This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller (23 page)

Louise could understand well enough Piero’s reluctance as they doubled back. Each time he faltered, however, she nudged him, either with words or with the palm of her hand.

“We have to find the key,” she reiterated.

He was shaking, she could see that but so was she. Her mind didn’t even dare to imagine the prospect of what was to come.

“Is… Rob all right?” she asked him, praying that he was.

Piero turned his head only briefly. “I don’t know. I’ve been too busy trying to find you.” Anger was re-emerging, replacing his initial relief. “And the rucksack, how do you know it’s in the theatre? How could it possibly be in there?”

“Piero, you don’t have to go in with me, I can do that alone. I just need to get there.”

“That doesn’t explain a thing.”

“I know it doesn’t, but you have to trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

He did stop now, turning to glare at her. “Why should I trust you? Give me one good reason!”

“Because you’re the one who brought us here, who got us into this mess!”

“You wanted to come!”

“I didn’t! I never wanted to come here, to set foot on such… such… unholy ground. But here we are and here we’ll stay, longer than tonight, longer than tomorrow. I honestly think we’ll die here if you don’t take me to that theatre. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. I know a lot of things, Piero. I’ve seen a lot of things, things that have taken place, here on the island, how people have suffered, one person in particular. And no, before you say it, I am
not
mad, don’t you even dare think it. I don’t blame you, for using us as a case study for your wife’s thesis, in your own way experimenting on us too, really I don’t, but we’re in a situation here, a situation I think I know the way out of. Don’t argue with me again, Piero, just lead the way. If you don’t we’re lost, all of us. We’ll be joining the lost.”

He looked shocked, as if he couldn’t believe the way she’d spoken to him, but just as quickly his expression altered as his gaze adjusted, as something caught his attention.

“
Dio mio, Dio mio, che cosa, che cosa?
”

“Piero, what is it, what are you saying?”

The temperature had dropped dramatically. She was turning to ice again. What was behind her wasn’t the others and it wasn’t Charlotte either. It was those who wanted to stop Charlotte, and by proxy, her, a force acting from the most basic emotion that existed – fear – and who’d be ruthless because of it.

Piero had stopped uttering and was rendered speechless. But still his gaze was fixed; she was the one who had to break the connection now, to stop him from being possessed.

She shoved him forwards and, at the same time, yelled as loud as she could in his face, “RUN, PIERO! RUN!”

It worked. He stumbled back a few paces and then turned and sprung forwards, running so fast she had trouble keeping up with him.

“To the old theatre, remember,” she called out, needing him to guide her, not to change his mind. “If we can get there, this’ll be over.”

Running up the staircase that she’d descended earlier she thought he might veer off to where Rob and Kristina waited, but he didn’t. They were returning to the first floor, to where he’d tried to take them earlier, going all the way this time.

The cold dark thing at her back had kept pace but at the top of the stairs she felt it receding. Why she didn’t know, perhaps it was spent, or, more worryingly, it was saving its energy for something else. There was no time to ponder it or to linger. It was getting later and later, the night in its fullness almost upon them. And, as was the habit of nocturnal creatures, more and more were waking up. The shadows she’d seen in the wards earlier had multiplied, spilling out of doors and into the hallway and all focussed on them, just them. She checked Piero’s reaction, but he didn’t seem to see them like she could, he was, if not running now, walking very fast, doing what she’d asked him to do, desperation driving him.

Where are you, Charlotte? Why aren’t you here too?

But of course she was here, she was everywhere and she was waiting.

Piero continued at a good pace. The building behind her fell away as if it no longer existed. She half fancied if she stopped and took a step backwards she’d fall, her limbs flailing uselessly as she struggled for something to hold onto, but finding nothing.

“Piero, are we close?”

“
Si
,” he answered. There was such a tremor in his voice.

As they turned again she recognised where she was. This was where the padded cells were, the room with the baths. Charlotte hated water; she’d gleaned that during the possession. Had they used such a treatment on her? More fool them if they had.

As before, most doors were closed, their locks rusted shut. All had been silent. Now it wasn’t. There was scratching coming from behind one of the doors, a relentless sound, as if someone was trying to claw their way out. Piero heard it too and looked towards it.

“Rats,” Louise whispered. He’d used a similar excuse earlier, when his wife had been frightened. There was more scratching,
gouging
she’d say, whoever was doing it entombed, buried alive, begging for release. “Ignore the sounds, keep going.”

He didn’t, he came to a standstill. She was so close to him she had to stop abruptly too.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

When he failed to answer, she peered ahead, following the light of her torch.

