This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller (7 page)

Part Two

Charlotte

Late August 1938

So what do I call you, sister dear, now you are a resident of a land far away? Still Charlotte? Carlotta perhaps? Isn’t that how the Italians would say it? Or the Venetian, should I call you that? Ah – the Venetian – it’s grand, it’s majestic. It rather suits you. My sister, the Venetian – it makes me sound grand too, by association!

More seriously, how are you? Did you enjoy every minute of your honeymoon? I miss you. As do Mother and Father and all your friends of course but Enrico, the handsome doctor, who could resist him? They say the Italians have a way about them…

I wish we could visit – I should love to meet the rest of the Sanuto family. I know he’s an only child but does he have a cousin as pretty as he is handsome? Perhaps he has several and I shall be spoilt for choice. Ah, Charlotte, you cannot blame a man for dreaming!

I hope the overseas part of your journey was bearable. I know you are not keen on the water, strange then that you have ended up in a city surrounded by it. I wonder if you shall move away, further south, as Enrico has promised. Venice is sinking you know, or that is the rumour that abounds, so you may have to, sooner rather than later. Perhaps you shall return home to England. How wonderful if you did. Mother and Father should love it. They send you their love by the way, Father is still suffering with his chest and Mother is still insisting he rests but you know what he’s like, he tells her not to fuss, that there is nothing wrong with him. Some things never change do they?

I must away now but write soon. I am so looking forward to hearing about your new life.

Your loving brother,

Albert.

Charlotte sat in the window of her new home, a suite of rooms perched over the top of an archway in a quiet alley, her brother’s letter in her hands.
The Venetian
– it did sound grand, romantic even – like the city she’d found herself in, her husband’s place of birth. She fidgeted, uncomfortable suddenly. The sun streaming in through the window didn’t just feel warm, as it did in England; it was hot, too hot. Would she ever get used to it? At least when they’d travelled they’d been beside the sea. Here, in Venice, they still were, but in such a different way. There were no beaches, not close by, nowhere to dip your feet.

Not that she’d dip more than that. Albert was right, she wasn’t keen on the sea, had a lifelong fear of it. It certainly was ironic she’d come to live in a city built on an archipelago of so many tiny islands. There was no rationale behind her fear. She hadn’t nearly drowned like her cousin Martha had when they were children, cut off from the tides on a Cornish coast, discovered in the nick of time. It was just… the sea had a hidden quality. Beneath the waves lay a different world. She didn’t like what she couldn’t see.

She shook her head, laughed at such imaginings and placed Albert’s letter on the table. Leaning forwards, she pulled the curtains slightly apart. They were made of white lace, purchased from the nearby island of Burano, her mother-in-law had proudly informed her. The alley below held a certain charm, but it was bereft of passers-by. She’d only been in her new home for a few days. They’d been on something of a Grand Tour before, she and Enrico, that’s what it had felt like, similar to the lords and ladies of old, and Dickens too, in the nineteenth century – her fellow Englishman. She’d brought a collection of his novels with her, intending to finally read them. His stories might help her feel closer to home.

Closer to home?
This was home now, her
marital
home. She must dispense with such thoughts, and get used to it. Her mother had been so worried she’d feel homesick.

“Darling, I know how enamoured you are with Enrico, but… should you want to return home at any point let us know. Nothing is beyond reparation.”

Reparation –
amends
. What an unusual word to use!

“Enrico is a good man,” she’d insisted.

“I know but you are so young and he is—”

“Foreign, Mother. You can say it. It isn’t a crime you know.”

She was angry at her mother’s attitude although she knew there was no malice in it.

Her father had taken her aside later. Obviously her mother had been talking to him too. “Look here, darling, it’s not just because this fellow’s foreign. Your mother is not biased, nor am I. But there is unrest abroad, considerable unrest. No one knows what to make of Mussolini. I want you to be happy but think twice before marrying this chap of yours and if you must go ahead, suggest living here. As a doctor, Enrico’s skills shall be in demand.”

