A young woman returns to her childhood home with chilling consequences

I stood there… just looking at it. I had not seen it in twenty years, and it still frightened me. I must have been mad to come back here.

Moments ago I had driven through the darkness of the now overgrown lane. Branches and years of unswept, decaying autumn leaves were crushed beneath the wheels of my car. I approached the gates and got out to open them; an unfamiliar light flooded the darkness of the unkempt, tree-lined lane. I drove my car up to the front of the house. I got out, hesitated before I approached the door, and stood beside my car surveying the abandoned property.

It did not look how I remembered it. This is not a house that was filled with happy memories; it didn’t deserve to be cared for. The glass in the windows was shattered, weeds had pushed through the cracks in the granite porch, ivy covered the outside completely, and slates on the roof had fallen to the ground below; but you could still see it had once been a magnificent house.

“Regan,” said my fiancé, reminding me that I was not alone. “You said it was a house. This is not a house; it’s a mansion. You didn’t tell me you had money. I would have proposed a lot sooner had I known that.” He was trying to be funny; trying to lift my mood but nothing could lift it, not today. I had intended to tell him the story. Of course I felt I had to. After he had proposed, I had sat him down and tried to tell him the tragic story that was associated with my family, but he had told me he already knew. He had been told the first night he had introduced himself to me.

“The guy I asked who you were told me…” he began. “He told me to stay away from you. I asked him why, and he said, 'Well you know what they say about women turning into their mothers.' He then went on to tell me that your mother had stabbed your father twenty times with a rusty kitchen knife.” JD loved joking, and he was joking now, making an ironic, creepy gesture as these last words left his lips. It was at that moment I realised I was definitely going to marry this man. He was so casual about the story I had been dreading to tell him for months, and he had completely put my mind at ease.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I asked.

“You didn’t want to talk about it, so neither did I,” he replied.

“You’re not frightened?”

“I am marrying you, not your mother… you aren’t responsible for your family… no one is.”

So my future husband knew my story, the story that until today I had been running away from. Even now I could hardly bring myself to think about it. It was a memory that was locked away in my mind, and I never wanted to release it.

It had happened twenty years ago; a few days after my tenth birthday. I had been put to bed early that evening. I had known I would be when I saw my mother put only two candles out on the table. It was a sure sign that I would be encouraged to go to bed early. Despite this, I went straight to sleep, because my mother had had the foresight to get me up very early that morning to ensure that she and my father would not be disturbed.

At three o’clock in the morning I awoke with a start. I was not a nervous child, but this was to change very quickly. I put my head back on the pillow with the intention of falling asleep again, but whatever had awoken me continued to keep me alert. It was a scream, coming from the living room below. And it was my mother screaming. I was not prone to being frightened, but now I was very scared indeed. I crept slowly down the stairs, and as my mother’s screams continued, my steps grew slower. I was terrified of what I would find when I entered the room. Despite my indolent steps, I reached the door to the room sooner than I would have liked and opened it cautiously.

My mother was yelling and screaming; tears were streaming down her face. She was holding a knife in her hand, and every few seconds she plunged the knife downwards into something which was obscured from my vision. I crept towards my mother, fearing what would be lying on the floor beside the sofa. My mother continued plunging the knife downward again and again. I crept further forward to see what it was, and to my horror, lying on the floor behind the sofa, was my father. His white shirt was now crimson with blood, and above him was the stooped, awful image of my mother still plunging the knife into him, even though it was quite obvious he was dead. I looked up at my mother’s face and asked innocently, “Mummy, what are you doing?”

My mother looked at me and made one final plunge with her knife before dropping it by her side.

“Oh my God… cover your eyes sweetie,” her voice was broken by sobs, “cover your eyes,” she said again. She crawled over to me and put her hand over my eyes. But it was too late. My childhood had already been robbed. She lifted me up and carried me out of the room.

My mother was whispering things in my ear. “It’s going to be alright… don’t worry… everything is going to be fine.” But how could it ever be fine again?

The next time I saw my mother she was in prison, serving a life sentence for murdering my father. She had begged my aunt to bring me to see her just once, and then she would never ask again.