Downstairs graffiti was rife, upstairs less so and certainly not this far into the building, but the walls ahead were covered in writing, the same words that had been on the cottage wall –
Get out
– thick and jagged, carved into thick plaster rather than scrawled. Graffiti that hadn’t been there before – that was in no way referring to the baby, that hadn’t been created by the same hand. It was a warning. More than that – it was a threat.

Piero found his voice. “We cannot go any further.”

“We have to.”

“No!”

The scratching stopped and a door started to bang instead. Unlike what had happened downstairs, in Charlotte’s room, this was not an invitation for her to go towards it, promising a modicum of safety inside, but another threat, compounding the first.

Get out. Go home
.

But they couldn’t, that was the point. Not if she didn’t do as Charlotte wished.

Pushing past Piero she stood in front of him, determined.

“Tell me where the theatre is. I’ll go on my own. You stay here.”

He looked appalled. “Stay here?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“None of this is what I want. None of it!”

She pushed her face close to his. “Keep your voice down, control yourself. If you become hysterical, you’ll attract it.”

His eyes widened. “What will I attract?”

“Gritti. Sanuto. What’s evil in this asylum.”

“It’s all evil!”

“That’s just it, Piero, it’s not. But make no mistake, evil
is
here and it knows where we are. It’s trying to stop us, play tricks on us. We’re angry, we’re frightened, and that’s what it’s feeding on. But we’re also determined.
I’m
determined. I want to get off this island and I’ll do whatever it damn well takes.” She took a deep breath, tried to ignore the slamming still going on. “Now are you coming with me or are you staying here – alone?”

Piero was close to tears. “If I come, we run past the door.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Keeping to the farthest wall, Louise bolted, not giving Piero time to change his mind.

“Don’t look,” she called back. “Whatever you do, when we pass the slamming door, don’t give in, don’t look. That’s what it wants, to terrify you, to prevent you from going any further. Shut your eyes if you have to, just while you’re going past it.”

As they bridged the gap, the door started slamming even more furiously, impossibly so, as no human could keep up such momentum. And then it slowed… the closer they got it slowed. She was right, whatever was responsible wanted them to see what was inside.

“Look straight ahead.”

She followed her own instructions, even closing her eyes briefly. There was definite movement; she could sense it,
jerky
movement, as if whoever it was had wires to the head – multiple wires – shocks being administered, over and over again. She sensed the colour red too, coating walls that had once been white – blood – dripping, endlessly dripping.

From behind her came a strangled cry.

“Piero, we’re almost past it.” Something which should only have taken a moment, but stretched on and on, distorted as everything in the asylum was, the doorway becoming wider and wider, impossibly wide. What was inside was a parody of tragedy; a vision that once imprinted on the mind would be impossible to forget, haunting you in the dead of night and driving you mad. “Look ahead,” she reiterated.

It came down to a battle of wills – who would break first, them or the orchestrator?

She was growing tired. Her legs hurt, and her breath was short, playing harder to get with each stride.
Charlotte, you HAVE to help me!

Lightheaded too, she’d be swamped if she collapsed.

Charlotte, please!

The room’s occupant was edging closer, ever closer and, like the others, it had its arms outstretched – all too vividly she imagined long sharp fingernails, ready to lash out, to slash her open, to use her blood as decoration too.

CHARLOTTE!

Like paper crumpling, the door folded in on itself. It was dark again, so dark, despite both torches shining. Coming to a halt she dared to turn her head, relief overcoming her when she saw that what was behind it was at last contained.

She turned to Piero, who was panting heavily. “Are you okay?”

Finally he was able to speak. “I’m… I’m okay,” he replied. Making an effort to straighten up, he inclined his head to the left. “We’re here, where you wanted to be. It’s a few more steps.”

As they inched closer, every fibre in Louise’s body tensed, every thought that entered her head willed her to turn back, to run. But there was nowhere to go. Not without Charlotte’s baby. They had to find her, or be
allowed
to find her. The door to the theatre was ajar but it seemed to be straining to shut, invisible forces at work either side.

“Get in quick,” she urged Piero.

Once in, the door slammed behind them, causing Piero to jump.

The stench that hit them was the foulest of welcomes. She’d read somewhere once that the smell of fear was shit – the person who’d said it had been a reporter, stationed in one of the world’s most troubled regions. How accurate that description was. It really was as basic as that. So many people had been terrified entering here, their collective odour remaining.

Piero had noticed it too; he couldn’t fail to. His face was screwed up and he was swallowing rapidly. If she expected something to rush at them once inside she was wrong, but the smell… it was enough to repel anybody – anybody less desperate that is.

