November 1st 1882
Clouds occlude the sun’s once radiant rays, now dimmed by the dappled streaks of grey, the sky a vast bleak canvas. The morning seemed promising; the sun had shown itself and the weather remained dry. Great weather for a day out to the seaside on Gloomnagal’s new steam locomotive (despite the biting cold of early November), which the town reporter hailed as a ‘feat and example of the promises of modern technology’. The town of course had one man to thank for the bestowal of this generous gift on the humble denizens: Augustus Blackwater, local entrepreneur, wealthy beyond the comprehension and wildest dreams of most of the inhabitants of Gloomnagal. Why he took up residence here, and what his purposes were, having not been born of the municipality, is something that has never been unveiled, and probably never will now. On a vast gated hill on the outskirts of the district he lives in an antiquated mansion with his beautiful but condescending wife, and other than his recent act of charity, the locals knew little of the couple.
Onwards the locomotive steams, through vast fields of dairy cows, the odd ruddy-faced farmer cropping up here and there, the locomotive’s red and gold and brass panelling losing some of its lustre in the fading sun. Inside children giggle with joy and point out the windows in amazement, never having travelled on such a machine before. The adults too are amazed, if not more so than the children and turn their wonder-filled eyes to the plush furnishings and the breathtaking views outside, having never dreamed to have travelled in such luxury. Through a grove of yew trees and finally onto a bridge above a glassy, impenetrable lake the locomotive heads further into the bleak mist…
***
Morning
Chaos ensues in the station that rain-sodden November morning: firefighters rush out to the scene, their bells filling the air with their cacophonous noise, but it will be too late for many by the time the horse-drawn steam engines get there. Men run around, frantic – desperate to send more forces out to the scene. The constabulary too, join in this chaos sending off a squad of men on horseback to attend the scene. By the side of the lake, survivors are already pulling themselves onto the shore, gasping for air and trying to account for who is there beside them. Under an imposing chestnut tree, sheltering from the rain and huddling for warmth in the cold, sit two little boys, no older than twelve, their faces drawn and grown old with worry.
Afternoon
‘What a horrible task he’s given us, the aul boss man,’ says Constable Joiner, lifting his hat and running a hand through his hair, giving it a ruffled appearance before replacing it.
‘Just couldn’t bear to do it himself, could he – we always have to be the ones to give the bad news, and I’ll tell you another thing that good for nothing Lawrence never has to go on these calls, how does he wheedle his way out, hmm?’
‘That I couldn’t tell you Joiner,’ replies Constable Foster, a tall, dark-haired man with a sombre countenance walking next to Constable Joiner, ‘but think, man, of where we are going. I know it’s unfortunate that we always seem to get landed with this job, but think of the poor young lady in that house. We must act with respect.’
‘Oh, I know that Foster, I wasn’t going to deliver the news with any disrespect, it’s a terribly unfortunate situation but I’m just saying it’s unfair that we always have to do it.’
The conversation halts as the two men turn down a small stone path leading off the street, already dimly lit with gas lamps and head up a set of three steps to the front door of a small Georgian town house. Constable Foster steps up to the door and knocks three times, then stands back with his colleague and awaits an answer.
The door swings open and a lady somewhere in mid-life opens the door, beaming down upon the two officers.
‘Is Mr Morrigan in, madam’ asks Foster, tentatively.
‘No, the master is not in Sir, but Mrs Morrigan and her daughter Miss Morrigan are present. They are in the young lady’s bed chamber upstairs doing some final alterations to her wedding dress. It may take some time, but you may come in and wait in the parlour, if that would suit you gentlemen.’ She swings the door open and beckons them in.
‘I am afraid the matter is of utmost urgency madam, can you take us to the ladies,’ pipes up Joiner.
Seeing the look on both officers’ faces, Mrs Hogarth, the housekeeper, turns around and leads the officers up a set of sweeping stairs and down a finely furnished landing to the mahogany door at the landing’s end.
‘Mrs Morrigan and her daughter are in this room, officers,’ she says with a backwards glance to the men, then knocks the door thrice. A gentle ‘nter’ resounds from inside the room and Mrs Hogarth opens the door, leading the officers in.