“Can I have a few minutes alone with my daughter?” she asked my aunt. My aunt shook her head, visually denying her request. “For God’s sake, I am not going to do anything to my own daughter.” My aunt relented slightly.

“If you get the guard to put handcuffs on you, I will let you speak to the child alone but he will have to stay in the room.”

“Fine,” my mother answered. The guard put handcuffs on my mother and stood in the corner of the room. My aunt left reluctantly, but she watched my mother carefully through the window of the room. My mother looked at me and smiled. Tears started streaming down her cheeks.

“I know what you think I did,” she began, “you have to know and always remember I loved your father… I always did and I always will.”

“Then why did you hurt him?” I asked.

“Oh sweetie, I know it is useless to tell you this, and that no one believes me, but I was trying to help him. There was someone else in the room.”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

“I know, but you have to believe me. Oh Regan, I am telling you the truth.” My mother was in such an anguished state I couldn’t help but believe her.

“I do believe you mummy, I do… I do.” I jumped off the chair and ran around to her. I placed my arms around her and didn’t want to let her go. But my aunt ran in and tore me out of my mother’s embrace. I cried for two days; my aunt could not comfort me. We soon got news that my mother had killed herself. When my aunt told me this I stopped crying and haven’t been able to cry since.

When JD proposed to me I was so happy, but yet again I was so sad. I was pregnant and wanted my children to have a decent life. I knew I had to come back here and get the house ready to sell. We both had decent jobs; I had moved to America as soon as I was eighteen. I wanted a whole ocean between me and this place, and in many ways I still did. But this was my children’s future I was looking at. I wasn’t that 10-year-old girl any more; I knew my mother had killed my father for some reason I would never understand. There had been no evidence of anyone else there.

When I was sixteen I was still convinced my mother had told me the truth, and I had begged my aunt to let me see the news coverage of the crime. She had refused… telling me not to bring up the past; it would only hurt me. But, of course, at sixteen I did not listen to her, and searched for all the information myself. My aunt was right - I should never have started looking. My mother hadn’t been telling me the truth. She had killed my father. There was no evidence that there had been anyone else in the room. The only mystery is that they never found the knife.

My memories of my mother had been completely shattered. She had killed my father for no known reason. I would never know why she had done that.

I foolishly spent what was left of my inheritance on my education in America. This house was the only thing left. I swore I would never come back. But I was with my husband-to-be, and this is what we had needed to do to ensure a good start to our life together.

“Should we not go in?” Or do you want to stay out here and look some more,” JD uttered sarcastically.

“Sarcastic is not attractive.”

“Honey when I do it, it is attractive.”

I rolled my eyes and said, “Oh God, I have no idea why I am marrying you,” he twisted up his nose.

“Yeah you do.” JD pulled my arm and dragged me over to the door, put the key in my hand and bid me to use it. I placed the key in the lock and pushed on the door. It hadn’t been opened in twenty years and was not willing to let me back in. Both JD and I put our full weight against the door and it opened with ease. We landed on the floor of the hall with a thud. The pair of us laughed as we hit the ground. JD jumped to his feet and helped me to mine. I was only a few weeks pregnant but JD fussed over me as if I was about to give birth.

As I dusted myself off and looked around the hall memories started to flood back. Surprisingly, they were good memories. I could see my mother putting a hat and gloves on me when I went to play in the snow. I saw me as a young child sliding down the bannister and dad catching me as I came off the end. All I heard was my laughter echoing through this house; not my mother’s screams. I felt comforted by the house. It seemed warm and inviting. These were feelings I was not expecting.

“Are you sure you don’t want to live here?” JD asked. As soon as I heard these words I knew I was not as determined to sell the house. JD walked over to the staircase. “This house is amazing. It’s a great place to raise our kids.” I remained silent; I was still unsure. “Who’s the dish?” I looked around and saw my ancestor’s picture still hanging on the wall. Everything else in the house was worn and covered in dust but the picture still looked as pristine as ever.

“That is my great, great - times about a hundred - grandmother.”

“That is a hot granny.”

