This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller (11 page)

Pulling up one of the chairs to sit beside Catarina, Charlotte opened her book and started to read. As she did her earlier upset diminished. Already she’d set the scene: turning off the main lights and switching on sidelights. She knew if she were outside she’d be able to hear church bells calling devoted parishioners to prayer. There was a chapel here too but as far as she knew it was never used, certainly no priest had been asked to come and say mass on Christmas morning – religion all but forgotten as well, surprisingly.

As she always did whilst reading, she spoke slowly, annunciating each word clearly – using her voice as a calming tool. Turning the pages it wasn’t just Catarina that was enraptured. As they’d done before – even Luigina when she’d been here – other patients relaxed too. Gabriela stopped pacing and stood still for a while before padding silently to her bed. There was a slight chill in the air, but inside she felt warmth. Not only that, but a relevance. There was meaning in what she was doing, she was sure of it. It helped.

As she continued to turn the pages, the light from outside gradually faded. The patients had been given an early supper of cheese and bread so that the day staff could leave in good time, and now nothing waited for them but a sleep she could ease them towards. Feeling tired from all the work she’d done earlier, she had to stifle a yawn on several occasions, but she persevered.

Unlike
A Tale of Two Cities
, this Dickens had a purely English setting and she was enjoying it immensely. This was the third novel she’d read of his; the first had been
Pictures from Italy
, a travelogue of sorts, documenting his time spent in Italy and which she’d read prior to travelling here herself. In it he’d described Venice as an ‘Italian dream’. Not only that but a ‘ghostly city’ and ‘strange’. She’d agree with the last two sentiments perhaps but regarding the dream reference she might seek to correct him – although certainly what had happened to her since she’d arrived in the city had been dreamlike.

Pausing, she looked around her – night had fallen in earnest and the ward was deathly quiet. What was it like on other wards? Had whoever was in charge managed to lull their patients too? And those residing in other parts of the hospital, parts as yet unexplored, were they at peace? Was Luigina being attended to, given the help she so clearly needed? She hoped so. Most of her patients had indeed fallen asleep. Studying those close to her, the rise and fall of their chests was even. It was peaceful, so peaceful. Even her anger at Enrico’s non-appearance dissolved. There’d be a reason. Perhaps several patients had fallen ill and he and his uncle were treating them. He might even be in theatre. She’d find out later. The patients had to come first. She wouldn’t argue with that.

Catarina was quiet too, her rheumy eyes closed. Deciding to call it a night, Charlotte rose. She’d go to the cottage and wait for Enrico there. She wouldn’t be angry on greeting him; she’d kiss him instead and take his breath away. Doing her utmost to stop her chair from scraping against the tiled floor, she heard a voice, seemingly disembodied.

“Thank you.”

In its way it startled her as much as when Luigina had lunged. Having been reading about ghosts, she wondered if she’d conjured one. Her eyes wide, she looked towards the night nurse’s desk. It was empty, no doubt she’d taken the opportunity to go outside and have a cigarette, certainly she reeked of them. If it wasn’t her, who was it? When the words came again, they were more of a whisper.

“Thank you.”

She looked towards Catarina. “Is that you?”

The old woman opened her eyes and nodded, an almost imperceptible gesture.

“But… You can speak?” She berated herself. Of course she could speak! She’d just proved it. But there was something else, more bewildering. “You can speak in English?”

Slowly, very slowly, Catarina raised a hand and beckoned Charlotte to come forward. “Please… help me… sit up,” she instructed, her voice low and with a scratchy quality to it. Only briefly hesitating, Charlotte obeyed, too curious not to.

The older woman looked so small in the bed, as if life had shrunk her. Charlotte wished she had a blanket to place over her thin shoulders so she might keep her warm, but they were in a cupboard too far away. If she left, this moment of lucidness might pass.

Instead she sat as close as she deemed safe. She sensed that Catarina spoke only because all the others were asleep, and so kept her voice low too.

“You can speak in English?” Charlotte repeated. “You can understand me?”

Catarina nodded again. “Growing up I had an English governess.” She paused before adding, “I enjoy that you read to me.”

“I… I’m glad.” There were so many questions she wanted to ask but she forced herself to remain still, to listen. Catarina’s next words surprised her further.

