This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller (4 page)

Having set the alarm on her phone for eight o’ clock, Louise woke feeling surprisingly refreshed, with no trace of a hangover. Her stomach rumbling, she realised she was famished, despite a large meal the night before.

“It’s all that sex,” Rob joked, as they left their room to go and find the dining room, where, according to the hotel website, a ‘sumptuous buffet’ awaited them.

“It must be,” Louise replied; she could eat a horse. “Actually no, scrub that, I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? What are you talking about?”

Realising she hadn’t voiced that last thought, she laughed. “Oh nothing, never mind. I’m being silly. Come on, hurry, the lift’s here.”

Setting foot in the lobby, what she’d seen during the night came rushing back – the ‘veiled lady’ as she’d dubbed her, standing in the window of one of the photographs taken by the journalist who’d visited Poveglia. Stopping Rob, she related what she’d seen.

“It’s the same figure that’s in this painting over here,” she said, leading him to it.

She was watching his face rather than the painting and noticed him frown.

“I can’t see any figure, Lou,” he admitted.

“Look,” she said, shifting her gaze and leaning forward too. “Oh,” she blinked in disbelief, “she’s not there anymore.” The window was as empty as the others.

“There’s a blob of white paint,” Rob said, attempting to offer an explanation. “’There’s the same in other parts of the painting too. It’s clearly one of the artist’s techniques, a highlighting effect, the sort of thing that’s meant to be effective from a distance, I think.”

“Yeah, but…” Retrieving her mobile, she started scrolling through on Google. “Here, this’ll prove it.”

“Shall we do this over breakfast?” suggested Rob, clearly hungry too.

“No, wait a minute. I want to show you.”

It took another minute or so to load the right page and photograph. “It’s this one,” she declared before swearing under her breath. “Damn! She’s not there either.”

Rob looked amused as well as hungry. “She’s elusive this woman of yours.”

She was. Even so, there was no way she could have made the same mistake twice. Another thought occurred. Tapping her photo gallery icon she retrieved the images she’d taken after they’d left the restaurant last night, the ones that featured the same alley as that in the painting.
Maybe, just maybe…
But whatever she’d been expecting to see, she was disappointed.

“I’d been so sure …”

“Look, never mind,” Rob put an arm around her shoulders. “From here, that blob does actually look like a woman, and it’s only when you get close you can see it isn’t.”

But she
had
seen it close up, that was the point, and although hazy, it was defined.

“Come on,” Rob cajoled, squeezing her briefly before removing his arm and turning in the direction of the breakfast room, “we can talk about it later.”

She knew what ‘later’ meant to Rob – never. Like so many things, he’d just hope she’d forget about it and maybe she would. Maybe she should. She was getting too intense again, too dark, carried away on flights of fancy. Where was the girl she used to be? Was she gone forever or still lurking, deep inside? Would she ever be her again?

Stop with the questions, go and eat!

Once again she had to hurry to catch up with him.

Breakfast was indeed ‘sumptuous’, with an impressive range of hot and cold items, including a dazzling array of pastries, cheese, cured meats and panna cotta with fresh fruits. There was even prosecco available and some of the guests were indulging but for Louise and Rob it was too early to contemplate. After eating their fill, they returned to 201 to get their things, Rob making sure he had Gisela’s map in his back pocket. As he sorted out some more euros to stuff in his wallet, Louise studied him: his expression as he concentrated, the thickness of his hair, the set of his shoulders. Desire stirred. She was amazed. Would it never cease this weekend? She was still aching from last night. Even so, she made her way towards him.

“Lou, what are you doing?” Rob asked, as her arms snaked around his waist.

“You need me to explain?”

“But I’m all dressed now, I’m washed, I don’t want to have to get in the shower again.”

She laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Stop being so practical!”

Her hands going lower, she began to tug at the buckle on his belt, eager to undo it, to discard any barriers between them. So quickly her breathing grew heavy at the thought of what was to come, the sensual delights, his hands on her, her hands on him, his scent, earthy, enticing, intoxicating. Touching him made her feel alive; it sent electric currents into the heart of her, igniting her, waking something that had been sleeping for a long time, something that had lain dormant. She’d wanted to visit Venice for a long time, ever since she could remember, as a child even, looking at guide books that belonged to her mother, also a keen traveller, although Louise’s arrival and her subsequent marriage breakdown had curtailed such wanderlust. This city built on water had always appealed, so why on earth she’d waited so long was beyond her. Despite this, she couldn’t care less if they never set foot outside these hotel walls, if they stayed holed-up for the entire weekend, the two of them, in this room, behind closed doors, feeding off each other, vampiric almost, feasting – losing his identity, hers, becoming one.
But who is the veiled lady? I saw her. I know I did
.

