Dark Terrors 3 (10 page)

Cynthia woke up, panting. She felt that a noise must have awoken her but could hear nothing. There was a movement in the corner of the room, in the shadows, where Cynthia’s plump, decorative armchair stood; the chair behind which she had stowed Emma’s paintings. Cynthia blinked. Was someone sitting there? A movement, a shift of moonlight. Someone rose, snake-like, from the chair and came towards the bed. It was Emma Tizard herself! The witch Emma, the secret Emma, and possibly a vengeful Emma. Cynthia could make no sound. She couldn’t see Emma’s face, but the hair was unmistakable, not bound, not plaited, but loose and glorious in the half-light. The figure moved to the dressing table and picked up the photograph of Cynthia’s son, Richard. Cynthia saw the pale flesh, the long fingers, the perfect unvarnished nails. Emma looked at the photograph and chuckled. She turned to Cynthia. ‘What a white little worm. Bet he’s a lousy fuck,’ she said.

Cynthia Peeling could not scream, but her muffled, petrified squeaks woke her husband. He turned on the bedside light. ‘Cyn, what’s the matter love?’ He shook her. ‘Wake up! Cyn!’ She opened her eyes puffing and gasping, as if she’d been drowning. The bottom sheet had come untucked and had wrapped itself around her hot legs.

‘She!’ Cynthia gasped, unable to say the name. ‘The dead girl from next door. My God, Rod, she was here!’

Rodney put a comforting hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘Come on, love, bad dream, that’s all.’ He made soothing noises and arranged the pillows under her head. ‘Get back to sleep. You’ll soon forget.’

Cynthia felt her breathing slow down. She closed her eyes. No one could ever have called her an imaginative person. She did not believe in ghosts and thought witchcraft was an excuse for bizarre sexual practices, but if her husband had known what was going through her head at that moment, he would have thought her a stranger.

* * * *

Next morning, once Rodney had gone to work, Cynthia had to go into the lounge and draw the curtains on the window that overlooked Wren’s Nest. She thought with dread of the rolled-up paintings behind her chair in the bedroom, and the little book in her dressing-table drawer. However, by lunch-time, she’d managed to pull herself together and examine rationally the way she was feeling. She drank a glass of milk and made herself a salad sandwich.
It’s over now,
she thought,
We will never know what happened to Emma Tizard or find out any of her secrets, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know.

Having comforted herself, she went to wash her glass, plate and knife at the sink. Leaves had begun to fall from the apple trees in the garden. The season was changing and the sun looked low in the sky. Cynthia put the radio on to listen to the afternoon play and went to open the curtains in the lounge.
No more of this!
she thought, briskly pulling the drapes apart.

There was a light burning in Wren’s Nest. Cynthia’s first
thought was that the estate agents were showing someone around the place, but that was impossible because she had the only keys. Almost automatically, she slung a jacket over her shoulders and ran out of the house, over the lawn towards Wren’s Nest, before she realized what she was doing. She felt sure that someone was in Wren’s Nest to whom Emma had already given a key. Cynthia was aware that it could be dangerous to confront whoever it might be, but she couldn’t stop herself.

Breathless, she rang the doorbell. Nobody came to answer it, but she felt the presence of someone pausing inside, looking up from what they were doing, waiting. She rang again. Nothing. She thought of the keys hanging up in her kitchen that had come from Emma’s handbag. Should she fetch them? Should she go back and call the police? She took a step backwards, hesitating.

The front door to Wren’s Nest opened. A tall, pale girl stood there, long blonde hair falling over her face. She wore a dark coat, hanging open. She and Cynthia stared at each other for a moment. Cynthia was unsure of what to say. ‘I’m Emma’s neighbour,’ she said at last, gesturing back towards her house.

The girl frowned. ‘Where are her things?’ she demanded. ‘What have you done with Emma’s things?’

Cynthia felt small. ‘Well, her parents came . . .’ she began lamely.

‘They had no right!’

‘Well, no one else came!’ Cynthia said indignantly. ‘It’s been so long! Was there something of yours Emma had?’ She was wondering whether she ought to invite this strange person over for coffee, a natural instinct for hospitality. ‘You missed the funeral? I’m sorry. A friend of Emma’s were you?’

The girl smiled grimly. ‘There’s nothing left here,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be so late. I thought I’d be in time.’

‘Well . . .’ Cynthia shrugged awkwardly. ‘Would you like a hot drink? It must be cold in there and . . . the . . . electricity’s. . . turned . . . off.’ She tried to peer past the girl to see if the lights were on. Perhaps a candle?

The girl considered for a moment, then said, ‘Yes please, I would like a drink. I’m Felicia Browning.’

The name seemed familiar to Cynthia. Where had she heard it before?

* * * *

The girl looked out of place in Cynthia’s kitchen, too large somehow, too awkward, yet she was graceful and slim. As Cynthia plugged in the kettle, Felicia Browning said, ‘Can you help me get Emma’s things?’

Cynthia dared not look at her, fiddling with the on/off switch needlessly. Never a person to lie, she now had the strongest reluctance to confess she’d virtually stolen some of the paintings and the little book. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s impossible. You see, Emma’s parents took her effects to the dump.’ It sounded sordid now, a foul and spiteful act.

‘The stupid bastards!’ Felicia Browning exclaimed vehemently. ‘That was years of work! Years of it!’

‘I’m sorry. I’m inclined to agree with you,’ Cynthia said, ‘But unfortunately Mrs Tizard was adamant. She found some things that quite upset her, you see.’

The girl nodded. ‘Yes, Em was careless. She should have cleared things away. She should have told me earlier. Now, it’s all gone!’

‘What do you mean exactly? Was Emma planning on leaving anyway?’