“You should not be here.”

“I’m here because—”

Catarina shook her head. “You should go.”

This time Charlotte did reply quickly. “I am going, soon, back to the cottage, my living quarters on the island,
our
living quarters. I’m married to Dr Gritti’s nephew—”

Agitation crept into Catarina’s voice. “To stay is dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” She found it anything but. “How is it dangerous?”

Catarina closed her eyes, but only briefly. “It is not easy to speak.”

“No, of course, I realise that—”

“But I must. The history of the island, you know it?”

The history? Only what Enrico had told her, that it had been used as a means of repelling invaders, hence the Octagon just across the water. Also that it had been a sort of checkpoint for people coming in and out of Venice in the eighteenth century.

Before she could answer, Catarina held up a hand, a surprisingly abrupt gesture. “You read to us of ghosts, but this place, it is full of them.”

Ghosts? She was talking about ghosts? Charlotte remembered Catarina’s diagnosis – hysteria. Should she try and calm her or go and find the night nurse? Enrico and Dr Gritti even? It seemed Catarina guessed what was on her mind.

“I speak the truth! Poveglia is haunted, it always has been, ever since the plague victims.”

“Plague victims? What plague victims?”

Clearly Catarina was bewildered. “You have not been told?”

“Told what?”

“Do you know where Luigina is? Do you even have an idea?”

“I… erm… yes. She’s being looked after.”

“She has been murdered!” Again, Catarina hissed at her, as though frustrated by her ignorance. “So many have been murdered here, first those who were sick physically, confined in the lazzaretto, quarantined, and then us,” she raised her hand, tapped at her skull. “Those they consider sick in our heads. But why is grief a sickness?”

Grief?
“Catarina, what happened to you?”

If she thought Catarina might divulge any more personal information, she was wrong. Instead, her agitation increased. “My concern is for you.”

She should call the nurse. Catarina was definitely having an episode. She tensed, made to move but Catarina’s next words stopped her.

“Have you noticed the soil is soft on the island? It is because you are walking on graves. There are bones under your feet, countless bones, all of us mixed together, buried and forgotten, or so they like to think. But they are wrong. The dead do not forget. They are still here. They want revenge and they will get it. Somehow they will get it.”

Tempted though she was to dismiss Catarina’s words, the memory of her first day surfaced. How she’d fallen, her hands sinking into soil as soft as Catarina said it was, one hand closing around something long and smooth but hard to the touch – something Enrico had thrown from him, as if it were still contaminated – a human bone? She remembered thinking it was, but only initially, forgetting about it soon after. But if it was – if she were right, if
Catarina
was right, then to whom did it belong? A soldier from long ago? A patient from the asylum? A plague victim? There were green fields edging the island; she’d planned to walk in them when she had time. That prospect didn’t seem so appealing now.

She swallowed – what had been revealed was bad enough but more worrying was the issue of Luigina. It was too fantastical to be true.

“Luigina is alive. Patients are not murdered here.”

Catarina was unfazed by her stringent denial. “They are. Luigina is not the first to disappear. There are others. If you make a fuss, if you show that the opiates are not working, then they silence you in other ways. Everyone knows, but no one will say. Dr Gritti has too much power.”

“Dr Gritti is trying to help.” And subsequently her husband: trying to find a way to cure their madness.

“But he does not help! He fails, over and over. Yet still he keeps on experimenting. Once you are on this island no one cares. You are dead from the moment you arrive.”

“That isn’t true.”

“It is! There are other parts to this hospital, secret parts. You are aware of that? That is where they experiment. Open your eyes, girl, and see where it is you really are. You are in hell. If you can, if it is not too late, leave.” She paused, her eyes glistening. “You are different. You do care. But it will do you no good. Listen to me and leave Poveglia.”

“But my husband, Enrico…” She could feel her eyes moistening too, if what Catarina was saying was true, it was awful. But surely they were the ramblings of a mad woman?

“If he refuses to come, leave him. As I have said, Dr Gritti has too much power.”

She closed her eyes, tried to process all she’d been told: Poveglia was once where plague victims were quarantined, where they were sent to die? And now it was home to an asylum, where patients were experimented on. And when the experiment went wrong, they died, murdered in other words and no one stopped it. All were complicit, or looked the other way.
She
had looked the other way, ignored paths she didn’t have to tread, concerned herself only with what she had to do; dampened any curiosity. After all, she was leaving soon; she was simply biding her time. But now… now it was different.

