This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller (9 page)

“
Tesoro!
” Enrico rushed to her side to help her but before he could, her hands sunk further into the rain-drenched soil; she was surprised at how quickly they disappeared, as if the earth was ravenous. Desperate to get a hold, convinced her whole body would be devoured if she didn’t, her hand at last closed around something solid. As Enrico hauled her upwards, what was in her hand came up with her. Before she could examine it, Enrico was hugging her, fussing over her, wiping the mud from her coat.

“I’m not hurt,” she assured him, keen to see what she’d retrieved.

Pushing him away slightly with her free hand, she got a good look. The object was long, thin and white.
It looks like a bone, a human bone
. Could it be? If anyone would know, it would be her husband. She decided to ask him.

“Enrico—”

She didn’t get any further; he’d also noticed what was in her hand. Taking it from her, he examined it too, but only briefly, then threw it back into the mud. Surprised by this, she watched as it returned to the depths, helped on its way by his foot stamping on it.

“Why did you do that?” she asked.

“It belongs there.”

“Was it a bone?”

“It is nothing, it is gone.”

“But, darling, if it was a bone—”

Again he interrupted her, “Let’s go to the house. It is not fair to keep the orderly waiting whilst you interrogate me.”

Interrogate him?
She was doing no such thing. She was curious that’s all.

As Enrico continued on his way, all concern for her gone it seemed, she looked at the orderly, an old man with a wizened face. He was staring at the space where she’d fallen, the same look on his face as on Stefania’s when she’d barged in on them – disgust. Should she ask him if what she’d discovered was a human bone? Or should she leave it? Perhaps it was best to leave it. Not ‘bother’ either man. Even so, she shuddered. Like Enrico, she wanted to reach the cottage too, get out of the rain, and close the door. And, unlike her bedroom door at Stefania’s, it would have a lock. She’d make sure to use it.

Enrico started work the very next day, which he was excited about. She, however, had bagged herself a couple of days’ grace, time in which to unpack, write to her brother, enquiring after their father, and even read a few pages of one of her novels. She’d chosen
A Tale of Two Cities
, set between London and another foreign land, France. The opening sentences resonated with her:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness… it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair… we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going the other way
.

It was the best of times for her too, she was young, married, in love with her husband, a brilliant doctor, and soon they’d plan to start a family. But it was the worst of times in other ways. She was resident of a tiny island in the Venetian lagoon – surrounded by water – the other residents, in the main, the mentally ill. She had no friends, no family; she was about to start work as an auxiliary, cleaning, feeding, fetching and carrying. It was a far cry from how she’d imagined life to pan out. Before meeting Enrico she’d loved the hustle and bustle of London life, the to and fro, the hubbub.

Even so, any regret she’d felt at marrying him had vanished. They’d bonded again since that debacle with his mother. Last night the sex had been fast and furious, then slow and tender, the way she loved it, the pair of them giving free rein to a passion that had recently been subdued. It was a true celebration of being together. Odd then that her mother’s words kept repeating. ‘
Should you want to return home at any point let us know. Nothing is beyond reparation
.’ Charlotte decided to write to her as well as Albert and let them know she was fine. She’d held off mentioning anything about the island just in case there’d been a change of plan. Now she was here, she must attend to it, making sure to call the asylum a hospital. What was her address exactly? Charlotte Sanuto (‘The Venetian’ in brackets just for fun), Poveglia, Venice, Italy? Would that be enough to receive a letter in return? Certainly, it was accurate.