Inside they are met with the sight of a beautiful young woman, standing upon a small box, her body swathed in an ivory lace gown, her thick chestnut hair coiled tightly into a bun, loose ringlets of curls framing her pretty, pale face. At her feet, an older woman bends over the hem of her dress, sewing needle in hand. Behind them, the young woman’s mother stands beaming at her, then, turning her attention to those who have entered the room, shock enters her countenance only for a second before it returns to its regular placidness, as she looks from Mrs Hogarth to the officers.
‘Mrs Hogarth, would you be so kind as to tell me what these fine gentlemen of the constabulary are doing in my daughter’s bed chamber,’ she smiles thinly at Mrs Hogarth.
‘I tried to tell them that you would be some time madam, and to wait in the parlour, however, the officers say it is a matter of utmost urgency and so I have taken them straight to you. I hope I was not wrong in this,’ says Mrs Hogarth, blushing slightly.
‘No, no Mrs Hogarth, if it is something that is so vastly important, I’d rather know.’
She turns to the woman hemming the dress and says ‘Mrs Lacey that will be all for today. We can resume final alterations on the dress tomorrow.’
Mrs Lacey packs up her little box of sewing equipment and leaves the room. The young lady, Miss Morrigan, steps down off the box beside her mother, a look of concern clouding her fair face.
‘Now, what is the matter of urgency, officers’ Mrs Morrigan asks casually.
Both officers take off their hats and Constable Foster steps forward.
‘I am afraid it is bad news madam. There has been a great misfortune, and we must inform you before the word travels. The Blackwater steam locomotive which left for its maiden voyage at 8am this morning has become derailed on the Hillvalley bridge and plunged into the Lake Opaline. A young gentleman by the name of Arthur Baker has been identified as one of the people to have been on this locomotive in the logs pertaining to this machine and has but a half hour ago been identified as deceased. I am very sorry madam.’
Miss Morrigan’s face has turned to a deathly pallor.
‘But this cannot be,’ interjects Mrs Morrigan, ‘why we saw Arthur just last night, alive and well, he had dinner with our family. He was to be wed to my daughter in two days’ time.’
‘I am afraid it is so,’ says Constable Joiner stepping forward, ‘his father identified him at the undertaker’s this morning. Our condolences, madam.’
A horrible, despairing gasp resounds from behind Mrs Morrigan, and her daughter, Miss Morrigan crumples to the ground, her head bent, a rapid flow of tears trickling down her blanched face, her cries coming so fast and aggressively that it seems that she will not be able to take in enough air to breath.
Her mother leans down beside her and pats her back, cooing to her as though she were a baby, ‘It will be well, my love, I am sure this is some great misunderstanding.’
But her daughter, a more realistic woman than her mother, stands up, her ivory dress rippling as she does so to address the officers.
‘Did the children perish too? Arthur left this morning with his two young – younger brothers. They were but children,’ she stammers.
‘No, miss, they are alive and well, albeit shocked and saddened by the loss of their brother. They are at the Baker residence with their mother.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘I do not think it is a good idea to dwell on these things Miss.’
‘Tell me.’
‘No, miss, I really must insist – ’
‘TELL ME!’ Miss Morrigan screams, her mother still on the ground beside her, eyes widening in shock. ‘He was my fiancé, my life and I must know how he met his end. I must, so tell me officer or I do not know what I will do. I will go wild, out of my senses,’ at this she runs her hands through her primly groomed hair, tearing and pulling at it, her face contorting in agony, the sobs beginning anew.
Constable Foster has gone white in shock at this display, and the two officers nod at each other, an unspoken agreement to tell the young woman.
‘Well, if you insist Miss,’ begins Constable Foster, ‘he perished saving the little boys. He pushed them out the window which we believe him to have broken with his boot, given the accounts of the children, but after freeing them, in attempting to free himself, his shirt caught onto the latch of the window, and, unable to free himself, and without others to notice his struggle, he drowned. The little boys tell us that he told them to wait for him when they got to land. He never came.’
‘That’s just like him,’ weeps Miss Morrigan ‘he would never spare a thought for himself. That is just like my Arthur, but now… now he has left me.’
Hanging onto her mother’s shoulders as though for life itself, weeping violently, Miss Morrigan crumples to the ground a second and final time as Mrs Morrigan calls to Mrs Hogarth to bring her daughter some water and smelling salts.
‘We must excuse ourselves now madam. We are very sorry for your loss,’ puts in Foster awkwardly, and he and Joiner leave the room, saddened by the scene they have just witnessed.