If she were to believe Catarina, she needed to find proof. The ground outside was a starting point, she could dig where she’d fallen, see if she could find the bone she’d grabbed hold of, other bones perhaps. She could explore less common areas, and if someone stopped her, she’d pretend she was lost. Enrico was another port of call, he was her husband, she’d quiz him; he’d tell her the truth, put her mind at rest. Catarina was prone to hysteria, she reminded herself of that. As for claims the island was haunted, she’d never been unsettled by anything supernatural, not even the stillness of it.

“Catarina, there are no ghosts—”

“There
are
ghosts. Look and you will see.”

“But it is so peaceful here.”

“There is no peace.”

Engrossed in their conversation, she didn’t register initially that Catarina had begun to shake. She’d also turned her head to the side to look at something. Compelled to look too, Charlotte took a deep breath and turned her head slowly, so slowly, her nerves getting the better of her. She exhaled in relief. It was only the night nurse. She’d returned and she was staring at them; her eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

Trying to shield Catarina from view with her body, Charlotte leant forward. “You are not to worry, I won’t say anything, or tell her we’ve even talked. You are safe, perfectly safe.”

Her reassuring words fell short as Catarina continued to shake.

As she’d planned to do, Charlotte greeted Enrico with a kiss that night. He’d come rushing through the door only a short while after she’d arrived home, a thousand apologies on his lips, there’d been several emergencies apparently and it’d been impossible to get away. As he continued to make a fuss of her, she asked what type of emergencies they’d been.

“One patient started having hallucinations, he had to be restrained,” Enrico explained, surprising her by offering to open a bottle of red wine, so rarely did he drink. “Another started to convulse.
Amore
, it is all very boring for you but what happened today, it is standard for us. I had to stay to assist my uncle, I had no choice.”

Pouring the wine, which he’d ordered in at the beginning of their stay, she studied his demeanour. The tremors running through him were in no way as noticeable as Catarina’s but the glass shook slightly in his hand as he held it. He also lit a cigarette and puffed at it in rapid succession. Was he nervous? He seemed so. Or was she being fanciful again? Fired up by Catarina and what she’d said? There was only one way to find out.

“Darling, Luigina wasn’t on the ward today.”

Again the glass shook as he lifted it to his lips. “Luigina?” he repeated. “No, she… erm… will not be returning any time soon.”

“Why not?”

“The relapse she has suffered is significant. She needs to be… tended to.”

She drank from her glass too but refused the cigarette he offered her. “Enrico, this cure you are trying to find for madness, the operations you carry out, it’s all within the limits of the law isn’t it?” She couldn’t believe she’d asked, that she’d ploughed straight in.

To her relief, Enrico laughed. “Of course! You think I would break my code of ethics?”

“No… I…”

Enrico drained his glass. “
Amore
, I cannot believe you doubt my integrity!”

“I don’t, not at all, but, Luigina,
how
is she being tended to? Please, Enrico, just tell me.”

Enrico had been sitting but now he rose abruptly and walked over to the window, taking her silver cigarette case with him and lighting another from it. He stared in the direction of the asylum, before looking back at her. “We have a high security wing, Charlotte, it is not in the main building it is in the building to the right of it. You have not been there and nor should you. It is, or rather it can be, very distressing, home to only our most disturbed patients. She has been placed in a cell there.”

“A
cell
?”

Enrico sighed at her reaction, rolled his eyes. “A padded cell, for her own safety. She will hurt herself otherwise.”

“A high security wing?” Again she repeated his words, trying to make sense of them.

A cloud of smoke surrounding him, he looked slightly feverish, she thought. Twin spots of colour glowed on his cheeks. “You must realise there is one here?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” And yet it had never crossed her mind, not until Catarina had spoken of it. “Luigina will be all right?”

“She is in my uncle’s care.”

“But she will be all right?”

She could sense his impatience. “Charlotte, what is this all about?”

How could she tell him what it was all about? The last thing she wanted was to get Catarina in trouble too. “I feel responsible,” she answered.