She and Albert had been blessed with liberal parents. Albert was older: twenty-four to her twenty-two and education had been provided for both of them, embracing the arts, the classics, maths and science. ‘I want you to have a good grounding,’ her father had said. They’d been encouraged to stand on their own two feet and she had, leaving her home in Somerset and securing a position in London, at the British Museum, not as a curator, nothing as fancy as that, she was a clerk to the curators, a secretary.

But that’s where she’d met Enrico. She’d spied him in the Egyptian rooms, whilst visiting during her lunch hour. The history of that particular race fascinated her; she remembered enjoying studying it whilst at school and now took every opportunity to increase her knowledge, still eager to learn. The look of concentration on his face as he read the information board appealed. He was both intelligent and endearing. She guessed he was ‘foreign’ as her mother put it. He was dressed differently to an English gentleman, in a cream linen suit, striped shirt and colourful tie. Because he wasn’t wearing a hat, she could see his hair, which was greased back; making it look very black and his swarthy skin was such a contrast to her own fair colouring. Their eyes met – his dark brown, hers the palest of blues – their gaze holding much longer than was decent. Even so, she refused to look away; she wanted him to
know
she found him attractive. Seizing her chance, fearing she wouldn’t get another, she’d walked over and introduced herself. Charlotte Evans. He was Enrico Sanuto, from Venice, spending time in London, studying medicine.

“Mr Sanuto, I have work to return to, but this afternoon, say around five thirty, would you like to meet me for some tea? I should love to hear more about your… studies.”

She wondered if Italian women were as forward. Whether a look of horror would temporarily mar his handsome features, and he’d turn tail and run. That didn’t happen. He seemed surprised, but there was also delight on his face. Breaking into a smile, he bestowed a kiss on her hand whilst whispering he’d love to meet her. How she’d concentrated that afternoon at work was beyond her, although looking back there’d been more typing errors made than usual.

His English was impressive, better even than the boys she’d grown up with, their thick West Country burr sometimes difficult to understand. She and Albert had received elocution lessons from a young age. Her mother, having hailed from the southeast coast and the daughter of an army captain, couldn’t abide the Somerset accent. ‘First impressions count,’ she used to say. ‘As soon as you open your mouth people will judge you.’ Clearly, in her view, the judgment passed on those residing west of Southampton wasn’t entirely favourable! As Enrico continued to enlighten her about his studies, including his interest in psychiatric medicine, over cups of tea and delicate scones with strawberry jam, she committed details about him to memory, the glint in his eyes as he laughed, the perfection of his teeth, the strength of his jaw, and the lively gestures he made with his hands. He could have been reciting the alphabet and she’d have found it fascinating. When he asked about her, she hesitated. She enjoyed her job but wasn’t sure it could be considered impressive. To her surprise he hung on every word she uttered too. Instead of feeling hot and flustered she bloomed under such scrutiny.

“Where in Italy are you from, Mr Sanuto?”

“Venezia. You have heard of it?”

“Venice! Sorry, that’s how we pronounce it here.”

He’d laughed again, a sound she already adored. “I know that. Have you been?”

“To Venice? Goodness, no!” Her family could be considered comfortable but they had never travelled internationally. “Although, I have studied it in picture books and certainly I should love to one day.” Was that again too forward? “Is this your first time abroad?”

It was and he loved it. “I find you English… charming.”

Tea was over too soon but a second meeting was arranged, and a third, leading to many more, to a low-key marriage in the village where she’d grown up, less than a year later, with just her parents and brother in attendance. Enrico’s mother had been unwell at the time but Charlotte had gleaned his parents wouldn’t have contemplated such a journey anyway. She’d also worked out he couldn’t bear the thought of a ceremony back in Italy and the fuss and pomp it would create – he was terribly shy at heart. The day was perfect and, despite her mother’s misgivings, she’d never been so sure of anything. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with this man, only three years her senior, had known from the minute she’d spotted him. There’d never be another for her, ever. She
craved
him.

Against her father’s advice too, she wouldn’t insist he stay in England, how could she? She’d follow him to the ends of the earth. It was Venice he wanted to return to after their honeymoon, to his home, also occupied by his mother and father – Stefania and Luigi – just whilst he completed his studies. It wasn’t ideal she had to admit. Living with them they couldn’t be as free as they wanted, and the way his mother looked at her sometimes, Charlotte knew she was still fuming over her son’s decision to tie the knot in England. Not only that, Charlotte felt she was disappointed he’d married an English girl; bitterly disappointed. She took a deep breath, reined in her thoughts. She was getting carried away! Stefania didn’t hate her; she was simply being protective. And she could sympathise – if she had a son she should like to attend his wedding too.