November 2nd 1882
The Wake House
It is only 9am but already the Baker household is swarming with the people of Gloomnagal, from businessmen and members of the gentry to linen workers and manual labourers. All know that this is a house where everyone is welcome, regardless of class or background, for Arthur, though a man of business himself, did not shy away from helping those who had less than himself, and was known for teaching classes on English and Arithmetic to the young boys of the town, whose parents had no means, or time to send them to school.
Innumerable wreathes of tragic white lilies and sad little chrysanthemums line the inner hallway and out into the front garden, sent by the family’s many mourners. Inside, in the wake room where the corpse lies, his body is surrounded by swathes of red roses, originally intended for the wedding day.
The Baker house is situated just across the street from the Morrigan household, an easy and convenient distance, always remarked on by both families for when the young couple would be wed. Now, it made for an easy distance for the weeping fiancé to sit by her intended’s coffin side, then to disappear for a while to her own abode, away from the prying, sympathetic eyes of the many visitors to the wake house, a break from the many ‘Terribly sorry about your loss’s and ‘an awful pity, a young life thus extinguished’s. Then, on reappearance, Miss Morrigan would find the condolences starting anew, and eventually, she ran out of tears, sitting in the corner by the coffin, her hand entwined in that of the corpse’s, the harsh white of her strained countenance, standing out stark against the black of her dress, and the vivid red of the roses.
‘The roses are beautiful Miss Morrigan, and really, he looks so peaceful, they give him a bloom of life,’ remarks one well-meaning elderly lady.
‘Yes, they were to be in my wedding bouquet Mrs Palmer,’ sniffs Miss Morrigan dejectedly.
‘Oh, I see – what a lovely thought,’ replies the abashed old woman, and leaves the young woman to her sorrows.
It matters little though, as Miss Morrigan hardly notes who is in the room with her, or speaking to her, but gazes upon Arthur longingly, his once lively face pallid and lifeless, his blonde hair brushed back quite differently from the fashion he usually wore it in, his wedding suit nowhere near as becoming in the throes of death. The hand she grips is cold and unfeeling, nothing like the usual warmth and life that Arthur radiated. But worst of all are his eyes, sealed shut, supposed to imitate sleep, but Miss Morrigan cannot accept this.
‘I shall never see his lovely blue eyes again,’ she mutters, abjectly, staring at the lifeless face, resembling a wax doll. A single tear releases itself down her face, but she hardly notices.
‘What do you say, my love?’ asks her mother, hearing her mutter.
‘Oh, it is nothing mother, like everything else.’
Mrs Morrigan gazes across the crowded room at her husband, Mr Morrigan, trying to catch his eye. He has taken up the mantle of greeting mourners on their behalf and arranging the funeral with the Bakers, allowing the mother and daughter respite from the workings of death. At this moment he is in a deep conversation with one Mr Tucker, an old schoolmate of Arthur’s. Mrs Morrigan is very worried about her daughter, who barely speaks, but when she does, comes out with the most strange, melancholy comments, and wants her husband to escort her back to the Morrigan household so that she may rest a while. But she cannot catch his eye, so lets it be for the present.
In the corner facing the coffin, a group of gentlemen are in a passionate discussion:
‘There are rumours floating about that all was not as good as it seemed with the locomotive,’ says Mr Rook, gazing around at his intrigued listeners.
‘Yes, I’ve heard something similar myself, but I’d like to hear your account of things first, if you please, Rook,’ interrupts Mr Williams.
‘Take a look around you gentlemen,’ continues Mr Rook, ‘most of the town have turned out for Mr Baker’s wake, and yet, who of all of us is missing?’
He lets the question dangle for effect, and when no one answers, continues, ‘Mr Augustus Blackwater himself, the man we have to thank for this tragedy.’
‘But that is mere hearsay, Rook, you must watch what you say. All that Blackwater is guilty of is funding that ill-fated locomotive,’ whispers Mr Quincy, a local solicitor in a warning tone.
‘Indeed not,’ continues the indomitable Mr Rook, ‘I have a friend in the constabulary, and he informs me that experts investigating the scene of the accident and the history of the locomotive have found that shortcuts were taken in the manufacture of the locomotive’s drivers. An investigation is currently ongoing, but you mustn’t tell a soul about this, gentlemen. Not until it is released to the public.’
It is unfortunate for Mr Rook that he did not notice the grieving bride-to-be sitting in the grove of roses behind him, hearing the entirety of this conversation. At these words she stood up, leaving her seat, with the most animated movement she had produced since the announcement of Arthur’s death.
