Enid E-Book

Robert Bilic

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

London, 1897. When romance author Christopher Price is told by his publisher to write gothic horror - the most fashionable genre at the time - he reluctantly accepts and retreats to his usual country cottage to write the book.

Henry, the caretaker of the cottage, welcomes Christopher back with open arms. While researching the old books in the house, he comes across a photograph album with pictures of Henry and his wife, Enid. But Enid is nowhere to be seen, and Henry refuses to talk about her.

What is this dark, devilish past that he refuses to dig up?

Leseprobe

EnidA Ghost Story

Robert Bilic

Copyright (C) 2018 Robert Bilic

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To Enid and Bob, my nan and grandad, Forever with me, forever in my thoughts

Chapter I

'This is why your books aren't selling!', barked Andrew Hill, publisher to the successful Romantic novelist Christopher Price, as he pointed to his desk,'No-one wants to read about the soppy exploits of love, lost love, or unrequited love anymore'.

Framed in the centre of the publisher's desk between the two men and the subject of their conversation was a book. A thick book. The gold cover shone out like the brightest flower in the garden, so every bee would be drawn to it. The scarlet letters of the title and the author's name sat upon the gold like autumn leaves. This book was brand new and yet as old as time, 'Dracula' by Bram Stoker.

'But Andrew', interrupted the author, 'my books have an audience, and a respected audience at that, they have given us a fine reputation – and a lot of money. Can we not just re-print one with a prettier cover?'

'Not again, no'

'But what about…'

'No, you can't do that either'

As Christopher pined over the dismissal of his brilliant idea of replacing the lead character of one of his earlier books with the ghost of that character, Andrew sat down at his desk casually. He leant forward, forcing Christopher to lean back – Christopher had noted to himself how many times Andrew's flaky beard had littered his clothes.

'People want death, Chris', he spat, 'People want their blood to run cold; they want their comfortable houses to become bubbling laboratories. And they'll pay for it – as we've witnessed over the last decade!', with this last point Andrew displayed great zeal. 'You're out of style, and if you don't think of something fast we'll both be dead – you can create death so we can cheat it! Take a few weeks away and maybe something will happen. Go to that little cottage you're always on about and cook up a scare'. And with that Andrew picked up his spectacles with his pink, chubby fingers and with one fluid movement he pinched them on to the end of his nose and bid Christopher a good-bye. Christopher stood up and the tails of his jacket fell sadly on to his thighs. He replaced his black top hat and black cape and retrieved his cane from the stand, and opened the office door. As he pulled the creaking door behind him, he was contemplating on how he could make his publisher – and friend – change his mind. Christopher turned back into the office and saw how Andrew was slumped over his desk – completely absorbed in his lunch – like a lion on a carcass. Christopher left, silently.

Christopher disliked large crowds so, as always, he walked through the back alleys and slim corridors of London to get home. He didn't frighten easily. Very quickly he moved from the ants' nest like atmosphere of shopping ladies and hat-doffing gentlemen and after turning only one corner away from the crowds he was confronted by a tall stone archway. He looked around and nobody seemed to notice his hesitation – or they were ignoring it. Through the arch he could see a solitary lit lamp leaning into the middle of the road and ascertained the one lamp was responsible for lighting of the whole street. This wasn't on his normal path home, normally he would take the next left and walk through a small park but as he was about to attempt a new genre of writing, he thought he would attempt a new route home. Christopher entered cautiously but strolled confidently. His nerve was soon shattered by the cold and his paced slowed. The click of his leather soles echoed, Christopher repeatedly looked back to see if anyone else was walking behind him but no-one was there. Relief swept across his face. He smiled as he made his way across the cobbles. As he twirled his cane he looked up at the windows of the houses and shops and was surprised that the shutters and curtains were all drawn at so early an hour. Christopher stopped and stared at the one window that was naked. He approached it and tried to look through the little square, which seemed to swallow all light. Click. That all too familiar click of a shoe on the cobbles shot loudly down the street and was quickly followed by another, but Christopher was still. He checked his shoes. He looked back from whence he came but only a mist was gliding down the street, catching the light as it danced. No people. As he turned to look ahead of himself, the glass of the window boomed. Christopher stumbled back. Nothing was at the window; but the inky blackness seemed deeper. What was that? What to do now? He moved to the window again to prove to himself that something real was there; he didn't like not knowing.He drew closer than before and even went to place the tip of his cane on the glass. Tap. Tap tap. A dog jumped up. And his paws caused that recognisable boom. Christopher, now reassured, smirked and began to tease and talk with the dog. Click. The loudest yet. Christopher turned. All fell far too silent. The mist continued to waltz. He bid a farewell to the little terrier and resumed his journey home.