Perhaps… perhaps she was missing home more than she admitted, letting such notions fill her head. She had loved her job in London, had felt proud to occupy such a post. Was it possible to find something similar here? Without something to fill her time she could imagine the hours whilst Enrico was studying quickly becoming lonely. They’d be hours she’d have to spend with Stefania…

Taking hold of Albert’s letter again, she kissed it before folding it into a neat square, ready to take to her room, to be stowed away – a treasure almost. She got up, her figure slight but causing the heavy chair to scrape against the dark floorboards nonetheless. Working in Venice – what a prospect! She’d certainly be ‘The Venetian’ then.

“No! It is not right.”

“Mamma, she is a woman who knows her own mind—”

“She is a doctor’s wife! Her role is to support you.”

“I want her to be happy, Mamma.”

“I am concerned with your happiness. And a wife – a
proper
wife – would be too.”

“Oh, Mamma!”

Opening the door of her bedroom slightly so she could watch the exchange between her husband and her mother-in-law as well as listen to it, it was only later, when Enrico had translated for her, that Charlotte would understand what was being said. Although she knew Enrico wasn’t telling her the entire truth, she’d already concluded that the idea of getting a job – even for a short while – was abhorrent to Stefania.

“Mamma is perhaps a little old-fashioned,” Enrico had said. “She believes you should support me rather than get a job… I am not sure, in a shop or something.”

“A shop? Enrico, I was thinking about a post similar to the one I held back home, a clerk or a secretary, and just for a few hours in the week.”

“But you cannot speak the language!”

She didn’t need telling. How she wished she’d spent more time learning from him prior to travelling. But she’d been lazy in that respect. “Surely you agree a job would help me to speak more fluently and besides, like you, there must be plenty in Venice who can speak English too. This is a major city, not an outpost. There has to be something to suit me.”

Enrico had shrugged and looked away from her. His dark eyes seemed genuinely conflicted – pulled between the demands of his wife and that of his mother. Seeing him that way, she relented. He was still feeling so guilty about having denied his mother her son’s big wedding. In turn, she felt guilty too. Thankful they were in the privacy of their bedroom, she threw her arms around his neck and started to kiss the skin there.

“Darling, when can we get a place of our own?”

“When I am earning enough,
tesoro
.” Already he was stirring against her.

“It’s just… won’t it be wonderful when it’s the two of us again?”

In England, home for Enrico had been lodgings in a guesthouse, similar to the ones she’d occupied. Impossible to spend time at either – it would be unseemly – they’d signed into a variety of anonymous London hotels already as man and wife to spend days and nights together – the only accessories she’d taken with her sometimes a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes and a favourite red lipstick. The sheer illicitness of it had been thrilling. She hadn’t been a virgin when she met him; she’d had a brief love affair before, and saw no need to pretend otherwise. She wanted to be ‘real’ with him, herself, a woman who enjoyed sex and wasn’t shy to admit it. So many of her friends acted coy with men, but that wasn’t her way. The first time they’d been intimate, she’d dared to take the lead, just as she’d done when she’d introduced herself. He’d been surprised again, had faltered, clearly not used to it. He’d grown used to it, however, meeting her passion with equal ardour. Their honeymoon had only served to heighten the passion between them, culminating in their first night in Venice, spent not at his parents but at
Venezia Palazzo Barocci
, a hotel his father managed. Despite incessant rain, it was everything she’d hoped a first night in such a romantic city would be. Behind the doors of room 201 she hadn’t held back. But now it was different. In this suite of rooms over the archway, with its thin walls, she had to stifle the cries that wanted to burst from her.