“You think? She killed her husband, stabbed him about twenty times with a rusty kitchen knife,” I said dramatically.

“That’ll get the job done. You are kidding right?”

“Yes, of course I am kidding. I remember there was some story about her killing her husband or her husband killing her, but I can’t remember the details.” The colour that had so quickly drained out of JD’s face quickly returned. “She seems softer than I remember her; her smile seems less wicked.”

“I am dying to look around this house. How many bedrooms does this place have?”

“Oh about fifty.”

“Oh come on Rea, we have to live here. We can convert it into a guesthouse. I know a hellova of a lot folks that would love to stay in an English Country Home.” JD was running around the place like a giddy child. And as I stood at the top of the stairs, I realised the place did not seem dark at all. I was definitely going to gut out the room my father had died in… but for the first time I could actually see myself living here. After all, houses aren’t wicked - it is the people inside them that can be.

Five years have now passed, and I am still living here. I have one gorgeous daughter, who is the apple of our eyes, and I have to say JD and I love our house. I am going out for a walk with my child. It is off-season, and the grounds are covered in snow. It is beautiful here.

As I put my daughter’s gloves and coat on, I stand up and start to swing my arms in an attempt to keep my child entertained while I wait for my husband. My eyes are drawn up to the picture. I never took it down, as it gives the house a sense of history. Tourists love that. I stare at it until my husband comes into the hall. The portrait looks different; there is something slightly harder about her smile. It seems to have a slight disdainful quality I don’t remember before.

“Does that picture look different to you?” I ask.

JD stares up at the portrait.

“Looks the same to me.”

“No, the smile is definitely harder.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“No, there’s definitely something different about it.”

“Do you know how out-there that sounds?”

“I don’t care; the look on her face is different.”

“Look, if you are that convinced, take a Polaroid of it every year from now on, and then compare them.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Oh my God! I was kidding.” He shouts after me as I run down the hall and look for the camera.

Two years have passed and I am looking at my third picture. I can see the definite beginnings of a scowl. JD does not see it; and I have asked other people and they can’t see it either, but it is definitely there. A hardness around the eyes.

Another three years have passed I am convinced the portrait is scowling at me. My aunt is coming to see me today; I am going to ask her about it.

My aunt arrives late and I immediately drag her in to look at the picture.

“I can’t see it,” she says.

“Look at these pictures. It is definitely changing.”

“You are scaring me, Regan.”

“I’m sorry, but I feel like I am the only one who’s seeing this.”

“No that is not what I mean… you are scaring me because you sound like your mother.”

JD interrupts us at that second.

“That’s it. I am taking it down and burning it. After all, it is me you are going to stab twenty times if you turn into your mother.” JD, as usual, is trying to be capricious but neither my aunt nor I are in the mood for humour. JD jumps onto a chair and takes the portrait down. We all immediately leave the house and burn the painting in the grounds outside. As soon as I see it go up in flames I know it is the right thing to do. I immediately feel a sense of relief sweep over me. I now believe that if there was some evil in the house it stemmed from that painting, and that by destroying it we are excising any malevolence remaining.

Six months have passed and that comforting feeling I first had when I came home has returned. I love the house again, and my daughter has just celebrated her tenth birthday. I have planned something special for my husband and I this evening, a candlelit dinner.

“You are putting me to bed early,” my daughter says to me.

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“I know when you set the table with candles I am going to bed early.” I smile at the precociousness of my daughter but then a dark thought enters my mind. I am reminded of that night. An irrational fear overcomes me. I run out into the hall and look up at the unfaded rectangle where the picture had hung. It isn’t there. Of course it isn’t… I am just being stupid. I continue cooking my dinner, preparing it for the romantic evening I have planned.

As I chop the vegetables I see something from the corner of my eye. I turn around, and for a fraction of a second I swear I can see her... the woman in the picture. I again run out into the hall and look up, expecting to see the picture. Again it is not there. I walk back to the kitchen and finish making the meal. I tell myself I just have the jitters, and set the table, waiting for JD to come home. I am in an old house on a stormy night. I know I am suffering from a condition probably known as too many Stephen King Novels.

“Where is Emma?” JD asks, as he comes into the room.