Dusk was fast approaching and Christopher drew nearer to his home. He began to think about what his publisher had said, he never believed in the supernatural let alone thought about writing the most fashionable fiction but now he had to think about it. But did he have to believe to write a convincing horror story? He believed his experiences gave great depth to his Romantic works. He settled on not reading 'Dracula' as he felt he may be inclined to mimic the complicated style as described to him by Andrew, instead he would write the horror story to end all horror stories - he would be back on top – he would be the new Edgar Allan Poe. This excited Christopher tremendously but, he had no story, no characters, no plot, nothing. No inspiration whatsoever. Looking around his own street, he noticed the bars across the now closed jewellers' windows looked like prison bars – perhaps a dungeon thriller? No. Christopher pivoted and saw Mrs. Smith come out of her doorway with a small mat and a carpet beater. She began to beat the mat and Christopher thought to himself why she was doing it there and then. Maybe she was cleaning the mat before she covered the trap door under which she had buried her husband. A revenge thriller? No. Too Poe-etic. He recalled his encounter with the dog and realised he still hadn't discovered the origin of those clicks but remembered the mist that flew across the light. Christopher was a logical and reasonable minded person; he liked to know how things worked and didn't like it when unquestionable realism couldn't be applied to something. The dust from Mrs. Smith's carpet began to lower itself on to the street and on to Christopher; he brushed it from his cape and watched it fall to the floor. He pondered. He thought about the lack of control he had over the dust's direction of descent; it fell with the force of a feather in the breeze but with the certainty of a boot on top of a spider.Why did the dust have to fall like that? If Christopher wasn't controlling it, what was? What had made those clicks in the dark alleyway? Christopher shivered, and for the first time realised how frightening London in 1897, could be.

The old battered, brown leather suitcase was dusted off and quickly loaded with basic clothes and accessories, Christopher rarely stepped out of the cottage when he was writing so dressed very simply and entirely for comfort. Once the items had been packed he shut the case and prepared to meet his carriage that was already outside, he picked up his portable writing desk and passed that and the suitcase to the driver. Christopher wrapped his black cloak around him and adjusted his top hat, looked around his house fondly and left. After locking his front door and placing the large key into his trouser pocket he stepped into his carriage and began his journey to his country cottage. The London air was heavy and thick, the carriage moved slowly through it like a spoon in porridge, and Christopher doffed his hat to those who smiled at him; London could be frightening but also friendly – cold yet warm. Christopher took out his burgundy leather notebook from his jacket and a pencil and began to make notes of what he saw en route – even some sketches: the people, the fashions, the houses and the horizon. Eventually he fell asleep, no doubt due to the warmth and cosiness of the atmosphere.

The warm and cosy atmosphere had faded, it seemed to have been overpowered by pure and utter cold and Christopher was too overpowered by this chill, thus forcing him to awaken with a jolt. The vast and wild moors were a familiar sight – even welcoming – the weather however wasn't pleasing. Grey clouds flooded the sky, the whole environment looked as though it was made of metal: steel column trees, copper wire grass and water boiler houses scattered across the county. Christopher noticed for the first time the melancholy the bleakness could provide and suddenly, a forceful depression descended over the writer. His content expression sagged and one would say he was on the brink of crying, he could feel the blood running through his veins and it was painfully cold. The beating of his heart hurt him in his chest; he grabbed his cloak and pushed it close to him hoping it would dull the pain. He felt moisture on his forehead and looked up at the sky but couldn't see any rain – he surveyed the scenery for any evidence of rain. Nothing. He mopped his face and the water was warm in his hand; he was sweating. Before he could begin to fathom the strange sensations that had occurred, his cottage came into view.

