The Lady Screams Page 3

  “I shan't be long, my love,” I continue. “I must go up and conduct some research. The answer is in my books, I am sure of it. Either that, or perhaps in my own notebooks, where I have set down my ideas. It might take me some time to go through all those pages, but I shall not rest until I have determined the answer. When I am done, I shall come back down and make you more comfortable. Just hold on for a short while longer, my darling. We have made it this far, and I am certain we are through the worst of it. Do you understand?”

  I wait, hoping desperately for a reply, but her face merely twitches as if – should Jack moves his hand away – she will scream again.

  “I shall not let you down,” I add, allowing myself a faint smile. It feels good to encourage her. “The hard part is done. Now I simply have to arrange the details.”

  I cannot help but give her a chance to reply, even though I know deep down that she is not going to speak just yet. I tell myself that I can still get through to her, that this perpetual scream is merely a stumbling block, yet as I look a little longer into her eyes, I must confess that I see no trace of the real Catherine, of her true self. I try to spot something, anything, that might give me hope. A lesser man would most certainly be able to fool himself, yet I am too strong for such things. I must face the cold, hard truth of the situation, yet I also know that there is no task beyond my reach.

  Again, if I believed in the concept of the soul, then I would say that it is her soul that is missing. I do not believe in the soul, however, so there must be some other explanation. Something scientific and rational, far removed from superstition. And whatever that explanation might be, I shall find it, and then I shall ensure that Catherine is saved from this nightmare.

  Chapter Six

  Maddie

  Today

  When I wake up, I immediately realize that something has changed.

  I must have fallen asleep.

  It's morning, and I must have fallen asleep here on the floor, with my back against the wall.

  Sitting up, I reach down and move my shirt aside, and I see that there's barely any swelling around my wound. Pressing my fingers against the edges, I feel absolutely no pain at all. It's as if the wound went down overnight, and the stitches look to have settled back into place. What's more, I realize after a moment that my head feels clearer, as if all the doubt and fear and dread has faded away. It's hard to believe that I could have experienced such a sudden improvement, but I can't deny what I'm feeling.

  Still, I examine the wound for a moment longer, gingerly nudging the stitches to make sure that they're really secure. There's a flicker of pain, which is to be expected, but for the most part everything seems fine. I press gently against the areas that were swollen last night, feeling nothing amiss, before lowering the edge of my shirt and looking around the room.

  Morning light is showing around the edges of the boarded-up window, and a few seconds later I hear the sound of a car driving past the house . The outside world seems to be carrying on as normal, but I don't need to look out and see the street. In fact, the idea of looking out fills me with a sense of unease, so I get to my feet and make my way through to the hallway, where I stop again and listen to the silence of the house. Here, I can hear the sound of bushes rustling outside, and I think the distant boom of a plane passing over, but at the same time I can also hear the silence of the house itself. It's the kind of silence that can exist independently, even if there are other sounds nearby.

  Again, I check my wound, convinced that I have to be wrong, but it's still alright. I guess maybe miracles do happen after all.

  With light streaming through the broken window, I don't even need the flashlight to see as I start shuffling across the hall. I glance over at the stairs and look at the strange carvings on the bottom step, but I guess there's no way I can figure out what they mean. They're probably nothing, anyway. Just a bunch of random shapes left behind by someone who stopped here in the house for a while. I bet this place has some pretty big secrets locked away in its history, although as I stand here now I can't help thinking that the place actually seems kind of peaceful.

  Calm, even. Like -

  Suddenly I hear a loud rattling sound, and I turn to see that the handle on the front door is being turned repeatedly.

  I freeze, too scared to move, as I realize that somebody is trying to get into the house. The handle turns several more times, and I hear the door bumping against the lock, and then finally the whole thing falls silent again as abruptly as it began.

  Terrified, I wait for the sound of keys jangling, but a moment later I hear footsteps outside, which means that somebody is walking around the side of the house. I look over my shoulder just as I hear the footsteps stop in the garden, and after a moment I look up at the broken window. Whoever's out there, they must be just beneath the window, and for a few seconds I worry that someone might suddenly try to climb up.

  I should go and hide, but then I'd make a noise.

  Suddenly the footsteps start again, going back around to the front of the house before fading away entirely.

  I wait, too scared to make a move in case I attract attention. I'd assumed that nobody would ever come near the house, but now it's obvious that I need to be a little more careful. Fortunately the person clearly didn't have a key, so I guess the only way in or out must still be the broken window. And whoever they were, the person didn't shout either, which suggests that maybe they weren't onto me after all. Although my mind is racing with thoughts of people who might try to break in, I manage to calm my fears by focusing on the fact that the person didn't come in. I mean, the window's right there...

  Finally I dare to take a step forward, but I'm still worried about making too much noise. And then, a moment later, I hear my stomach gurgling. If I'm going to stick around here for a while, I'm going to need food and water, but I don't dare go outside just yet. After all, somebody might be watching the house.