‘Mr Rook, I must speak with you in private,’ she says firmly, a hint of anger shrouded in her insipid apathy. ‘Now Mr Rook. You would not want to cause a scene, would you?’ she whispers under her breath, leaving the room, Mr Rook close behind her.
Shutting the door of the family’s small empty parlour behind them, Mrs Morrigan crosses the room and turns to face Mr Rook, who stands bashfully, not able to meet the gaze of the young woman, her dark eyes piercing through her black veil.
‘What can be the meaning of this Miss Morrigan?’ he finally asks, when she does not speak.
‘Do not play pretend with me, Mr Rook. You know that I have heard your conversation with those gentlemen out there, though you did not notice me at first. Now, do not toy with me. Is Mr Blackwater to blame for the death of my Arthur?’ No tears remain in her eyes now, only a steely determination and intensity which Mr Rook cannot compete with.
‘Miss Morrigan, how could you think – ’
‘Answer me, Rook! It is no good to lie to me now, I heard everything. Is he responsible?’
Mr Rook lets out a long sigh, then finally meets the tragic eyes of Miss Morrigan.
‘You must promise not to utter a word of this to anyone.’
She nods.
‘Then I will tell you. It is believed that Blackwater is the cause of the death and injuries of those on the locomotives through negligence. He has taken shortcuts in the manufacture of the locomotive, buying cheap materials for its manufacture, prizing cost effectiveness over the lives of those travelling on his locomotive.’
Seeing Miss Morrigan’s face drop again into a torturous grief, he finishes ‘I am sorry for the further grief this brings you, Miss Morrigan, but you insisted on knowing. Now you must not tell a soul.’
Miss Morrigan nods imperceptibly, and Mr Rook leaves the room, viewing his duty to the young woman as done.
Passing him in the doorway is Mrs Morrigan, who enters the parlour, looking upon her daughter with increased anxiety.
‘What were you doing in here with Mr Rook, Lucy?’ she asks, worried.
‘I was quite overcome with the crowd in the wake room mother. Mr Rook noticed this, and escorted me to this parlour,’ Lucy replies, apathetically.
‘Let’s get you home now, Lucy. I think you’ve had enough of mourners today.’
November 3rd 1882
The Funeral
The funeral mass is nearly a replica for the wake house in the swarms of people from the town who have turned out for the burial. Miss Lucy Morrigan sits in the front pew with her mother and father and the Baker family, only half listening to the sorrowful remarks of the priest presiding over the ceremony.
Lucy has cried herself out by this point, but it appears that the Bakers’ have tears still left in them as she listens with difficulty to their sorrowful laments, gasps, and sighs. She cannot bring herself to look at Mrs Baker, or the little boys, their grief too much to witness.
‘Eternal rest, grant onto them, O lord…’ drones the priest.
Arthur smiling and happy, looking over at Lucy from across the room.
‘and let perpetual light shine upon them…’
Dancing with Arthur at their engagement party.
‘Through the mercy of God, rest in peace…’
This would have been our wedding day.
‘Amen.’
What God could do this? thinks Lucy, a bitter anger replacing her sorrow. Are these the acts of a merciful God? I scorn this God and all that He stands for, for He has taken my greatest love away. That can be no God.
The mass draws gently to a close and the mourners gather outside for the walk to the graveyard. After a short walk, they arrive in the field of the dead, Lucy, her parents, and the Bakers presiding over the graveside.
As the priest throws the first sods of soil in, Lucy’s anger turns back to an overcoming sorrow as she looks around at the weeping faces surrounding her, and the six-foot box that now lies six feet below the ground, containing what remains of her Arthur in it.
Throwing her handful of soil onto the coffin, Lucy has only one thought.
I wish I was down there with him.
Gravedigging
Night falls, the first real signs of winter making their mark, a torrential rain pounding on the roof of the Morrigan household. It has been several hours since the burial and Mrs Morrigan is sitting with her husband in the parlour, a crackling fire the only indication of warmth in the cold, dreary room. The curtains adorning the windows are still a deep black, signifying that the family are in mourning. Mrs Morrigan talks earnestly to Mr Morrigan, concern etched across her face.
‘I’m very worried about her, dear. She has given me more cause for concern today than she has since we found out about Arthur.’
