the words falling from him lips before he could stop hi mself.
Mrs. Carter had not exaggerated. Fourteen years ago this had been Bethany, his little sister; his mute, reclusive, introverted sister. A girl whose very presence in the same room had terrified him, even as a teenager.
The Bethany that lay before him was a grown woman, and a truly beautiful one.
She couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t possible.
Matt knelt down beside her and gazed into her face. Tentatively, he reached out a hand towards her, his fingers shaking as they closed over hers, as cold as china.
‘Bethany?’ he whispered.
Her eyes opened. Coal black and deadly, they bored into his own.
Matt screamed and let go of her hand even as her fingers reached out for his, clawing. He fell backwards, his body striking the wooden floor and his head catching the edge of a bedside cabinet. He felt consciousness slipping away. Through stunned, starry eyes he saw Bethany start to rise, mouth opening as she inched towards him to form twisted words for the first time. He screamed as much as he were able, a hollow, croaking sound that scraped along the sides of his throat like a wire cloth.
And then his father came bursting through the door, racing across the room to strike her with something heavy, something blunt (something that made a sound like a rolling pin hitting dough), once, twice, over and over . . .
(oh God not that hammer not that hammer oh God oh God)
Matt woke sweating, sitting bolt upright in bed. Somewhere beyond his room he could hear movement along the corridor, and then the sound of knocking, muffled, distant.
Mugginess cleared as Mrs. Carter’s shouts came from beyond the door, and breathless, he called back, yes, he was fine, just a nightmare . A couple more reassurances, and he heard her stomp back to bed, grumbling something about an early start tomorrow.
He felt the dampness of the sheets beneath him. Had he really cried out in his sleep?
He switched on the bedside light and squinted as the sudden brightness pierced right through his eyes and into the depths of his whiskey hangover. The clock read 4:30am.
He rolled out of bed, stumbled across the room to a sink in the corner. He vomited up a thick yellow paste, and turned the tap on full to wash away the remains of last night’s whiskey. Then, with the tap still roaring, he leaned over, took the head of the faucet into his mouth like the barrel of a gun, and gulped down the icy water until it choked him.
Afterwards, he felt a little better. The half full bottle next to his bed had begun to whisper his name, as it always did now, no matter how he felt, but he ignored it, going instead to the window and ripping back the curtains to expose the night.
Outside, a light rain fell steadily on the village green and the churchyard. The lane beyond was dark, empty; no lights from his father’s house were visible through the trees. Up and down the high street in both directions, shops, houses, the pub, all were dark, silent.
He needed a walk to clear his head. Mrs. Carter got nervous easily, she had told him, and so locked up at around eleven. In order that they could come and go as they pleased, she issued all her guests with a copy of the front door key, and a gentle reminder that they please lock the door behind them.
Matt went downstairs and let himself out into the dark, closing the door silently behind him. The rain had eased to a light drizzle. Although the night made him jittery, especially in Tamerton, he preferred it to the lingering dream memories that clung to the walls of his bedroom. He could still see Bethany’s face, rising up towards him with those hideous devil eyes. He shuddered, and pulled the thin wind cheater he wore tighter around him.
Going upstairs in the house, seeing his sister as a grown woman in her old bedroom, seeing her wearing the blood red ball gown, it had never happened. He had dreamt it. His nervousness and his father’s whiskey had combined to create
Mrs. Carter had not exaggerated. Fourteen years ago this had been Bethany, his little sister; his mute, reclusive, introverted sister. A girl whose very presence in the same room had terrified him, even as a teenager.
The Bethany that lay before him was a grown woman, and a truly beautiful one.
She couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t possible.
Matt knelt down beside her and gazed into her face. Tentatively, he reached out a hand towards her, his fingers shaking as they closed over hers, as cold as china.
‘Bethany?’ he whispered.
Her eyes opened. Coal black and deadly, they bored into his own.
Matt screamed and let go of her hand even as her fingers reached out for his, clawing. He fell backwards, his body striking the wooden floor and his head catching the edge of a bedside cabinet. He felt consciousness slipping away. Through stunned, starry eyes he saw Bethany start to rise, mouth opening as she inched towards him to form twisted words for the first time. He screamed as much as he were able, a hollow, croaking sound that scraped along the sides of his throat like a wire cloth.
And then his father came bursting through the door, racing across the room to strike her with something heavy, something blunt (something that made a sound like a rolling pin hitting dough), once, twice, over and over . . .
(oh God not that hammer not that hammer oh God oh God)
Matt woke sweating, sitting bolt upright in bed. Somewhere beyond his room he could hear movement along the corridor, and then the sound of knocking, muffled, distant.
Mugginess cleared as Mrs. Carter’s shouts came from beyond the door, and breathless, he called back, yes, he was fine, just a nightmare . A couple more reassurances, and he heard her stomp back to bed, grumbling something about an early start tomorrow.
He felt the dampness of the sheets beneath him. Had he really cried out in his sleep?
He switched on the bedside light and squinted as the sudden brightness pierced right through his eyes and into the depths of his whiskey hangover. The clock read 4:30am.
He rolled out of bed, stumbled across the room to a sink in the corner. He vomited up a thick yellow paste, and turned the tap on full to wash away the remains of last night’s whiskey. Then, with the tap still roaring, he leaned over, took the head of the faucet into his mouth like the barrel of a gun, and gulped down the icy water until it choked him.
Afterwards, he felt a little better. The half full bottle next to his bed had begun to whisper his name, as it always did now, no matter how he felt, but he ignored it, going instead to the window and ripping back the curtains to expose the night.
Outside, a light rain fell steadily on the village green and the churchyard. The lane beyond was dark, empty; no lights from his father’s house were visible through the trees. Up and down the high street in both directions, shops, houses, the pub, all were dark, silent.
He needed a walk to clear his head. Mrs. Carter got nervous easily, she had told him, and so locked up at around eleven. In order that they could come and go as they pleased, she issued all her guests with a copy of the front door key, and a gentle reminder that they please lock the door behind them.
Matt went downstairs and let himself out into the dark, closing the door silently behind him. The rain had eased to a light drizzle. Although the night made him jittery, especially in Tamerton, he preferred it to the lingering dream memories that clung to the walls of his bedroom. He could still see Bethany’s face, rising up towards him with those hideous devil eyes. He shuddered, and pulled the thin wind cheater he wore tighter around him.
Going upstairs in the house, seeing his sister as a grown woman in her old bedroom, seeing her wearing the blood red ball gown, it had never happened. He had dreamt it. His nervousness and his father’s whiskey had combined to create
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