  I don't know how long I wait, listening out for any hint that the person has returned, but it must be more than half an hour. Closer to an hour, maybe, which is pretty crazy. Then again, I need this place right now, so I can't afford to take any risks. And gradually, as time passes, I start to feel just a little safer.

  Sure, someone came to the door and almost got inside, but they didn't get inside.

  Finally, telling myself to hold my hunger until it gets dark later, I make my way over to the nearest door and peer through into what turns out to be some kind of old study. I'm really starving, but I'll just have to distract myself for the rest of the day. I make my way to the far side of the room and take a seat on a dusty chair behind a dusty old desk. I guess the guy who lived here must have been some kind of a big deal, and as I lean back in the chair I can't help trying to imagine what he was like. I saw his name when I was here last time, he was called Doctor Charles Grazier and there are loads of his notebooks upstairs.

  I wanted to be a doctor once.

  I could have had a desk like this, and deep down I still wonder whether it's too late. Common sense tells me that homeless girls don't end up at medical school, no matter how much they might try to get back on their feet, but the dream is still there in the back of my head and I guess I just can't get rid of the hope. At the same time, I -

  Suddenly I hear a bell ringing upstairs.

  The sound stops after just a couple of seconds, but I remain completely still in case it comes back. I remember hearing a bell when I was here before, and I even found an old bell in one of the bedrooms. For a moment I feel a slow sense of unease creeping through my gut, until suddenly I realize that there's a completely obvious solution.

  Getting to my feet, I head over to the doorway and look up the stairs.

  How did I not realize the truth before?

  “Puss?” I call out. “Hey, is there a pussy cat in here?”

  It makes total sense. There's probably a local cat who likes coming in here every so often, and he has a bell on his collar. I know it's crazy, but sudd
enly the idea of having a cat for company feels pretty good, so I head over to the stairs and start walking up. By the time I reach the top, I'm more and more convinced that there's a cat, and I guess this might even explain my earlier sensation of being watched. While I was searching for a camera, there was a cat lurking somewhere in the shadows and keeping his eyes on me. After all, cats are really good at hiding.

  “Hey, pussy cat,” I say as I go and check the first bedroom. “Where are you? Don't worry, I'm totally friendly. Want to come out and play?”

  I wait, but now there's no sign of the little critter.

  I get that.

  In fact, it makes total sense.

  He or she is probably scared. Probably used to having the place without any intrusions, too.

  “Can I at least get a meow?” I ask, trying to sound friendly. “Come on, at least say hello. Or a growl, if you're not feeling friendly. Anything, really.”

  Silence.

  “What if I get some food for you?” I continue. “Would that lure you out? I'll get something you'll really like.”

  Spotting the bell that I found last time I was here, I pick it up and give it a ring, hoping to prove to myself that it's not the same sound I heard just now. Before I get a chance, however, the ringing part falls out and lands on the floor, which I guess means that I know this bell can't be the culprit going forward.

  “Great,” I whisper, setting the bell on the nightstand.

  Crouching down, I look around, hoping to maybe spot a cat peering out at me from somewhere. I'm pretty certain that there is a cat here, since its presence would basically explain almost all of the weirdness I've noticed since I arrived, but I'd still like to actually see the little fellow's face. Plus, I don't want it to suddenly jump out at me like in some horror movie, because I'm pretty sure I'd scream my lungs out.

  “If you don't come and show yourself soon,” I say with a smile, while making sure to not raise my voice too much, “I'll give you a really embarrassing name. Like Princess Buttercup or Mister Stinky Pants. You don't want that, do you? So really, it's in your interest and mine for you to come and introduce yourself. You don't want to be rude, do you?”

  I wait, but there's still no sign of the cat.

  The poor thing must be terrified, and I totally understand that.

  Getting to my feet, I head through to the next bedroom and peer through, just in case there's any sign of the cat. Seeing nothing, however, I step back onto the landing and hesitate for a moment, before realizing that there's really only one way I'm ever going to lure the little guy out. Later, once darkness has fallen outside again, I'll go to the shop and pick up some cat food, and then maybe I'll make myself a friend in this creepy old house.

  It'd be good to have some company while I wait for Alex.

  Chapter Seven

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

  “The brain stem revitalizes the nervous system,” I mutter, sitting at my desk and poring over another notebook, “which in turn reconnects the brain in a meaningful manner to the rest of the body. And the heart, provided it is accepted, will keep the blood circulating until it needs to be switched for another.”

  Pausing for a moment, I realize that my theory – which I admit seemed a little extreme at the start – appears to have been proven perfectly. There is one problem, however, which is made thoroughly clear to me as I turn to the next page and see my drawing of a woman's torso complete with its new heart. I take a moment to read through my annotations, which explain the precise process by which I believed – and indeed still believe – a human body can be revived. The annotations are clear and direct, and they still make absolute sense, and they are focused on the position of the heart.

  The problem is that I have not yet placed the new heart in Catherine's body.

  “This cannot be,” I whisper, my mind racing as I try to understand this miracle. “A body without a heart just cannot function. This is a fundamental principle of human biology.”

