This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller (3 page)

Louise recoiled. “No thanks, I’ll stick to clams.”

“Scaredy-cat,” he retorted.

“There you go again, insisting I’m scared all the time, I’m not.”

“Really? You could have fooled me.”

Although it was another throwaway remark, she bristled. She didn’t like it when he put her down, even jokingly. Focussing on the dish before her, she took another mouthful of her own spaghetti. Their relationship was volatile at times, and in the past some rows had raised the roof; but she didn’t want to argue anymore, she wanted her life to be calmer –
she
wanted to be calmer; for the turbulence inside, the constant churning, to stop. More wine was needed, it would mellow her, make her less sensitive. She used it as a crutch sometimes, but it suited them both. A calmer Louise equalled a happier Rob. Holding the now empty bottle aloft, she signalled to the waiter that they’d like another.

The evening flew by, rounded off by dessert, espressos and two rounds of liqueurs, limoncello for her and grappa for him – the latter, Rob told her, Italy’s very own version of firewater. She had to admit, he looked extremely proud of himself for trying it, only his watery eyes hinting that he was finding it nothing less than a challenge! By the time they left the restaurant, they were, as she’d predicted, staggering.

Outside, Louise looked left and right. “Come on, Amerigo Vespucci, which way?”

“Amerigo who?”

“He was a famous Italian explorer, knew his way round, like you do – apparently.”

Rob took the jibe in the spirit it was meant. “You think you’re so clever don’t you?”

“I’m just saying that’s all. I’ll tell you why I remember him; he’s the man that the name America derived from. Incredible isn’t it, to be born in one part of the world,
this
part, and to have another part of the world named after you. To be
remembered
like that.”

“Yep, that’s all we want I suppose, to be remembered.” The way he said it surprised her. He’d looked wistful for a moment, sad even. Within a heartbeat he was back to his normal self. “Right, it’s this way, follow me.”

Leaning against each other, they started forwards, him giggling as much as she was.

“Who cares if we get lost,” she declared after several steps, alcohol having upped her bravado levels. “We’ll wander ’til dawn.”

“No we won’t, we’ll find another bar to hole up in, get even more drunk.”

“Lose the weekend entirely.”

“There is that danger.”

Venturing down another alley, all of which were beginning to look the same, she came to a standstill. This was not the same. This one she recognised.

“This is the alley in that painting!”

“What painting?”

“The one in the hotel lobby.”

Rob shrugged. “Don’t know what you mean.”

To be fair he probably didn’t. He’d been drinking champagne when she’d first noticed it and she hadn’t pointed it out to him on their exit from the hotel that evening. She’d forgotten all about it in fact, until now. Although attempting to stand still, she was swaying slightly. “It’s definitely the same place, I remember that archway and the house over it.” She remembered the woman in the white veil as well, and how secretive she was, like the city itself.

Fishing about in her jacket pocket, she retrieved her mobile. “Hang on, hang on, I know, let me take a photo and we can compare them when we get back, see if I’m right.”

“Whatever,” Rob said. He started to walk on without her.

“Rob, wait!”

“Do what you have to do but hurry up,” he called. “I want my bed.”

She took some snaps and then caught up with him. Lascivious again, nothing less than a miracle considering how much she’d drunk, she wanted her bed too and him in it.

Despite the pair of them hardly being able to walk in a straight line, once they hit the bed, energy surged from nowhere, empowering her again as she took the lead in another round of vigorous sex. From the look in his eyes, Rob couldn’t believe his luck. After so many years, and despite whatever trials they’d faced, there was still chemistry between them but rarely was she free of all inhibition, as she’d been since setting foot in Venice. She felt like a different woman.

A couple of hours later, Rob was on his side, snoring softly but she was awake, wide-awake – adrenaline still coursing through her. She screwed her eyes shut and willed sleep to come, but the harder she pleaded, the more elusive it became.