‘It was a great loss for her Jane, and she is so young. Arthur was going to be her husband, their courtship lasted two years and they have been close friends since they were children. Of course she is going to be upset, she would be a mad, heartless thing if she wasn’t.’
‘It is worse than normal grief, John, if grief can ever be considered normal. She has ceased weeping altogether and confines herself to her room. She will not speak to anyone, will not eat and would not join me for a walk when I suggested one to revive her senses. I do not know what to do John.’
‘She will come around in time, dear. You must allow her the space to process this loss.’
Upstairs, in her darkened bed chamber, Lucy sits, eagerly awaiting the footsteps of her parents on the stairs, signifying their going to bed. At 10:30pm she hears the anticipated steps, and, waiting some fifteen minutes after this, she pulls her dark shawl over her head and heads out into the deep night, the darkness swallowing her whole.
Not a sinner is to be seen on the empty streets, and even some of the gas lamps seem to flicker and give up. Lucy makes her way down the street and veers off onto a country lane, past the cathedral, standing out against the landscape like an insidious sentinel and onwards towards the shadowy cast-iron gates of the graveyard.
Lucy clambers over the gate, almost losing her footing on its wet surface and lands on the soft, mushy ground of the graveyard. She walks up an arching alley of yew trees to the top of the hill, where she walks along a row of graves and finds the one that she is looking for: Arthur’s. At first, she does not know what has brought her here, what morbid sense of hers took her here in the deep recesses of the night when scarcely a star is shining in the sky, and then it dawns on her.
The sexton’s shed.
It is situated to the left of Arthur’s grave, which happens to be on the end of the row. It is old and dilapidated, and she tries its rickety old door. It opens with ease. Inside she finds a large, sturdy shovel and takes this out to the graveside.
The ground would still be soft and easy to penetrate even without the rain from the burial that day, but now Lucy finds herself grateful for the rain and its loosening the soil even more. She begins digging, flicking huge sods of soil up on the graveside, the mud spattering her dress and it is not long before she hits the coffin. Now, inside the grave with it, she wipes the last of the mud off the coffin as the rain still drives down, washing the mud from her hands and tries to pull it open to no avail. It is sealed shut. She grabs the shovel again and wedges it into the opening of the coffin, like a woman possessed, and drives it in a few times, until with a final hard push she flips the lid off and gets to what she wanted.
Lucy, heedless of the rain and the storm that is gathering, climbs into the coffin and scoops Arthur up, his face still so pale and expressionless. She cradles him in her arms, and the tears that she thought had ceased come again with increased vigour. The rain and the mud begin spattering his body, and she pulls the shawl around the two of them in a sort of cocoon.
‘I cannot do this world without you Arthur – it is too cruel, too unforgiving to travel through without love. And now all my hopes have ceased. Oh, how I wish you hadn’t left me, Arthur,’ she sniffs dejectedly as a new stream of tears flow, trickling down onto Arthur’s face, mingling with the rain.
‘I would give my soul itself to have you back, Arthur – if the devil himself knocked at my door and asked for it this very moment!’ Blinded by tears and the rain, she bows her head onto Arthur’s chest, and after a while, the rain subsiding slightly, realises where she is and what she has done.
‘I have desecrated your grave, my love – I am so sorry, how has it come to this’ she sobs, setting Arthur’s head gently back down in his coffin. ‘I must restore your grave.’
Lucy wipes the muck and rain off Arthur’s face with her shawl, and places the coffin lid back on, pushing it down as much as she can to try and seal it. She scrabbles out of the grave with an enormous amount of difficulty, using her boots for grip in the walls of mud, then once out, shovels the huge sods back onto the coffin, hoping that no one will notice the tampering of the grave. The night takes her away, back through the alley of yew trees and towards home.
November 4th 1882
Trouble Sleeping
Candles flicker dimly in Lucy’s chamber, and she cannot sleep. It has been an hour since she made it back from the graveyard, took off her muddy, rain sodden clothes and washed hastily in the water basin in her bed chamber, dressing in a dark lace night gown.
2:49am and still no sign of sleep.
She pulls the blanket up over her head, hiding beneath, a deep feeling of unease overtaking her body almost like someone is watching her. Guilt-ridden for what she has done that night, her mind spins as she wonders how she could have done such a thing and what good she thought it would do.