“Enrico,” she said again, her hands beginning to unbutton his shirt, pulling it open to reveal his chest. Her breath, as it always did, hitched at the sight of him – at the tautness of his tanned skin and the muscles that lay beneath. Her mouth parting, she ran her tongue down the centre of his torso, unbuttoning his trousers too, tugging at them, his hands helping her, as eager. Down she went, until her lips closed firmly around him, her tongue still working, swirling the tip of his penis in gentle circles, teasing, tantalising. She heard him gasp, his hands grab at her hair, pulling her closer until he filled her mouth entirely. Oh, this was power! In this position he was at her mercy. She could play him any way she liked.
Is that what appeals about sex? The power?
Maybe, but combine power with love and it was even more intoxicating. She
loved
him, this exotic man, who loved her too.

Before the point of release she let him go and worked at the patterned dress she wore, peeling back her stockings and discarding them. Lying back on the bed, her hands either side of her curled blonde hair, she played the role of a wanton wife, waiting.

“Enrico,” she breathed.

“ENRICO!”

Her whole body jerked. That wasn’t her voice; it was Stefania’s, close, too close. Her head snapped to the side. In the doorway – her bulk filling it – stood his mother, her eyes not on her son, but on her daughter-in-law – abject disgust in them.

“Oh God!” Her hands tearing at the thin sheet beneath her, she tried desperately to cover herself. When it refused to give, she jumped off the bed and hid behind it. “Stefania, please, you should knock before entering!”

Enrico, who was also busy trying to cover himself, glanced only briefly at his mother. Instead, his eyes were trained on her. “Charlotte, do not speak to my mother like that!”

She couldn’t believe it. He was telling
her
off? “She barged into our bedroom!”

Still he was furious. “In my mother’s house you will respect her.”

She stared at him with wide eyes, lost for words. She could see he was embarrassed too, acutely so – his cheeks were suffused with colour – but she was unyielding in her view. Stefania should have knocked! Besides which, they weren’t doing anything wrong, they were married and therefore entitled to have sex.

“
Enrico, vieni con me
!”

Hearing Stefania’s voice again, Charlotte managed to tear her gaze from him and back to the doorway. The older woman wasn’t looking at her now; she was
refusing
to. His head bowed, Enrico started forward, responding immediately to his mother’s summons. He looked much younger suddenly, like a little boy scolded; what self-assuredness he possessed gone.
We have done nothing wrong!
She wanted to scream it, but refrained – fearing it would make him angrier still. As the door closed behind them, she felt imprisoned, despite the fact there was no lock on it. Feelings of shame rose in her for the first time ever. She looked down at her own nakedness, at the creamy flesh of her thighs and the dark patch that nestled between her legs. The female form was something to be celebrated; she’d never been led to believe anything less. But right now, in this bedroom with its heavy furniture and rug-covered floorboards – her pride had been trampled.

She could hear Stefania and Enrico talking in the living room. A fortnight had passed since Stefania had caught them in flagrante, and ever since then the older woman had ignored her, uttering sentences only when absolutely necessary. His father too, although kindlier than Stefania, hardly conversed either, but then his English was very poor. Things had been strained between her and Enrico too, she could barely forgive him for siding with his mother and he knew it, withdrawing from her rather than giving her his reasons why. As for sex, there hadn’t been any. Only once, in the dead of night, had his hand reached out in an attempt to caress her. She’d refused to reciprocate. Not until he apologised, which he hadn’t. Although in the past day or two he’d looked more sheepish than normal.

Enrico and Stefania’s conversations, always in Italian, angered her too. His mother was able to speak some English, and had done so when she’d first arrived, making a semblance of effort. But she was making an effort no longer. It was mid-September and, in England, the leaves would be changing from verdant green to tan and gold. There were so many trees where she came from, the land with its undulating hills and pastures, lush. Here there was nothing but stone, and water where there should be roads. It wasn’t exotic, as she first thought, or romantic. Rather, it seemed harsh. Attitudes were different too. In England, women were beginning to work outside of the home, even married women, at least before having children. In Italy, married women dominated in one area and one area only – the home. Enrico would never say it but clearly his choice to spend time studying in England was a chance to escape such tyranny. Whether consciously or sub-consciously, he’d been seeking a respite.

As she continued to listen to the exchange between mother and son she blinked back tears. Sitting on their bed, she lifted her head to look at the room’s only decoration – a painting of the alley they lived in, of the suite of rooms that sat over the archway.