  I can say these words out loud as much as I want, of course, and they do not change anything. They do not alter the strange sight that I witnessed in the basement.

  “The heart,” I continue, trying to set things straight in my mind, “is at the root of everything.”

  I start drawing a diagram, setting my thoughts out. After a moment, however, another fancy strikes me and I sketch a second figure next to the first. Muttering under my breath, I draw a series of lines, and I realize that a new idea is slowly emerging from my thoughts. Even as I set the layout down, I know that this particular idea is far too wild, even by my standards. Why, such a thing is not possible and should never be considered, yet as I continue to add to the drawing I cannot help but feel that there might just be a chance if...

  My mind is racing as I add more and more sections to the drawing. I know this idea is impossible, yet deep down I am beginning to wonder whether I might – thanks to my brilliance – be able to make it work.

  Two bodies, side-by-side and -

  Suddenly there is a tremendous rattlings side outside the house, and I turn to see that a carriage has bumped against the railings at the front of the house. A moment later I hear voices shouting as the carriage is steered back toward its proper place in the street.

  “Quiet out there!” I shout, although I cannot help sighing as I realize that there is no point. The fools won't hear me, and with luck they will be off to cause trouble somewhere else. Indeed, as I continue to look over at the window, I see that the carriage is already rattling away out of view.

  How can a man be expected to work in such conditions? My train of thought is ruined and, when I look down at the drawing, I see now that it is truly impossible. A wild concept, to be certain, but not one that is worthy of any more consideration. It was simply another dead end down which I had to wander as I continue to search for a solution.

  Glancing over at a photograph that stands on my desk, I see a portrait of my dear Catherine. The image was captured many years ago, when I arranged for us to be photographed while we were visiting Cornwall. In the picture, she is smiling so happily and so sweetly, and it is impossible to reconcile this view of her with the withered, torn-open figure that even now sits in the basement with Jack's hand across her mouth. And when I move the photo closer, I cannot help but smile as I see the beauty in Catherine's eyes.

  That is what is missing from the eyes of the thing that has woken downstairs.

  There is no beauty in her expression now. I am thinking not of mere ephemeral physical beauty, but of the beauty that comes across in a person's smile, or in the way they look at the world. This is an intangible beauty, difficult to define, but Catherine has always possessed this quality in abundance. I wish I could say otherwise, but in truth I have not seen this aspect in her eyes since she woke. When I do, that is how I shall know that she is truly back.

  “My darling,” I whisper, “I shall resolve this. I promise. Do not lose faith in me, not when I am on the brink of success.”

  And then I hesitate, as I realize that I must have spoken those exact words so many times before. First when Catherine's illness became apparent, and then almost every day as she grew weaker and sicker and more pained. Then I spoke them again on the eve of her death, and now here I am speaking them again. For a few seconds, I wonder whether I have perhaps become a wretched and pathetic figure, sitting here making a promise that I cannot keep.

  But no. There is a solution to this madness, and I shall find that solution.

  I am a brilliant man, capable of great feats of analysis, yet even I cannot even begin to fathom how a woman's body can function when there is no heart beating in her chest. The whole thing seems more like witchcraft than medicine, although I quickly remind myself to avoid thinking in such a manner. After all, I know that this is not witchcraft, and that the answer lies somewhere in my notebooks.

  I just have to find that answer, and then I shall know what to do next.

  Yet I hav
e been sitting here now for several hours, and I am starting to think that perhaps I am too exhausted to work properly. I cannot possibly sleep, of course, so I have no choice but to turn to the next page in the notebook and then the next. When I came up from the basement, the sun had not long been down, and now I already see the morning sky beginning to brighten outside the window. And as I continue to stare at the photograph of Catherine, I feel a sense of great dread in the pit of my stomach.

  “It is you,” I say out loud, hoping to steady my nerves. “I know it is, Catherine. I must simply stay the course.”

  And then I see that I have somehow smeared blood on the photograph. I quickly wipe the blood away, and then I set the photograph down.

  “As soon as you are well enough,” I continue, “we shall have our photograph taken again. As a sign of our -”

  Suddenly I hear her bell ring briefly.

  I set the photograph down and get to my feet. In my sleep-derived daze, my first reaction to the sound of the bell is to assume that Catherine wants something. I must go up to her bed and see if she is okay, and it takes a few seconds before I remember that Catherine is no longer in her bed. She is down in the basement with Jack, and there is nobody upstairs at all.

  Yet I heard the sound of the bell.

  I hesitate for a moment, before stepping around the desk and walking over to the doorway. Stopping again, I listen to the sound of the house, and then I head to the door that leads down into the basement.

  “Did you call for me?” I shout.

  I wait, but there is no reply.

  “Jack!” I shout. “Did you ring?”

  “Are you coming back down, Sir?” he calls out from far below.

  “Did you ring a bell?”

  “A bell, Sir?”

  “Never mind,” I mutter, realizing that he was not the cause. Besides, deep down I know that the sound came not from the basement but from one of the bedrooms upstairs.

  Turning, I make my way over to the foot of the stairs and look up.