The old grandfather clock in the corner chimes 3am, and she hides deeper under the blanket.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three gentle knocks sound on the door of the bed chamber and Lucy peeks her head out from under the covers. The two candles at each side of her bed suddenly flicker out, and her heart quickens, a sick feeling building in her stomach.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
This time Lucy gathers her nerve, and heads tentatively to the door, her nightgown swishing on the floor behind her in the unnerving silence of the night. In one swift movement, like tearing a bandage off, she opens the door.
Standing in front of her is the pallid, rain-sodden, muck spattered figure of Arthur, complete in his wedding suit, though now it is tattered and covered with thick sods of dirt. His hair is darkened, smattered down onto his forehead with the rain and grime. Lucy nearly throws up, sure that this is somebody’s idea of an extremely sick joke, that is until she looks at Arthur’s face, really looks at his face, and sees that his once shut eyes are now open, but now in the place of the lovely blue orbs that she once so loved to look upon, are two seemingly unending hollows, gazing upon her out of their nothingness.
Lucy resists the urge to scream, but this time she is sick, vomiting a hot stream of acidic bile into her wash basin.
Before she can lift her head and scream, the creature that once was Arthur speaks.
‘Lucy, it is me, Arthur,’ it drawls, its voice harsh and grating. ‘You have pulled me back into the land of the living.’
Swallowing her horror, Lucy looks upon the creature for a moment, then wraps her arms around its shoulders and embraces it. Her head resting against its chest, she notes that where there was once a heartbeat, now resides the loud sound of nothing and that the once warm, welcoming arms are now so cold, clammy, and unnatural.
‘But why have you brought me back, my love’ it says.
Lucy thinks for a moment, horrified by what she and her love have been reduced to, and overtaken by the spirit of revenge, a plan enters her brain.
‘We must murder Augustus Blackwater. Then we will run away together, never to be seen or heard from again.’
The Murders
That day Lucy acts perfectly normal around her parents, and they almost believe she is back to normal, she even offers to take a walk with them, and sits through three full meals with them, eating heartily.
‘I am glad to see you back in some sort of good spirits, Lucy, though I know this has been an exceedingly tough time for you,’ her mother remarks over dinner.
Lucy smiles vacantly at her mother, and that evening retires to her bed chamber early, waiting for her parents to do the same. A short time after their bed chamber door closes, and under the cover of night again, Lucy sneaks out of the house a second time, the black shawl wrapped tightly around her.
Past the church, and even the graveyard, Lucy meets Arthur at the base of a lonely hill, the mysterious moon their only other company. They embrace and walk up the hill, keeping close to the trees so as not to be seen.
At the top of the hill, they see the outline of the enormous Blackwater mansion in the moon’s light. Its red bricks, forked roof and oculus windows make it look like a creature escaped from the depths of hell in the unforgiving night. Arthur pulls two daggers from his suit jacket and hands one to Lucy. She puts one finger to her lip, indicating silence, and the two head to the door.
Lucy tries the handle and finds that it is not even locked. She smiles at Arthur, and they enter with ease. The mansion is deathly silent, not even a servant stirring in the deep hours of the night, and Lucy and Arthur creep up the many sets of stairs, encountering strange portraits of Blackwater ancestors staring out at them like spectres. On the top floor, Lucy stops for a second, gesturing to Arthur to stop also, and listens. The booming sounds of snoring, coming from the breathing of a very well-fed man travel down the hallway, and Lucy moves off again, the moon’s light separating the hallway with its thin beams. The large, carved door stands slightly ajar, and Lucy pushes it gently open and steps in, Arthur following.
On top of the vast four-poster bed lies the dense figure of Augustus Blackwater, and the smaller frame of his unpleasant wife, Charity Blackwater. Lucy slinks over to the bed, to the side of Augustus, Arthur following her like a shadow.
Lucy looks down upon the ruddy, full face, and overfed figure, sleeping soundly though so many have suffered at his hands, and though she tries to feel some remorse for what she is about to do, or even to talk herself out of it if she could see any sign of guilt in the countenance, the sleeping visage only strengthens her resolve.
She pulls out the dagger, raises it high in the air, and plunges it down with as much force as she can muster, squarely into the heart of Augustus Blackwater. The dark eyes shoot open, and the man howls in pain, trying to grasp at Lucy’s blood-soaked hands, as she stabs again, and again, and again, blood spattering over the white silk bed sheets and across her face. After what seems like an eternity, Augustus ceases his struggle, and a sputtered gurgling is heard coming from his throat, coughing up blood and breathing his last.