Informing Enrico this morning about her intent to write to her family, he’d told her that letters were sent as a batch twice weekly from the island and were to be handed into the post room. He said that he too was looking forward to hearing Albert’s news and hoped her father was better. He also asked her to send them his warmest regards. She’d smiled at that. Family was so important to Enrico; he was typically Italian in that respect. Glancing at her stomach, she wondered if last night’s lovemaking might bear fruit. If not, she wouldn’t be too disappointed. It was strange but she’d rather conceive when they were off the island, maybe even on home ground. How perfect to conceive in England! When quizzed, Enrico had said they’d be on the island for a few months only. To her, that meant they’d be gone before springtime. Meantime, she wouldn’t try
not
to conceive but she wouldn’t worry about it either, she’d relax, in her own cottage, no mother-in-law in sight, read a bit more of her book, look forward to the parts set in London…

The hiatus was over and Charlotte was ‘put to work’, Enrico leading her over to the main building and introducing her to Elisabetta, a nurse younger than the one who had greeted them on arrival, not much older than herself. She was going to take her under her wing and show her the ropes – working predominantly on the women’s wards. It was another dull morning, the patients as she came across them as solemn as the weather.

As soon as she’d been handed over, Enrico disappeared, hurrying to his uncle’s office, as though concerned he’d be late and therefore admonished. Only briefly she wondered if that would be the case. Perhaps she’d see him later, when he was on his rounds. She hoped so. The working day was long and there’d been talk of nightshifts too, which she supposed would be peaceful at least. That was the thing: it was
peaceful
on the island.

After changing into her uniform – a starched white dress similar to the ones the nurses wore – and securing her hair, already in a short style, with clips, she followed Elisabetta, administering pills to the patients and feeding those who required help with their breakfast, a porridge-like mixture that hardly looked appetising but which none complained about. Rather, as she lifted the spoon, mouths opened eagerly, reminding her of baby birds being fed by their mother. One by one they lapped it up. A plus point certainly, but it saddened her, that they should
enjoy
bland food so much. As she knew she’d have to, it was time to help empty and clean bedpans. Carrying them through to the wash rooms, she tried not to heave as contents were washed away, knew she’d be scrubbing at her hands afterwards until they were raw in an attempt to feel clean again. Washing the patients was also part of an auxiliary’s duties. She noted Elisabetta’s precise no-nonsense approach to this. The woman neither interacted with the patients nor treated them roughly but performed her duties as economically as possible.

Whilst attending to one woman, she attempted to ask Elisabetta if she lived on the island too. “
Abita a Poveglia
?”

Elisabetta frowned. Had what she said been complete nonsense?

She decided to repeat her question in English this time, annunciating each word exactly whilst using hand gestures to point towards the floor. “Do you live on Poveglia?”

“Do I live here?” Her English was broken but understandable. “On Poveglia? No.”

“Do you live in Venice?” With her hands she indicated a boat crossing water.

“We must work,” was Elisabetta’s curt response.

About to protest, to say she realised that but it was nice to talk at the same time – for someone to talk around here, for a conversation to be had – she stopped. Elisabetta had returned her focus to the woman she was dealing with, her expression pinched, angry even. Why, Charlotte didn’t know. They finished the rest of their rounds in silence.

Just before dark, Elisabetta rushed off, her departure abrupt. Ward nurse, Roberta, told Charlotte she could go too – back to her cottage. Hopefully Enrico wouldn’t be far behind. She wanted to ask what he’d done today, what he’d done for the past few days. She already had, but he’d been vague. ‘I am learning so much’ was all he’d said, but learning what precisely? And did he do the rounds of the female wards? She’d been expecting to see him but no doctor had come by, it had just been nurses and other auxiliary staff.

As she trudged across the hospital grounds, she picked up pace. It was cold and the mist was closing in again, edging ever closer. It was still muddy underfoot, so she’d be quick but careful, she didn’t want to fall – to
sink
. The ground was certainly softer in some places and again she had a sensation it might cave in beneath her. She welcomed the sight of her cottage, resolved to leave a light on in future. And in the next few days, if Elisabetta still refused to converse, she’d make more of an effort to speak to the patients. Some of them had made eye contact today and one – an elderly woman, Catarina Castelli, had even smiled at her, which is more than Elisabetta had done. She wouldn’t have to shadow the nurse once she’d learnt the routine. There’d be time to sit and talk, which was as essential in the caring process in her opinion as more perfunctory duties. She could take her books along to read aloud, and even though it would be in English, it would break the silence.
The fearful silence
. The thought formed of its own accord.