“In bed,” I answer.

“Ah it’s going to be one of those evenings.” JD comes over, places his arms around my waist, and kisses my neck. As soon as he comes close to me I know I will never be able to do what my mother did. I couldn’t; I’m not the person my mother was. I reaffirm that it is just the jitters. An hour or two later my husband and I are sitting laughing, a glass of wine in each of our hands. We are enjoying each other’s company. The phone rings; JD tries to stop me from answering it, pulling me back down as I get up. I scold him and tell him it might be a booking for next year. He sighs and lets me go. “Hello,” I say, answering it.

“It’s Aunt Maggie.”

“Hi what is it…? You don’t sound too good.”

“I’ve remembered something from the night your father died. I don’t know why I didn’t remember it before.”

“What?” My aunt doesn’t answer straight away. She hesitates. “Tell me.” Now I am frightened.

“A couple of days before your father died I remember your mother took a disliking to that painting. I don’t know why I haven’t remembered this before. It scared her… your father tore it down from the wall… took it outside and burnt it.”

What she is saying to me is impossible but I know it is the truth.

“Call an ambulance.” I ask her, dropping the phone to the floor. I slowly walk up the corridor; the wind and rain are beating against the windows outside. I don’t need to look to see if the painting is there. I know it will be. I turn the corner, and there she is, looking at me. Her smile is distorted and malicious. There is no mistaking her, and she looks right at me; she is alive. An icy chill runs through me as I watch her step out of the painting. Her steps are slow and lack fluidity but every few steps she moves faster than any creature I have ever seen; then she turns around and looks at me. She’s telling me with a glance what she is about to do. She is heading straight for him. I yell out.

“JD! Take Emma and get out of the house.” As I shout this, the apparition turns around and slowly wags her finger at me, chastising me for trying to save my family. She now moves at an incredible, consistent speed. She unveils her other hand, which has been hidden in the pleats of her skirt, to reveal a rusty knife. At this I run past her, hoping I can lock her out. JD hasn’t heard my shouts - he’s half asleep on the floor, not realising the danger he is in.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, seeing my panic-stricken state.

“She’s coming for you.” I answer.

“What are you talking about?” An icy breeze sweeps through me. It is like nothing I have ever felt before. Tiny sharp pains stab my entire body as if someone has plunged it into icy water. I turn and see her approaching my husband wielding a knife. She has walked right through me. I yell again. “JD get out of here!”

“What are you yelling about?” Who are you talking to?” JD asks, incredulous.

“Do you not see her?”

“See who?” I leap over towards her and grab the knife, trying to pull it back, but she is too strong. At that moment the knife comes into JD’s vision.

“Regan what are you doing?”

“I am trying to stop her.”

“Regan you are not your mother; don’t do this!”

“I am trying to stop her.” I repeat.

“No, just tell yourself over and over again you are not your mother.”

“Can’t you see her?” I ask again.

“There is no one else here Regan, just us.” At this, the knife takes me with it and plunges down into his stomach. It tears through his flesh again and again, plunging downward, taking me with it. It does this twenty times, and then my daughter enters the room.

“Mummy what are you doing?” she asks, her words echoing past events. “Don’t look sweetie, it’s all going to be alright.” But I know it won’t. The ambulance arrives a few seconds later, but it is too late too save anyone in this house. I get into the police car and my daughter is pulled away from me. The fierce storm rages on as they drive me away. I resolve that I will not kill myself, no matter what the temptation. I will never kill myself; I have to stay alive to ensure my daughter will never live in that house. I must stay alive; I reaffirm that but providence has other ideas.

The next thing, I hear a loud bang and the car I’m in turns over on its side. I feel myself drifting away from my body. I see myself… my eyes look stark and lifeless. I know I am dead. I see a light in the distance and blackness engulfs me, but I stay exactly where I am. I can still feel my daughter. I won’t leave her.

Ten years have passed and here I am, repeating my story in my daughter’s ear, hoping one day she will hear me. Sometimes I think she does. She turns around quickly as if she has gotten a fright. I will stay with her until she does hear me. She has to hear me…