ago and she has gone. She is the bitter fruit I dare not touch. Nothing I do would persuade her I mean no harm because even I cannot be persuaded of this; I am at once rankled that she will not let me go to her and yet relieved. Every day I grow more wary of the passage of my thoughts for they trek an increasingly menacing path spiked with thorns and spite.

  It is better this way, for now. Better if I stay away. If not for her safety, then for my own sanity.

  But there is Lisbeth, outside my door again, scuttling past like a frightened rabbit. She does right to stay away. And I must do the same otherwise my anger could explode into her like a hundred arrows laced with poison.

  I must away.

  Charles Cutteridge

  CHAPTER 2

  SHADOWS

  Dear Mama,

  Something happened to Eddie today. Something strange. Something inexplicable and very very wrong.

  I was exploring the new garden when I heard a frightful scream. I tore up to the cottage and upstairs to Eddie's room. The sight on entering was one that will stay with me forever. I will never forget the fear and confusion in Eddie's eyes nor the blood. So much blood.

  When I opened the door, he was sitting on the floor huddled up like a little orphan. His eyes were wide, his face ashen. He raised a trembling hand and pointed to the door beside me.

  I followed the direction of his finger and a shadow caught my eye. I blinked and it was gone.

  “What is it sweetheart?” I whispered.

  Eddie shook his head, his eyes never veering from the doorway.

  “Tell me what happened Eddie.”

  I could hear my voice rising urgently. I resisted the urge to scream, aware that I would not get answers that way.

  Eddie met my eyes for a fleeting second then murmured, “I am sorry. It is my fault.”

  Finally my feet moved and I wrapped my arms carefully around him. His little body shivered violently against me.

  “Please Eddie, tell me what happened. I need to know. I can protect you if I know.”

  But he clammed up. I knew he could not tell me anything. I know this is awful, but part of me felt relieved. Maybe it was best not to know.

  Gently I lifted his blood-soaked shirt and examined his back. A deep slash trailed one shoulder blade to the other, almost as if someone had sliced a knife across his tender flesh. I picked up his hands and examine his fingernails. Every nail was laced with blood.

  I rocked him for a while then took him downstairs to clean the wound. As always he was a brave boy. I tucked him up in his bed and stroked his hair until he fell asleep.

  Now I am writing to you with fear in my heart. Has Eddie done this to himself? Or did Father have something to do with it? Are the shadows I see behind Father’s eyes the shadows of an errant soul? Has Father finally lost his mind? Should I be even more fearful than I already am?

  Questions but no answers. I need you Mama. I need your wisdom to guide me.

  I can hear Eddie crying. I must go to him.

  Your loving daughter,

  Lisbeth

/>   P.S. I fear that the aforementioned revelations may disturb you. Promise you will let me know if you no longer wish me to report incidents like these. The thing I want least in the world is to upset you.

  *

  I soothe Eddie with a lullaby that Mama used to sing to me when I was little. After a while, his crying ceases and his eyelids drop.

  My body is releasing its tension too. The throbbing in my temples eases and eventually I drift out of the room and down the stairs.

  My steps quicken as I cross the living room past Father's study into the kitchen. Outside the night has come. My garden exploration will have to wait until the following day.

  With growling stomach, I prepare a light meal of buttered bread and apricot jam.

  Turning to leave the kitchen, I freeze. Father stands in the doorway. The meek light of the room casts him as a dark shadow - a giant, a stranger – and as he steps into the room I shudder involuntarily.

  Shadow veils his expression but I can sense his eyes burning into mine. It is the first time he has looked at me in a long while and although I feel glad to be acknowledged, my muscles tense and I battle a strong desire to flee the room.

  He continues to stand there, staring. Staring, staring, staring. Staring so much that I can no longer contain myself.

  “What?”

  My voice comes out a high-pitched squeak. I hope he cannot hear the fear in it.

  He takes another step into the room revealing his face properly for the first time. His eyes are ringed black. His face is sallow, sickly. Deep creases stain his papery skin.

  He looks far older than I remember and I am shocked by his appearance. Anger and compassion tussle within; why should he be feeling and looking ill? On the one hand, I want to reach out to him and make him feel better, but on the other hand I see no reason for him to look so unwell. It is him after all who has split our family apart. Father is the one to blame for making Eddie and I feel so lonely and unwanted. For making Mama go away.