He walked back over, but not to offer a reassuring hug, to pour another glass of wine. Soon he’d finish the bottle. “You are not to blame. Luigina will be treated appropriately.”

“Operated on you mean?”

He paused briefly before drinking again, wiping at his mouth afterwards. “Charlotte, I have explained what we are trying to do, the purpose of it, and you understand, yes?”

“Yes,” she supposed she did. Taking a sip from her glass, she decided to probe him about the history of the island – the
plague
history – explaining that she was talking to a nurse instead of a patient who’d mentioned something about it.

Enrico dismissed that too. “It is history,
amore
, ancient history. Venice had no choice but to quarantine victims that had fallen ill, all around the world they did the same.”

“Were they left to die here?”

“Some died, some survived, but most importantly
Venice
survived.”

That was true, she couldn’t deny it. Disease had to be contained and the healthy protected. Of those that had died, there was every chance at least some of them had been buried too, their bodies burnt to ‘cleanse’ them and what remained pushed into soft earth to lie unmarked – the ground just as secretive as the sea.

Enrico was talking again.

“
Amore
, it is Christmas, we have both worked hard all day, please, let us forget about work, about the history of the island, just for a little while. Try and make the best of it.”

Make the best of it? He spoke as if he was finding it difficult too. He was right though. They had both worked hard today, her husband especially. She reminded herself how much responsibility his position carried, and the decisions he had to make, he must feel weighed down by them sometimes. Certainly, he seemed more care worn; he had done since they’d arrived on the island, since he’d arrived back home even. At his parents’ he’d been on edge as much as her at times. They both had to report for duty in the morning, but tonight was theirs. She wouldn’t worry about Luigina anymore – she was in the best place for her. And she’d try to forget Catarina’s dramatic words too. As for the island’s history, although unpleasant, it was, as Enrico said, over. Placing her glass back down, she fixed him with one of her looks, a look he returned, knowing full well what she wanted.

Christmas passed peacefully enough, Enrico helping on the ward on Christmas Day, making up for the day before. They spent the evening together amiably as well, Charlotte putting the disappointment of not hearing from her family on hold, remembering that Enrico was her family now, her
immediate
family. She’d tackle the issue regarding her parents and Albert as soon as the New Year began. Nothing more untoward happened on the ward following Christmas, Catarina didn’t speak to her again, didn’t even try and make contact. She’d retreated into herself, couldn’t even raise a smile. Charlotte did try on occasion to coax her into speaking when the ward nurse was busy, but without success.

The New Year came and went, not the riotous celebration she’d always been used to but exciting in its own way – it meant their stint on Poveglia was to come to a close.

Since Catarina’s words, she’d explored the ground close to where she’d fallen, but not found anything. To corroborate Catarina’s theory of ‘shallow graves’ she’d have to take a shovel to the ground, but she was in no hurry to do that, squirming at the thought. Besides, would she be the unethical one for disturbing the dead? As for corridors yet unexplored, she ventured down a few but doors leading off them had been locked and, listening carefully for signs of activity from within, she’d found none. Once, whilst exploring, she’d almost got caught by none other than Dr Gritti himself and had had to pick up pace to avoid him. She’d heard him talking. Not to Enrico, it was a woman who’d answered him. Not wanting to explain herself, she’d thanked God for her keen hearing.

It was raining again. She missed crisp, cold December mornings as January settled in. It was miserable on the island when it rained and she was sure that the boatman didn’t deliver provisions as often as he normally did, food rations seemed to be less than normal, for everyone. The postman too was conspicuous by his absence, and she was growing further agitated at the lack of correspondence from home, having noticed that Europe was indeed on the brink of war from a newspaper left lying about. It was even more essential to get in touch with her parents, with Albert, to find out how they all were, whether her father had recovered from his chest infection, if her brother had been stationed and where. The need to return home was also becoming more pressing, lest travel soon became impossible.

In-between her work on the ward, she kept regular watches on Dr Gritti’s office, making whatever excuses she could throughout the day to keep popping down to the ground floor, to try and find a pattern of when he did and didn’t occupy it. She’d asked Enrico to ask his uncle if she could use the telephone but he’d been fobbed off with Dr Gritti saying that he ‘doubted very much a connection to London could be made from the island at this time.’ Wanting to put the international exchange to the test herself, she’d decided she’d go in there when he and Enrico were on their rounds. She remembered the number to quote well enough, as she had spent enough time typing it onto correspondence.