The theatre consisted of two rooms, the one they were standing in – an anteroom – and a second further in, separated by a curtain that was hanging in rags. Raising her torch, she saw rows of shelves, some of them empty, their contents looted perhaps, others still with surgical appliances on them – bandages, bottles, syringes all in varying states of decay and covered in a layer of filth. She drew closer, recoiling at the bandages particularly and their intended use, to stem a tide of blood that should never have flowed.

“Help me look,” she said to Piero.

He came over to join her. “For the rucksack?”

Should she tell him the truth? Would he freak out? Perhaps not, after all, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen them tonight. “No, not the rucksack. We’re looking for bones.”

“Bones? Whose bones?”

“The bones of a baby that was born here.”

“A baby? But… I don’t understand. Where’s the rucksack?”

“It might be here too. I don’t know. What I do know is we have to find the bones first, that’s what’s important. I know I’m probably not making sense but I don’t have time to explain, not here, not now. I’ll explain later. Please, Piero, just do as I say. Help me look for the bones and then we’ll be able to leave. I promise you. We’ll get out of here.”

Despite her earlier optimism, Piero started to back away from her as if she were indeed mad. Before he could get very far, she grabbed his arm. “Give me ten minutes and then we’ll leave and go and find the others. All I’m asking for is ten minutes of your time.”

The look in his eyes reminded her of an animal that had found itself caught in a trap, but they were all trapped and she was trying to find a way out of it. He had to help her!

Turning from him, she continued to search and urged him to do the same. She noticed movement, something scuttle, trying to escape the brightness of her torch. She recoiled before realising what it was: a large spider, something that appreciated the lack of human footfall, which thought of this place as a haven. Strange, how the most haunted room in the asylum was also the safest – a hiding place for so much; the good, the evil and – like the spider – the misunderstood. She ignored it and shone her torch into other parts of the room, Piero looking nervously around as she did. The walls were tiled, but many of them had fallen off over the years and lay on the ground either intact or shattered. There was a wheelchair at one end and on seeing it she gasped, expecting a figure to materialise within it, to wheel itself manically towards her. She shook the vision from her head. There was nothing, no chair-bound figure and certainly no bones. Charlotte’s daughter might be in the other room, the one obscured by the curtain.

“We have to go in there,” Louise said, nodding towards it.

Piero stayed where he was.

“I’ll go first,” she continued, “but follow me, I need the light from your torch too.”

Inching closer she had to force herself to pull the curtain aside, not wanting to touch anything so drenched in death. She hadn’t expected it, not here, but in the room beyond there was graffiti, just the one word but in letters half as tall as her:
Hell
. Who’d written that, she wondered, the living or the dead? She wouldn’t be surprised if the latter. The walls also had what looked like smears on them, some travelling from top to bottom. And on yet more shelves were the tools of the trade.

She hadn’t noticed Piero come to join her, she only realised when he stepped back, stumbled and lost his footing, his torch crashing to the floor.

“Blood! There is so much blood!”

His cry was halfway between a yell and a sob – he crashed to the floor, his back sliding against one of the walls, his chest heaving.

Louise rushed over to him.

“Piero, it’s not blood, it’s spray paint. I swear to you, just spray paint.” It had to be.

But Piero wasn’t listening; he kept shaking his head and insisting over and over again, his language alternating between English and Italian – blood,
sangue
, blood,
sangue
.

She was confused. “You’ve been in here before, Piero, you know what’s in here!”

“No,” he insisted, gesturing erratically around him, “not this part.”

So what had he done, got as far as the anteroom and then bolted? Probably. She’d bet it was the same for most people.

“Look, I won’t be long, but the bones, I have to find them.”

Swapping her phone torch for his – the beam was brighter – she swung round. In the centre of the room was an operating table, placed under a massive circle of lights that could be adjusted and pulled forward. The bed was horrendous enough but what she found worse were the straps hanging from it, what they implied beyond contemplation.

“Charlotte,” she cried out, deciding she had to speak, regardless of what Piero thought. “You wanted me to come here, don’t abandon me now. Where are the bones?”

She wanted to scream into the silence, fill the void.

“Charlotte! Where’s your daughter?”

It was Piero who started screaming, startling her at first until she realised whom it was.

“Over there! Who’s that? Who’s that?”

She shone the light to where he was pointing, but could see nothing.

“By the bed, there’s someone bending over it. Who is it? Dr Gritti?”

She was standing by the operating table but, because of his words, she stepped briskly away. Was it possible the doctor could materialise? She could still see nothing.

“It is! It’s Dr Gritti. He’s… he’s operating.”