At last Roberta deemed Charlotte proficient enough to be assigned certain patients, and certain duties, Catarina amongst them. She’d been here just over two weeks and despite her reservations, she was, if not enjoying her work, finding a degree of satisfaction in it. She pitied how imprisoned some of the patients seemed to be – not just within these walls but also within their minds – and found it a privilege to help them, to relieve the burden of their various conditions in some small way. She supposed many people would find what she saw on a daily basis alarming, the constant rocking back and forth, the hushed but incessant muttering, mouths opening in silent screams, the catatonic stares, but Charlotte surprised herself and empathised instead, wondering what had happened to make them the way they were. Were such illnesses inherited or the result of terrible events?

Enrico was pleased she was happier. He too found his work fascinating.

“My uncle is a genius, who is not afraid to take risks,’ he said one night as they lay entwined, taking it in turns to draw on just one cigarette, the smoke encircling them like the mist. “His practices may appear controversial but do you see any violence on Poveglia, any unrest? Some of these patients have inflicted terrible damage upon others and themselves but that behaviour is under control. Some may even be returned to their families, eventually.”

“They escape?” she replied, tongue-in-cheek.

He turned his head to look at her, not amused. “Why do you use the word ‘escape’? They are not prisoners, Charlotte. They are in need of help. We are not prisoners either.”

Although tempted to snap back, she didn’t want to argue, she was enjoying herself too much lying in his arms, and wasn’t yet satiated. She took the cigarette from him and inhaled one last time. “Tell me more about the hospital. When was it founded?”

“According to my uncle fifteen years ago, dealing with severe cases as well as mild.”

“So it is where the mad of Venice were packed off to?”

“Charlotte!” Again he was reprimanding her. “Please, respect my profession.”

Pushing herself up onto one arm, her breasts brushed lightly against his chest. “
Why
do you want to specialise in mental illness, darling? You have told me but only briefly.”

He looked into her eyes. “Why should I not specialise?”

“That’s no answer. Do you have a mad relative? Someone you encountered as a small child? Someone who left a lasting impression?”

Enrico laughed. “What an imagination you have! No, I do not!”

What about your mother
, she wanted to say. In Charlotte’s opinion she was mad enough. But of course she didn’t. Besides which, he was speaking again.

“It interests me, that is why. Treating the body is one thing, we can do so much nowadays, but treating the mind, that is something else entirely. The mind
controls
everything, Charlotte, including disease. If we can find a way to switch off negative impulses in the brain, the world will be a better place for it.”

“So the mind controls the human, but you and your uncle want to control the mind?”

“We want to
understand
the mind, the way it works, for the greater good.”

She mulled over his words. “And you would do this through more refined medication?”

He shook his head. “Medicine is too expensive, it has side effects, so continually administering it to patients is not an option. We would do it via an operation. But first we need to know which part of the brain to operate on, so we do not lose the entire person.”

“The way that medication sometimes does?”

“Exactly,” he seemed pleased she’d ‘got it’. “That is where we differ from other surgeons, or rather where my uncle differs. He wants to retain what is best in a person, their essence. He is at the forefront of this idea, a leader in his field, and if he can get it right he will be remembered.” Warming to his subject, he added, “It is only a small part of the brain that needs to be worked on, the skill is in finding which part and isolating it.”

“But what if it is unique to every person?”

“No… we do not think so.”

“But what if it is? It seems perfectly feasible to me. Each person is unique after all.”

“
Amore
, please, you should not concern yourself.”

“Enrico! I’m not a child. I’m entitled to an opinion.”