The opportunity to do so came quite suddenly. It was a Monday morning and she knew for a fact that Dr Gritti and Enrico would be in the high security wing, tending to patients, Enrico had told her that much the previous evening. She’d been concerned about him going into work at all. He’d appeared feverish again, his dark eyes glittering strangely, but he’d said there was nothing wrong with him. Torn between insisting he take a day off and seizing her chance, she’d decided on the latter.

Poised at the door of the doctor’s office, she hesitated, feeling like a thief who was breaking and entering. The door wasn’t locked, so there was no breaking at least – Dr Gritti perhaps a little too arrogant in thinking no one would dare to go in there during his absence. Checking there was no one around her, she slipped inside.

The only time she’d been in here before was on the day they’d first arrived. It was exactly the same; as neat, as orderly, as precise – reflecting his personality she thought. He was a
precise
man, cold too, despite being charismatic. This hospital was his kingdom, he ruled it, but maybe it was with fear rather than respect. Did she respect him? His obvious medical skills perhaps, but his bedside manner, his insistence on doping the patients so they were barely more than vegetables, his dismissal of her when she’d been attacked; those were qualities she didn’t favour. Did Enrico respect him? Enormously. She could never voice her true opinion of his uncle, he’d never agree. Little matter it all was, they’d be off the island soon, they’d be home, she’d focus on what she came here to do – make contact – and then she’d start insisting they leave for good.

Crossing over to the telephone, she lifted the receiver and waited to be connected to the operator. When a female voice answered, she spoke in low clear tones. The operator was speaking back to her, her voice so faint, that even if they’d both been speaking English, she doubted she’d be understood.

“London,” Charlotte kept saying. “Can you connect me to an office in London?”

“
Numero, per favore?
”

Numbers, the operator was asking for numbers. Charlotte recited it only to be greeted with what sounded like ‘
scusa
’ – pardon me? She recited them again, loud and clear, hoping the operator’s grasp of a foreign language surpassed hers. As her voice rang out, she glanced nervously at the door, praying she wouldn’t attract anyone.

There was silence on the other end – only for a few moments but it seemed longer. Time was so different on the island. It lingered, minutes melting into each other and stretching into eternity. A shiver danced along her spine. She had a sudden premonition: that’s how long she’d be here – for an eternity, if she couldn’t get through to London, if she couldn’t persuade Enrico to leave… There was a ringing tone! She’d been patched through! She could hardly believe her luck. She’d find out news of what was happening in London, be able to pass a message to Albert and her parents. She’d speak to someone English. She’d be
understood
. The deceit of her actions was worth it if this was the result.

Hurry! Hurry! Please hurry
.

More time passed.

Someone answer the telephone!

Still it rang.

Please!

It went dead; no more ringing tone, no crackling even. “Hello! Hello!” she cried but received no reply.

She dared to sink into the doctor’s chair, and, having to steady her fingers, tried again. This time even getting through to the operator was impossible making her wonder if she’d imagined it before. Tears filled her eyes.
So near and yet so far… like this damned island
.

Reluctantly she replaced the receiver. As much as she cared for the patients here, she’d have to insist to Enrico that they leave sooner rather than later – she simply had to be out in the real world again, be a part of it. If he didn’t agree, she’d leave anyway, go back to England and wait for him there. Maybe she could even pave the way for him, source what vacancies there were in the medical world. As she’d said, in London, especially in the current time, there’d be plenty of opportunities.

Trying to find solace in that plan, she started to rise from the desk when something caught her eye. A desk drawer to the right was slightly ajar. She sat back down, and, unable to resist, reached out to pull it further open. It was a mishmash of papers, not neat at all, but haphazard. Curious, she pulled open the drawer to the left too, again it was stuffed, this time with a jumble of office necessities, pens, scissors, rulers, a stapler, staples. Pulling open another drawer, and another, it was the same with each of them. She stood up and went to a filing cabinet located on the far wall; there was no system to anything, no attempt whatsoever at order. Was this a more honest reflection of Dr Gritti’s personality: composed on the outside but inside a mess.