It upset her further, that painting. It reminded her of how lonely she was, sitting behind the window depicted, day after day, looking at such emptiness below, waiting for someone to pass by, to look up, to notice her. She needed solace and so reread her brother’s letters. She had a total of three now and she longed for his enthusiasm and lightness of being. Here it seemed as if the darkness encroached too readily. Like the maze of lanes that surrounded them, there were too many secrets. A maze she hadn’t fully explored yet and certainly not with Enrico, not since their first night. He’d been too busy at the local hospital, learning his profession in a more hands-on fashion, under the tutelage of his uncle, Fabrizio Gritti, a brilliant surgeon or so she was led to believe by the way his sister, Stefania, talked of him – no, not talked, she gushed. Charlotte wondered how acceptable it would be for a woman to explore alone and guessed it wouldn’t be. No matter, the thought didn’t really appeal. Venice was a city for lovers to lose themselves in, not for solitary meanderings. Finding work was the only way to break the monotony of her days and she was determined to do that, despite Stefania.

Distracting herself from the conversation she was not included in, she started to read, only half smiling at the envelope addressed not to Charlotte Sanuto but to ‘The Venetian’.

September 1938

So, Enrico has no cousins that you know of? I am surprised. I imagined scores of them! Ah, well, you know best but how you dash my hopes, Charlotte. And he’s beloved of his mother is he? Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your writing? Does his mother not like to share? From all you’ve said I imagine her to be big and blousy, forever dressed in black and hovering like some dark angel over her son. Bad luck if that is the kind of mother-in-law you’ve landed yourself with.

Her reading was interrupted by the voices from the living room again. Enrico’s voice had raised slightly, enough to let her know he was agitated. Was he actually arguing with his mother, daring to? As for the kind of mother-in-law she’d landed herself with, she was the kind who came barging in on you during intimate moments; that seemed to abhor the fact you even had intimate moments.

To my news now, I have applied to join the army! I can just imagine you frowning, but I will be fine, I promise. Besides, if there is a war coming I want to stand up for my king and country, to do the right thing just as you and I have always been taught. Father is all for it, surprisingly Mother is reticent, but I am bored, Charlotte. The life of an accountant is suffocating, labouring in an office all day, trapped within four walls. I want something different. You did too, and so you find yourself in Venice.

She was surprised to note a tear landing on the letter. She hadn’t realised she was crying. Wiping at it, she smudged the ink slightly and so let it dry naturally. Yes, she’d wanted something different, she’d had expectations, but they weren’t being met. She hadn’t even made love in two weeks.
It’s not all about the sex!
Yes, yes, she knew that, she wasn’t obsessed, but she missed the closeness that came with intimacy. She missed Enrico. Never mind a life abroad, it was him she wanted, still wanted, despite everything.

If I do join the army, then of course I shan’t be able to visit, not for a long while. I’m sorry, old girl, I know that isn’t what you want to hear but time off might be a problem – even with good behaviour! I’m worried about Father still; his chest infection is proving stubborn. Mother has been trying to persuade him to see a doctor and, can you believe it, finally he agrees! That is a relief at least. Father is made of stern stuff and I’m sure he will be his old self soon. Look, I will keep on writing and you must write back. Let’s try and write as often as we can. And stay safe, Charlotte. The world is so unstable right now. But all will be well. We will be well. You and I are made of stern stuff too.

More tears fell, one after the other. Quickly, she folded the letter and put it back in the envelope; afraid she’d ruin it completely if she didn’t. Like the books she’d brought with her, they were all she had of home – souvenirs of a life left behind. She thought of her brother’s words: ‘The world is so unstable right now’, and yet a few short weeks ago it had been full of promise. Now her brother was joining the army and her father was seeing a doctor – the latter significant news given the type of man he was. As for her, her heart was wrenched in two. She folded her arms across her stomach. She couldn’t stop her brother, and besides, she’d half suspected he’d join the army. He had talked before about ‘wanting to do his bit’. Regarding her father, it was, as Albert said, a good thing he was seeing a doctor, with medication he’d be well again in no time. Which only left her situation.