Louise stopped what she was doing.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Rob, who had clearly got over the nuisance of having to shower and dress again, looked baffled. “Louise?” he prompted.

She turned away, needing to make sense of what had just happened before she could answer. One minute she had nothing on her mind but her husband, the next the veiled lady had encroached, striking, like a bolt of lightning, from nowhere and with just as much impact. The ardour in her had died at once; it had simply snuffed itself out.

It was Rob whose arms encircled her this time. “So what’s happening?” he murmured his breath hot against her ear, scorching almost. “Am I doing my belt back up or what?”

She tried to laugh but couldn’t. It was as if she’d been denied, something precious offered with one hand and then snatched back with the other. Quickly she tried to stop herself from getting upset. What was the big deal? It wasn’t as if having sex ever led anywhere; it never resulted in anything.

“Louise?” Rob’s voice had more urgency to it now. She had to answer.

“It’s getting on actually, we should get going.”

“So, I
am
doing my belt up?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.”

Rob’s arms fell away. “No, it’s fine. You’re right, I suppose, you know, about the time.”

“We can always sneak in a cheeky one before we go out tonight,” she returned, trying to soften the blow. “It’s just… we need to make the most of the daylight.”

Still clearly disappointed, Rob readjusted his clothes and they headed outdoors.

“It’s raining,” Rob moaned, standing outside of the hotel. The water from the canal was high this morning, almost lapping at his feet.

“I wish I’d brought an umbrella, we’ll get soaked,” Louise replied.

“It’s not a problem, we can buy one.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

On their way through the lobby, Louise chose not to look at the painting. If the woman was in it or not, she didn’t want to know. Besides which, she’d developed a theory: she’d been stressed after the incident with the taxi driver, not thinking straight. Captivated by the painting, she’d thought she’d seen something that clearly wasn’t there, and then later on in bed, when she was reading about Poveglia, her mind – once again in a state of high alert but this time for more pleasant reasons – had conjured up the same figure. It was now stuck in her mind, hovering at the far reaches, which is why it had made a comeback in the midst of seduction. The not so far reaches actually, it had boldly pushed its way forward, but she wouldn’t allow that to happen again. Wild imaginings were not welcome this weekend, she told herself as they endeavoured to find a stall or a shop that sold umbrellas. Wild sexual acts, however, she’d give the green light to. She was enjoying this whole other side to her that had reared up since arriving in Venice or rather she
had
been enjoying it until the veiled lady had interrupted. Well, she wouldn’t fall prey again, because that’s what it had felt like she realised – as if she’d fallen
prey
.

“It really is so strange here,” she muttered, to herself as much as to Rob.

Not seeming to realise what she meant, Rob looked around him, at crumbling buildings that lined narrow passages, at alleys that led nowhere, at boats that rippled on lonely waters, some covered and some exposed to the elements. “I know. It’s so different.”

It was. Timeless too and full of… what was the word? Decay. That was it. “There’s decay all around us.”

Rob, who’d been admiring a church building – Chiesa di San Beneto, frowned. “You sound as if you don’t like it here. It was your idea to come.”

“I love it. It’s… an observation that’s all.”

Rob returned his attention to the church. “I think it’s fantastic, it’s ancient and it feels like it, as though the modern world doesn’t exist.”

He was right about that. Everything outside city limits seemed insignificant. They started walking again, intent on finding an umbrella, happening upon a
supermercato
, squeezed in between residential buildings. Shaking off raindrops from their shoulders and hair, they decided they’d share one, Rob holding it, and being careful to cover them both.

Venice by daylight still had lonely alleys in abundance, but it was significantly easier to negotiate. Deciding to get the main tourist attractions over and done with, they headed to St Mark’s Square first, only to find the basilica, like the Rialto Bridge, under scaffolding.

“Shall we queue to go in?” Rob asked, clearly not impressed by a long line of people snaking outwards from the entrance.

“No. Seen one church, seen them all, although I do know an interesting snippet about this building too.”

“Oh?” Rob inclined his head towards her. “Go on, enlighten me.”