The cottage was made of old large, cream coloured stones but the weather and the passing years had turned the fresh cream into a tobacco stain beige. There were only two windows on the front of the house and both were wide welcoming eyes to its returning resident, the shutters were open and a dull glow emanated from within. The thatched roof was high and almost concaved, a solitary magpie pottered across the very top but avoided the smoking chimney, and as it popped and sprung, large mounds of moss tumbled down the roof and had made a miniature forest on the snake like garden path. Christopher alighted and followed his driver, holding his suitcase, to the black iron garden gate. The arched front door used to be coloured bright red – Christopher himself had painted it one summer – but now it appeared to be a deep crimson and the paint was flaking off the wood. It opened inwards and on to the porch stepped Christopher's close friend and caretaker of the cottage, Henry. 'Well it does my spirit good to see you again, sir', the caretaker grinned. Henry exuded old world grace; he was over seventy years old with the attitude of a young boy playing in the garden on a summer's evening. His dark brown hair was parted on the left and put back from his face and his blue eyes gleamed like two sapphires. Age had caused him to stoop a little but even with this posture he still matched Christopher's height of six feet. He was dressed in a white shirt and a burgundy woollen waistcoat – Henry always felt the cold and the stone surroundings of the cottage didn't help this malady – his tie and trousers were black and his black shoes were always immaculately clean; evidence of some sort of military service. He was the quintessential loveable and loyal caretaker. 'I've told you before Henry, don't call me “sir”, we've known each other too long for such formalities now', Christopher firmly shook his friend's hands, 'Oh I know, s-, but old habits die hard', returned the old man. Henry had once been the local squire's personal valet, before he died. 'And before you object, I insist on bringing your cases in – give them to me', Henry almost snatched the cases from the driver who couldn't help but be infected by the caretaker's good humour and zeal, Henry disappeared inside the cottage.

'Thank you for the journey, Thomas', Christopher paid his driver and very quickly he turned and drove away, leaving the writer at the door. 'Are you in yet? I've just made some tea', Henry's voice floated through the house and beckoned Christopher in. Christopher had to remove his hat and stoop to enter the house. He closed the door behind him.

The grey stone hallway almost immediately led to the stairs; there were three doorways in the hall: one on the left, one on the right and one straight ahead. The author, now upright, stepped through the right-hand doorway into the fire lit lounge. The room was high and bare above the bookcases except for the crown like light that hung in the centre of the room; it had to be lit by hand but seldom was; neither man minded the dark. The room was cluttered with books and paintings and clocks all perfectly organised so the room epitomised both England and education. Christopher quickly sat in his favourite spot which was in the middle of the long green sofa that sat in front of the bookcase, which completely covered the space between sofa and ceiling. Henry passed over the cup of tea he had made for the writer and Christopher bid him to join in a cup, 'oh thank you, s…', Christopher grinned as he drank as this was the second time the caretaker had stopped himself from saying “sir”. Henry sat in the single soft grey chair which was closer to the fire than the sofa and relaxed into the lived-in fabric. 'It's good to see you Henry. I'm only sorry I don't come by often but I think of you often – even miss you'

'Thank you, Chris.'

'You've kept the place looking splendid'

'I've kept the place exactly as you left it, after you finished your last book, I know you like your comforts and habits'

'Don't remind me about the last book'

'I beg your pardon. I'm sorry it didn't do too well'

'So am I but, that's why I'm here – to write the next one'

'I'm delighted. Ah another romance? Another tale of lost love - unrequited love - forbidden love?'

'No, my publisher thinks they're out of date, so I'm going for something more current, a horror story – a ghost story'

Henry's joyous expression melted rapidly, his complexion grew to match the stone that surrounded him, 'What? No. Why? Why do you want to mess around with such things? Don't. With respect, sir, you're a romance writer, you're good at that', Henry got up from the chair, walked over to Christopher and stooped over him almost threateningly, 'Please, you've just lost your edge; I'll help you get it back. Let me go and get a copy of your first novel – that was a real love story!' Henry disappeared out of the room and left Christopher, perplexed; he's never seen his old friend act in such a way; almost offended but certainly frightened, but of what?