“Damn,” she whispered into the darkness. She’d be hungover
and
tired for their first real day of exploring Venice, both of which tended to make her grouchy – something she had to watch. There’d been enough grouchiness already, especially on her part. Over-sensitivity seemed to be a by-product of her failure to conceive; she could find the hidden dig in even the most innocuous of comments. Hard to believe her mother used to call her ‘thick-skinned’, albeit in an affectionate manner. She only wished she still was.

Opening her eyes, she wondered what to do. Wake Rob up? Fool around a little more. She was tempted. It was lovely to feel this close to him, to feel like she used to when they’d first met. God, how she’d fancied him, this friend of a friend who’d joined a whole group of them for a drink in a local pub one evening. She could barely take her eyes off the stranger in their midst; luckily he’d had the same trouble regarding her. She was the first one to say hello, incredible really, as usually she was shy in that department, preferring to let others make the first move. They’d talked all night, the crowd around them thinning, met the next day, and the next. So quickly they’d married, and what a perfect day it was, the sun shining down on them, and so many friends and relations in attendance. She thought she’d burst with happiness, a future with him such a thrilling prospect.

Her mother used to worry about her sometimes, whether a father who was by and large absent in her life would affect her trust in men – surprisingly that wasn’t the case. There was something about Rob, something unquantifiable. He was just so
steady
; exactly what she needed, but not only that, dynamic too – an irresistible combination. Their first few years together had been a riot. Together they’d felt invincible – at least, she certainly had. Remembering such good times,
revelling
in them, one hand reached out, almost as though it had a will of its own, but she drew back. It wasn’t fair to disturb him and besides, lack of sleep tended to make him grouchy too and one of them would be bad enough.

Turning onto her side, she grabbed her phone, which she’d left charging on the bedside table. Checking the time, it was 3.04 am, an ungodly hour if ever there was one. She sat up carefully, tapped in her passcode and went onto Facebook – it was quiet on there too, only a few posts capturing her interest. She sighed. What could she do to pass the time?

More research?

I’ve done enough.

What about restaurants? See if there are any more gems to discover.

I’d be happy going back to that restaurant we went to tonight to be honest.

No, no, you have to try other restaurants. He’ll insist. Bars, what about them?

Okay, okay, I’ll have a look
.

She had no choice; her inner dialogue threatened to go on forever if not. Switching over to Google, she typed in
Venice Restaurants and Venice Bars
but there were so many of them it was overwhelming, all boasting a plethora of 5-star reviews. Perhaps they’d stumble on more excellent eateries, the way they’d done tonight. Some things were best left to chance. Charles Dickens sprang to mind again and the question she’d had earlier regarding whether the landscape of his most famous works had been inspired by Venice – researching that, she found that most had been written pre-Grand Tour. It was in 1844 he went to Italy, living in Genoa for two years and taking the opportunity to visit other cities whilst there, including Venice – the city he’d described as an ‘Italian Dream’. Even though she’d been wrong, she’d bet he couldn’t help but be struck by the ‘similarity’ of the landscape to that he’d described so vividly in his books.
Pictures from Italy
was the book that contained his memories of his time spent here, and she made a mental note to hunt down a copy back home. Where she lived had several antiquarian bookshops – she, and sometimes Rob, would browse in them on Saturday mornings – one was bound to have it.

Still wide-awake, still bored, she wondered what to research next. Almost lying in wait, one word sprang to mind: Poveglia. Just what was that taxi driver’s problem? He’d been angry, for sure, but there was also something else in his eyes – something, that in the quiet reaches of the night she thought she recognised – fear. Was that it? Was she right? The mention of Poveglia had frightened him? No longer bored, her mind went into overdrive. Why was he scared? Did he have some personal link to the island? Perhaps an ancestor had suffered there – been one of the plague victims or an asylum patient? Maybe it really was haunted, and those who lived in the city knew it. Maybe
all
Venetians were afraid of Poveglia?