“Well…” she cleared her throat, enjoying the fact she
could
enlighten him. “Trying to tempt pilgrims to the city, two Venetian merchants went over to Alexandria in Egypt in the Middle Ages and stole St Mark’s body from its tomb there, transporting it back by ship in a crate covered with pork.”

“Pork?” Rob’s face was a picture. “Why?”

“To stop the Muslim guards from discovering it of course. They won’t go near pig meat.”

“Ah, I see. But why go all that way? What about more ‘local’ saints?”

“They’d hardly be as appealing as St Mark would they? He was one of Christ’s disciples, he wrote The Book of Mark too, one of the Gospels. He was a major player.”

Rob stared at the building, at its majestic Italo-Byzantine façade and the five spires that surmounted it. “Do you think his body’s still there?”

“Maybe, in a vault somewhere, a few precious bones on which an empire was built.”

“Or a thriving tourist trade at least.” Eyeing the queue again, he added, “I still don’t fancy waiting an hour in the rain to find out. Maybe we’ll come back tomorrow. The Bridge of Sighs is around the corner, let’s go and see if that’s covered in scaffolding too.”

It wasn’t, thankfully. And this time Rob was the one telling her what he knew about such a famous landmark. “Some people think it’s called the Bridge of Sighs because people sigh when they look at it. Its beauty moves them.”

She had to admit, it was certainly moving her. Unlike other bridges in the city this one was high-up, connecting one building to another and made of limestone. Not an open bridge, it was closed, a glorified tunnel she supposed. Rob told her it led to the interrogation rooms in the Doge’s Palace, which apparently once entered, very few left.

“And that’s the other explanation for its name, the more romantic explanation if you like, that the view from the windows with their stone bars was often the last the convicts saw before they were imprisoned, the poor souls sighing at their pitiful fate.”

“And that’s supposed to be romantic is it?”

“I think it is, in a Gothic sort of way,” Rob insisted before proceeding to inform her that, in actual fact, the days of inquisitions and executions were long over by the time the bridge was built. “So you see, that story, as so many are, is pure fabrication, just another way to tempt punters to come and have a look, to fuel their imaginations.”

She looked around her. “This city certainly does that."

“Yep, whilst bleeding you dry of every last euro.”

In a way, she was disappointed to learn the truth, to have her bubble burst – she actually preferred the romantic explanation. To illustrate that, she did indeed sigh at the iconic landmark before her, a protracted sound that made Rob laugh.

“Come on,” he said, his arm around her, “let’s get out of here.”             

They continued to walk, into the Castello sestiere, the eastern part of Venice and mainly residential with lines of washing hung over the canals, which only added to the charm. Traipsing up and over bridges of all kinds, some rickety wooden ones, others more ornate, they veered away from the canals on occasions to encounter big stone squares instead – or ‘campo’s’ as they were known. She still found the lack of green startling; there was no grass whatsoever to soften hard lines and edges. And children, where were the children? She expected to see some, certainly the offspring of those who lived here, but they were conspicuous by their absence too. ‘
Venice is closer to death than it’s ever been
’. She’d not only read about Venice but watched a documentary about it too and that was something the presenter had said, referring to the fact that the age of the city’s population was the highest in Europe. His words seemed pertinent on many levels.

Their legs growing weary, they decided to treat themselves to a pit stop at a bar in an empty square. There were only a few people sitting in its ill-lit interior and all locals by the looks of them. Rob chose his usual espresso, whilst she tried an Aperol Spritz – a drink she’d seen adverts for in the airport. Taking a sip, the taste was sharp and refreshing.

“Mmm,” she informed Rob, “this is delicious.”

“A new favourite?”

“Perhaps, whilst we’re here anyway.”

“Do you want another?”

She was surprised: not only that he was asking but also that she’d finished it – it had evaporated like air. Staring at the glass, she contemplated before shaking her head. “No, let’s get going, we’ve still got loads to see.” Besides which, the atmosphere in the bar was hardly scintillating, in fact, it seemed as though their presence was a hindrance. There were scowls on most of the occupants’ faces; even the man who’d served them could barely raise a smile. There were cons as well as pros to venturing off-the-beaten-track.

It was whilst exploring another mainly residential area, Cannaregio, further north, that they decided to head back towards the Rialto Bridge and the more populated areas.

“We need shops,” Louise decided. “Shelter basically. This rain is getting on my nerves.”