“Charlotte,” the skin around his eyes crinkled, “you are so passionate about everything.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“No, of course not.”

Still she was concerned about what he’d said. “It would be wonderful if what you are trying to achieve can be done but I’m not sure. I still think the mind is as unique as the person itself, and if you fail to acknowledge that, you run the risk of switching everything off. Turning people into… mere shadows. So many people here are like that already.”

“Because of the medication, Charlotte, as you have said – it shuts them down.”

She grew even more curious. “How much success have you had, Enrico?”

He shifted slightly, looked away. “It is true to say we are in our infancy, but success will come.” Returning his gaze, becoming animated even, he added, “We may make mistakes but think, if we find a way, if we succeed, madness will no longer exist, we would have cured it, Dr Fabrizio Gritti and Dr Enrico Sanuto!”

Cured madness? What an interesting concept.

“If you succeed there will be no more wars,” she said. After all, what was war but madness? She thought of Albert and what was happening in Europe. Hopefully he’d got the letter she sent, and she looked forward to receiving his.

Whilst she contemplated, Enrico reached out a hand and stroked her hair. “Maybe there will be no more wars, but I think somehow that is a long way off – madness exists in many forms, not all of it is obvious. Meanwhile, there is much to learn. I am lucky to be here.”

“
We
are lucky. There are two of us, remember.”

“I know. I know there is.” He lifted his head to kiss her, an appeasement at having just forgotten her maybe. “You are settling,
amore
?”

“More than I imagined I would, but perhaps that is because I know an end is in sight.”

“Of course.”

“And there is isn’t there?”

“What?”

“An end?”

“As I have said, a few more months we will be here.”

“England,” she blurted out, surprising herself as much as him. “I want to go back.”

He drew back slightly. “We must go where the work is.”

“But there will be plenty of work in England. They’ll need doctors, good doctors, especially if another war is coming. And they will need auxiliaries, people to help in hospitals. If I can’t find office work I simply carry on. Put to use all I have learnt here.”

“Charlotte—”

“Promise me you’ll consider England! You said you loved it.”

Enrico closed his eyes but only briefly. “How could I not love it, it is where I met you.”

As he continued to nuzzle against her, she reached downwards, took hold of him in her hand and began rubbing rhythmically, noticing his breath catch in his throat.

“Promise me,” she repeated, whispered like words of seduction.

Catarina Castelli was not as old as she looked. On first meeting her Charlotte presumed she was in her seventies, but, managing to take a look at her notes, she could see her birth year was 1875, which made her only sixty-three. The
diagnosi
was
isterismo
. When she’d asked Enrico later what that meant, he’d answered ‘hysteria’.

“What does that mean?” she queried.

“Women are emotional beings,” he’d replied, “some are perhaps
over
emotional.”

Catarina was just one of the patients in Charlotte’s care. She had up to twenty to see to on a daily basis, all concentrated in the eastern wing of the main building – the female only section. She had no clue about patients elsewhere, except those who frequented the mixed recreation rooms. Apart from the tour that she and Enrico had received on their first day – which hadn’t included all parts of the asylum, by any stretch – she hadn’t had time to explore. But she was happy with her lot, and by and large her patients were compliant, allowing her to feed and bathe them without any fuss or even concern. Were any of them guilty of heinous crimes? Enrico had mentioned some patients having ‘inflicted damage’, but she simply couldn’t imagine it. In a way they were as docile as children.

It was Catarina whom she first started reading to. It was hard to carry on a one-way conversation, even if there were smiles involved, which is why she’d had the idea of reading to her patients in the first place, especially during the nightshifts – of which she’d done a couple so far. Her voice might sound comforting in the stillness of the night, she hoped, lulling them to sleep. Enrico had laughed when she’d told him what she was doing but good-naturedly so. She even thought she saw a hint of pride in his eyes, as not only was she making the best of their situation,
supporting
him, she was coming up with ideas.