Unable to resist, she typed Poveglia into the search engine. Most of what came up, she’d already read: The Independent’s article for example, declaring it ‘the world’s most haunted island’, sensationally describing it as a ‘dumping ground’ for plague victims and patients with mental health issues, and an ‘island of madness’. Scanning it again, it told how, in the late 1930s/early 1940s, a doctor experimented on patients with lobotomies, only to throw himself from the hospital tower after claiming he’d been driven insane by the ghosts of his victims. The article included a reference to ‘Little Maria’ too, not just a plague victim but the stuff of legend; many visitors to the island having insisted they saw her at the edge of the lagoon as they rowed away, her hand pointing to the mainland and crying. Louise couldn’t help but wonder at the story behind such a wretched being. Were her parents plague victims too? Were they with her when she was transported to Poveglia or was she, to all intents and purposes, alone? And if she was alone how awful, she couldn’t imagine anything worse than a child being torn from its mother’s arms.

Scrolling, she found another article, this one was heavily illustrated with photos of the abandoned buildings that the island was home to. The author of the article explained he had persuaded a boatman to take him there, not an easy task, as most refused to go, not least because it was against Italian law to visit – hence the
proibito
signs. Although a sanatorium in the fifteenth century, he stated, a stay there was not necessarily a death sentence. On the contrary, many people recovered from their ailments and left the island in a far healthier state than they’d arrived. But that had all changed during the sixteenth century, when plague hit Venice and panicked officials banished those struck down with disease to the island – that was when it became nothing less than hell.

Another picture – an illustration this time – of a doctor wearing a long-nosed mask and a long brown overcoat rowing the ill and the suffering to the island in a wooden boat, made her shudder. The nose of the mask was stuffed with herbs the author explained, meant to deter germs, but even so they made ghouls of the people wearing them.

Quickly, Poveglia was overrun with the dead and the dying. Soil, once used to grow produce, was now littered with bones. And then came the asylum, its location allowing for dubious practices to be carried out in splendid isolation. Louise scrolled through photo after photo that had been taken of buildings and rooms still in existence, some empty, others stuffed with bedframes and cabinets, mould on the walls and vines creeping in, their roots spreading everywhere. The floor of one room was covered entirely in pages torn out from books. Why? That photo in particular disturbed her. On the far wall was a window with bars across it; leaving no doubt that it was, in fact, similar to a prison. Scrolling further, she discovered there’d been a chapel, a huge industrial kitchen, a laundry room – huge mangles for wringing out wet sheets and clothes still in-situ – and a spiral staircase that appeared to lead nowhere. There were more detailed, artier shots of doors with paint flaking off them, various windows, none that were barred this time and a close up of another floor, this one with ornate terracotta tiles still intact. When it came to aesthetics, the Italians couldn’t help themselves sometimes, even on an island like this.

Returning to the room with the barred window she studied it, fascinated again by the reason behind the torn pages. The window dominated the wall but the frame looked rotten, blue shutters either side hanging off their hinges. Some of the bars were missing as if they too had been torn off in fury. What was the view, she wondered? Green fields could be considered pleasant, but plague fields? Hardly. How awful to have nothing but that and four walls to stare at – to be locked in, hidden away, and all because you were ill. Madness – it was a horrifying concept and so easy to fall victim to, life itself hell-bent on driving you towards it sometimes, or rather life’s myriad disappointments. Something she could identify with. As she stared at the photograph, she had to blink to suppress tears. So easily she could imagine herself in that room, trapped. She blinked again. Was that someone standing by the window, staring out of it – a figure? She focussed. It was a figure: hazy, barely an outline, but somehow familiar.

Where’ve I seen that before?

Her mind was aching with tiredness and the after-effects of sex and alcohol.

Come on, Lou, where?

It was no use, she couldn’t think. She yawned widely and decided to turn off the phone; the light from it was beginning to irritate her. She needed sleep; deep, restorative and dreamless sleep – to purge from her mind all that she’d seen and the tragedy of it.

So familiar…

As she snuggled beside Rob, the heat from his body warming her, she remembered yesterday, standing in the lobby, and the painting on the wall.

Having closed her eyes, they sprang open.

That’s where! It’s the woman in the painting!

Just as quickly she dispelled the notion. Of course it wasn’t. Why would it be? Frowning, she registered movement in the corner of the room, something white against the black. It was the curtains, a slight breeze from the window rustling them. But for a moment…

She closed her eyes again and this time kept them shut.