The main shopping centre, if a series of shops clustered in ancient buildings could be called that, was close to the Rialto and, having reached it quite effortlessly, they wove in and out of doorways much as they’d weaved in previously empty lanes. There were brand names she recognised, including a clutch of designer boutiques, Italian of course, Prada, Gucci, Fendi, the wares on display sumptuous as well as very, very expensive. Giving them a wide berth, Louise stopped in front of a shop selling traditional Venetian masks, pulled in by their jewel-like colours and intricate designs. Some were light and pretty, able to make even the plainest of faces stunning, others much darker, with plumes of black feathers surrounding them and skull-like details. Studying them, she realised various materials were used to fashion the masks, including leather, glass and porcelain.

One mask, although tucked away in the corner of the otherwise busy window display, stood out – it was so different from the others. Not a thing of beauty, it looked to be made from bone, although that couldn’t be, its ivory-coloured beak long and protruding, circles cut away for the eyes and rimmed in black. She knew what this was: a plague mask, the kind a medieval Venetian doctor would wear, the one she’d seen on that webpage she’d been looking at. Staring at it, she felt as cold as bone too.

“Rob,” she called out. She was going to suggest they find another bar, one that was warm, dry
and
inviting this time, either that or go back to the hotel, have a hot shower and perhaps indulge in a little afternoon delight before heading out to eat. Whatever they decided to do, she just wanted to get away from this shop, from the masks on display in the window, and from one mask in particular. “Rob,” she called again, turning her head to see an empty space beside her, and beyond that, just a sea of people.

Turning in a half circle, her eyes continued to seek Rob out. Where was he? Had he gone into the shop selling the masks? If so, why hadn’t he told her? Despite not wanting to, she walked to the shop’s entrance, pushed the door open and poked her head inside.

“
Ciao
, welcome, come in, come in,” a voice beckoned.

“No, it’s okay, I’m just seeing if my husband’s in here.” She hadn’t a clue if she’d be understood or not, but rather than stare at the elderly assistant, she looked around her. Like the window display it was crammed with masks, hundreds and hundreds of them, thousands even – on walls, on tables, hanging from the ceiling. There were more plague masks too, not so apologetically on display, almost proudly presented, a centrepiece.

The man was standing behind a desk so big it swamped him. For some reason he agitated her as much as the masks did, with his wrinkled skin and eager eyes, black rimmed like the mask in the window. His nose was long and hooked too, but more than that it was his manner that disturbed her. He seemed greedy for her custom.

“Come in, come in,” he repeated, bending his finger to entice her.

“I—”

“Masks, pretty masks, come in and choose one.”

Did his eyes dart towards the plague masks as he said that? What on earth would she want with one of them? They weren’t pretty, they were hideous, and not the kind of souvenir you’d want to proudly display on your return home – the damned thing would cause nightmares. The entire shop she found hideous as well as the concept of masks full stop, hiding what you really were – your true nature –
fooling
you.

She wouldn’t go any further in. Rob wasn’t here anyway.

“Sorry, excuse me.”

Before he could answer her, try and persuade her to stay, to
lure
her in, she backed out, closed the door on his peculiar world and stepped into the rain once again.

“Rob!” she continued calling but he was nowhere.

Although it was cold and damp she began to feel hot and sweaty as the realisation hit that she was a stranger in a strange place.

Where the fuck are you?

Anger emerged – anger at life, and the unfairness of it. It was always there, simmering, waiting to boil over, but even she was surprised at how quickly it struck this time. Rather than fight it, she indulged it. She seemed to
need
to feel this way. She had everything, except what she wanted most. And Rob’s solution was to travel, he thought that would appease that ‘want’, so much stronger in her than him, or at least it seemed that way, it would plaster over an otherwise suppurating wound. It was a pitiful solution, a weak solution; the solution that she’d come up with not even countenanced. Whose fault was it anyway, their failure to conceive? The blame had to lie somewhere. Was it hers or was it his? It couldn’t be hers, it couldn’t. There was that time, just before she’d met Rob, when she’d been with someone else, a time when her period was late – and she was
never
late, she ran like clockwork – when she’d thought, as young as she was, eighteen, that she was pregnant, and if she was, that she’d keep it, cherish it, she’d find a way. But then the blood had come, much heavier than usual and much more painful, her stomach cramping in protest. A miscarriage? She suspected it. If so, she was definitely not the one to blame. He was. It was his fault, all of it – this whole sorry mess.