“Piero, there’s no one—”

“The patient underneath him, she is struggling so hard to escape. She is begging him to stop, pleading with him, over and over again. But Dr Gritti, he has no mercy.”

It was like listening to the rants of a mad man, like looking at one too. Piero had shrunk back against the wall, his hands tearing at his hair. She wanted to help but she couldn’t, she still had work to do. She turned back and stopped dead. The dark energy that had been behind her before, that had tracked her, almost touched her, was in front of her, and close, so close, its shape becoming more and more discernible. He was a tall man, imposing, in scrubs and a mask, his dark eyes glaring at her. Not sightless eyes, they were eyes without a soul, with no trace of humanity in them at all. Eyes so different to Charlotte’s but just as fixated. As she stared back, the figure raised his hand; in it he held a blade, not rusted at all but catching the light and glinting dangerously.

Behind her Piero screamed again.

“The blood. Oh, the blood.”

But whose blood did he mean? The patient’s? The doctor’s? Hers?

Waiting for him to strike she noticed another figure behind him, an extension of him almost, refusing to come forward – Dr Sanuto, still attached, still hiding, still weak.

She tried to step backwards but her legs were leaden and refused to move. She tried to raise her arms but they wouldn’t comply either. They remained tight under her chin.

Would her voice work at least? It seemed not.

Charlotte, you know what it’s like to be abandoned. Don’t do the same to me!

The corners of the room were writhing as Piero said the patient had writhed, as Dr Gritti and Dr Sanuto had writhed in the darkness behind her.

“What… what’s happening?” Piero could obviously see the others too.

Moving forward en masse, the writhing shapes also became more discernible – she could see faces and a mixture of expressions; the most common one was loathing. Looking again at Dr Gritti she could see fear in his face too, and in that of the doctor at his coattails – fear and something else – hope? If they could stop Louise, Charlotte would contain herself. And right now, as stricken as she was, she’d be an easy target.

There was a slight rustling, a noise to the side of her. As if caught in freeze-frame all were still on hearing it – all except one. From out of nowhere came Charlotte, drifting forwards, not rushing – she had no need to rush – and as solid as any living person. The veil of her shroud was thrown back to reveal her face – old and withered, line upon line etched deep, her thin, pale lips twisted. At the sight of her, Louise was able to galvanise herself into action and jumped aside, out of Charlotte’s path, tripping as she did over some debris, falling forward and smashing her head against the tiled wall, knocking some contents from the shelves above to the ground, one item in particular – a syringe; a dirty, used syringe.

The impact momentarily stunned her. She could hear her name but couldn’t work out who was calling. She forced her eyes open; had to see what was happening, she couldn’t remain in ignorance. What was the point, the mind would continue to taunt her anyway. Charlotte was like some kind of dreadful angel, and, as her arms closed around Dr Gritti, the others closed around her, lending their strength, their energy, their anger – so many of them keening, making a sound unlike any she’d ever heard before. And all the while Sanuto cowered. Perhaps Charlotte would destroy him too, but not until her daughter had been removed. This wouldn’t be over until then.

Struggling to her feet, Louise grabbed the torch that had fallen a little way from her and shone it round. Where the hell was the baby? They had to find her. In frustration, she started banging the wall with the handle of her torch – perhaps there was a secret cavity behind the tiles, one that Charlotte herself had gouged out in the last years of her life.

“Piero, where would she be?” she yelled above the ghastly chorus.

Although he had cowered like Dr Sanuto had cowered, thankfully he proved braver. Despite what was unfolding, what he could see and what he couldn’t, he forced himself to his feet, and, keeping as far from the centre as possible, crept closer. Like her, he started banging the walls. The tiles fell easily, but underneath it was solid, no dark hiding place at all.

“Where is she? Where is she?” Her cry was one of pure frustration.

Piero grabbed her arm. “Stop! Stop what you are doing! Look above.”

Did he mean look on the shelves, as they’d done in the anteroom? What was the point?

“She won’t be there.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s too obvious.”

“But, Louise, rarely people see what is in front of them.”

She looked at him in surprise. He was right! And if anyone knew that, it was Charlotte.

With renewed determination, she started grabbing at what was there, pushing it aside, looking for a box amidst the carnage, a tin box, a casket, the one that the others had pushed upwards, expelled from its woeful place of burial with skeletal hands. She touched something hard and unyielding, something cold. It fell to the floor, made a clattering sound. Immediately she bent down, so did Piero. He reached it first and yanked the lid off.

“What is it, Piero? What have you got?”

He tore his gaze away to look at her. “Bones,” he said. “I’ve got bones.”