Felicia looked at Cynthia with an unattractive furtiveness, then shrugged. ‘She was making preparations but the timing didn’t quite work out.’

‘It certainly didn’t!’ Cynthia said cynically. She poured hot water into the coffee mugs. ‘Have you known Emma long?’

‘I suppose so. We used to live together in London.’

Cynthia looked up sharply. Of course, the name! She must have read it in the papers, or had the police mentioned it? Emma’s erstwhile, disappearing flatmate.

Felicia took her mug and sipped, speaking to Cynthia over
the rim, confirming her hostess’s suspicions without further prompting. ‘I can see you’ve heard about me. I’ve been away for a while.’

‘Away!’

‘Don’t worry about it!’ Felicia said, laughing.

Cynthia felt herself flush. ‘It’s just that . . . people had assumed . . .’ She gestured helplessly with one hand.

Felicia narrowed her eyes, ignoring Cynthia’s lame comments. ‘Emma was going to join me, fucked everything up, which is why I’m here now. Totally disorganized she is, totally! I’m not sure what I’m even supposed to be looking for here. There’s a communication problem at present.’

Cynthia was beginning to wish this person would go. There was something eerie about her, disturbing. As if reading her mind, the girl stood up.

‘I’ll be off now. Thanks for the coffee.’

‘Would you like to leave an address? If anything should turn up, I could contact you . ..’ Cynthia offered vaguely.

Felicia laughed. ‘That’s not likely!’ She strode out of the house, leaving the door open.

* * * *

Cynthia had to sit down and compose herself again. Whatever Emma had been mixed up in, Felicia Browning had been part of it, and she had sat in Cynthia’s kitchen and drunk her coffee! Cynthia quickly picked up the half empty mug and dropped it into the sink, running hot water over it for several minutes. She worried about Felicia having another set of keys to the bungalow. Later, she had better phone the Tizards and tell them. It was their problem, not hers.

Rodney rang to say he would be late home and not to hold dinner. Cynthia ate early, making herself a mixed grill, and drank two glasses of wine. After eating, she went into the bedroom and fetched Emma’s paintings and book. Using ashtrays, mugs and ornaments, she laid the paintings out on the floor and sprawled on the sofa to study them, drinking another glass of wine. She had only taken one study of the naked man, one of the less erotic sketches. Now, it seemed to
stand out from all the rest, commanding her attention. He was quite beautiful, almost effeminate, slim but with a hint of strength within the litheness. The face was disturbingly familiar.
Of course!
Cynthia realized the drawing was reminiscent of Emma herself. Did the Tizards have a son? Cynthia shuddered. Good God, was incest, or at the least the thought of it, another of Emma’s dark secrets? No brother had been mentioned though and surely he would have come to the funeral ...
if he was alive.
Still glancing at the drawing, she opened the little book and tried to read some of it. A hopeless task really. It was not a work written for the uninitiated and she could barely understand a quarter of it. Was this research for Emma’s unearthly paintings, or something darker, more personal? Sighing, Cynthia put the book down. It would not give up its knowledge to her.

The light had faded completely from the sky outside and Cynthia sat in darkness, drinking and staring through the window at Wren’s Nest. Her eyes were narrow, her gaze strangely vacant. Her breathing had become shallow and misted on the air. Something nagged at her inside her head; a voice almost heard, but not quite. She felt she knew the answer, had all the pieces to reveal the picture, yet was too close to see it as a whole.

I
must go back. It’s there. Felicia missed it. I must go back.
The compulsion could not be ignored.

Cynthia raised herself jerkily from the sofa and padded into the kitchen. She put on her shoes and her coat and lifted down the keys to Emma’s bungalow. From the back of her pantry she took a flashlight down off its hook and marched out of her home, with purpose, to the house next door.

Nothing happened when she tried the light switch in Emma’s hallway. For a moment, Cynthia was afraid of the dark, but the fear had to be ignored. Feeling her way along the wall, she went into the lounge. Here, she turned on the flashlight, illuminating the ghostly clouds of her breath. The incense smell had gone. The Tizards had left all the furniture
in the house; most of it was brand-new. She herself would not want to sit or sleep in the furniture of the dead.

In the kitchen, all the cupboard doors were open. Felicia Browning must have made a thorough search, but all were empty. Cynthia closed them, took a deep breath, and went out into the hall again, pausing before the work-room door.

It looked much larger now that all Emma’s belongings had gone. The desk had been polished, the floor cleaned. Cynthia went inside. There was nothing there. What had she been expecting? Her body gave an involuntary jump, as if responding to a sharp, unheard sound.

What the hell am I doing here? An empty house, there’s nothing here. Too much wine? Am I obsessed? You stupid creature, get out of here! Go home, draw the curtains, put on the lights, watch TV.

But the thoughts were separate from her. She realized she hadn’t the will, nor even the desire to move from
the
room. Was she afraid? She felt electrified, apprehensive, somehow out of control. None of these feelings were familiar to Cynthia Peeling.

Opposite her, the ornate mirror on the wall had misted over with condensation. Cynthia pulled herself together with rational, organizing thoughts. Perhaps she should arrange to have the heating turned on. New residents wouldn’t want to cope with problems caused by damp. The mere invocation of these mundane ideas seemed to change the atmosphere in the room. Cynthia swept the light beam around her, still strangely reluctant to leave. She went to the mirror and wiped it. Her reflection looked ghastly, surprised, in the stark light. ‘You’ve gone, Emma, haven’t you?’ she said softly. Her breath fogged the glass again and, mistily, it seemed to Cynthia that her reflection wavered and convulsed, twisting her dimly-seen reflection into something different; more strange yet more familiar. It seemed she stood against a background of rock and cloud.