Beside him, Charity Blackwater has woken and shrieks shrilly into the night, so that Lucy is sure the servants will hear her.
‘Kill her Arthur, she is just as guilty as he was to be married to such a man.’
Arthur does not hesitate but acts on his orders and moves across the room, placing one large translucent hand over Charity’s mouth, and pulls his dagger across her throat, silencing her immediately. There is less blood with this death, and the whole thing is over swiftly, seeming to end as quickly as it started.
Lucy stands, drenched in blood by the side of the bed, her body shaking, staring down at the mangled imitation of a human below her. Then, she looks over at Arthur, who trembles and shakes, his face etched with guilt.
‘What – what have we done?’ he stutters in his grotesque tones.
‘We have had our revenge Arthur – now we can run away,’ she says this with an air of victory about her, but it feels hollow – wrong.
Just as a wave of guilt overcomes Lucy, Arthur begins to cry, a horrid, ragged sound, unnatural like no human could make.
‘What have I become?’ he sobs. ‘What have you done to me Lucy? I thought you loved me.’
Lucy’s eyes begin to well, ‘I do Arthur, I wanted to avenge you. To punish those responsible for taking you away from me.’
‘This is not right Lucy. What they did was wrong, and they deserved punishment. But this – ’ he gestures at the gore covered figures upon the bed, ‘this is evil.’
Lucy’s crying is uncontrollable now, guilt and remorse at Arthur’s disgust resulting in wracking, passionate sobs. She leans upon the bed post, feeling sick again.
‘I was at peace Lucy, but now you have ripped my soul in pieces.’
More uncontrollable sobs, as Lucy’s knees buckle.
‘You have condemned my soul for all eternity Lucy. What sort of love is that?’
‘I love you Arthur.’
The sound of servants stirring below.
‘I love you Arthur.’
The sound of footsteps upon the stairs.
‘I love you Arthur.’
In the dim moonlight, two figures climb out of the mansion’s window, looking like two tears upon a ruddy face.
Eternal Rest
Under cover of the seemingly endless night, two figures stand at the side of the Baker grave, a mound of soil piled beside them.
‘You know what must be done now, Lucy,’ croaks the creature.
Lucy nods, sobbing, and watches as Arthur clambers down into the grave, removes the lid of the coffin and lies down in it. Its motions are jerky and lethargic, like a marionette on a string.
A gentle sprinkle of frost covers the graves of those in an eternal sleep, and Lucy shivers as she too, climbs down into the grave. She lies down beside Arthur, embracing him, and with a shiver down her spine she can feel him return her embrace, as his clammy, unnatural hand touches the small of her back.
In the moonlight, the edge of the dagger gleams, and Lucy places it between her and Arthur, forcing its sharp end into the cavity where his heart would be. His stale, rattling breath intensifies, then ceases altogether, and Lucy breathes a sigh of relief, certain that she has returned her Arthur to the angels.
For herself, Lucy does not know what will become of her, but clings onto Arthur tightly, as though he were a buoy tethering her to life. Amongst the frost and the deepening night, Lucy falls into a gentle, peaceful sleep, Arthur’s arms still clasped around her.
***
When the sexton makes his rounds the following morning, dawn breaking upon the twinkling frost of the graves, he detects nothing unusual at first. He walks through the alley of yew trees to the crest of the hill, wanting to replace the flowers on the grave of the Baker boy.
In the blurry dawn light, he thinks he can make out a dark figure at the graveside, and as he gets closer distinguishes a large mound of sod. His heart races and his pace quickens as he dashes over to the grave and looks into the six-foot pit.
Two figures lie locked in an embrace, and at first, the sexton thinks the two of them sleeping. He recognises the male corpse for that of the Baker boy, but rushes to the side of the young woman lying in his embrace, her face spattered with blood, the skin beneath pallid and lifeless, her chestnut hair strewn out behind her, a film of frost decorating its strands.
He feels her pulse.
Nothing.
Andrea Cartmill is a 24 year old working-class writer from Armagh, Northern Ireland. Her passion for writing started in childhood, only becoming something that she began pursuing seriously in 2022, whilst finishing her Master’s degree in an unrelated field. Since then, she has written several unpublished short stories, and a fantasy novel which she hopes to get published soon. She is interested in reading and writing any genre, however, she particularly enjoys horror and fantasy with some of her favourite writers including Stephen King, Shirley Jackson, and Susan Hill.
The Dark Corner 
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