As Charlotte read, Catarina would lie against the pillow, her eyes half-closed. Charlotte wondered if she understood any of what she was saying, even just a word here or there. The book she was reading from was
A Tale of Two Cities
, which she’d only got halfway through on her own.

Patients in the surrounding beds gradually began to listen too, their heads turning towards the sound of her voice, the expressions on their faces different to usual, Charlotte noticed – not as vacant, more focussed. So often she’d felt left out at the Sanuto family home when Enrico and his parents would insist on speaking in Italian, but here language didn’t seem to be a barrier. Just being together, in the same place, united them.

She found herself preferring the night shifts to the day, requesting more of them. It was easier to connect at night. The day was just too busy. She was more in charge – other staff close by to call on if she needed them but not
too
close. When her patients finally slept she would write to her parents and to Albert, asking how they were and when they were going to write back, telling them about life on Poveglia, which was not as she’d feared it would be. She could even forget about the sea that surrounded her, most of her life was spent within the walls of the asylum anyway. Enrico hadn’t been keen on her volunteering to work nights at first. ‘What about us?’ he’d asked, his expression telling her he was worried she might have tired of him. ‘I’ll be back before you go on duty,’ she’d answered, ‘to ensure your day gets off to the best possible start.’ And she’d done that, sending him to work with a smile on his face, a smile playing on her lips too.

The walk from the hospital to the cottage at dawn took minutes only, but often she’d stop and admire the setting she’d found herself in. Like Venice, it had its own beauty. The days on the run up to Christmas were unseasonably warm; it had stopped raining and the sun had returned. So often the early morning sky took her breath away – it was such a contrast to the dark confines of the ward. Gold and red would hold sway, at least for a short while, pushing aside deepest black before blue dominated once more.

She’d finished
A Tale of Two Cities
and was planning to read
A Christmas Carol
to the patients, although, having finished a round of night shifts, she was back on days. This morning, another bright offering, she hurried to her ward, nodding courteously at other members of staff. She hardly saw Elizabetta anymore, who’d gone to work in another part of the hospital, but she was no loss, not on a personal scale. It was the patients she’d befriended. As she entered the ward, some would get excited at the sight of her, start clapping their hands in quick succession, rocking back and forth – and she was excited to see them too.
My children
, she thought again. Mad perhaps but not evil – surely not evil?

There’d be no time for reading, not until the afternoon. She got stuck in, fetching bowls of porridge and feeding those who weren’t capable. Not all the patients were old, far from it. There were young women on the ward too, a varied mix of ages, and she’d greet everyone individually, even those who didn’t respond to her, like Leda, a woman of middling years who looked at no one, and Luigina, no more than thirty she’d wager, who was also very insular. Having fed several patients, it was Luigina’s turn, and so, after tucking in her bib, she started lifting the spoon to her mouth, telling her as she did about the book she was going to start reading to them next – how ‘seasonal’ it was.

“I’m also going to see if I can arrange a trip into Venice tomorrow, I should love to choose some decorations, not just for the ward, but for the dining room too, it looks so cheerless.” She also wanted some ribbon for her hair – it had been an age since she’d worn anything as frivolous – as well as hand cream; hers had become so chapped. Still spooning in mouthfuls she continued chatting, telling Luigina about Christmas in England and the ancient tradition of wassailing, still popular in Somerset where she hailed from, and traditionally held on Old Christmas Eve, January the fifth. “Almost every farm in Somerset has an apple orchard,” she explained. “They use the apples to make cider, which is a drink many English people like, an alcoholic drink. To go wassailing means to go from door-to-door, singing and offering cider from the wassail bowl in exchange for a small gift. Everyone in the village does it, we all know each other you see.”
Much like we do here
, she thought. “Some also go into the orchards, and this is where it can get a little odd, they recite incantations and sing to the trees in order to produce a good harvest for the coming year. The ritual is designed to see off evil spirits—”