The NoSleep Podcast - S18: NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 13

Episode Date: January 29, 2023

We’re sleeplessly decomposing during January’s dark nights. Enjoy Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 13 “Pieces” written by aelily (Story starts around 00:01:55) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Asha – Jessica McEvoy “Whispering Wax” written by Simon Bleaken (Story starts around 00:28:20) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Angela – Erika Sanderson, Christopher – David Ault, Father – Andy Cresswell, Voice – Penny Scott-Andrews, Sophie – Erika Sanderson, Mrs Jessop – Ash Millman This episode is sponsored by: Betterhelp – This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/nosleep and get on your way to being your best self. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about aelily Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Sleepless Decompositions” illustration courtesy of Kelly Turnbull Audio program ©2023 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Sleepless listeners, and welcome to Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 13. I'm your host, David Cummings. You know that old saying about families. You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family, right? And there's that other saying, someone in your family is going to die and really mess things up for everyone else. Well, that one might not be as popular, but it gets the point across. Yes, on this volume of sleepless decompositions, we're looking at family members and all the good and not-so-good things they can mean to us.

So, brothers and sisters, let's make one thing apparent. Living or dead, our families will have a way of getting to us. And so, pick a high branch on your family tree and start climbing. The further away you can get from the ground, the better. Our tails are rooted deep in the rest. rather bizarre series we call sleepless decompositions. Tales which take things a little farther outside your comfort zone, tales for which you need to be fully braced. Let's wait no further. The horror awaits. Our first tale. We meet a girl who is dealing with loss. Her family is as well.

You see, her sister Marie is missing and presumed. Well, you know how the phrase missing and presumed usually ends. But in this tale, shared with us by author A. Lily, the girl doesn't want to accept the family's loss, especially since Marie won't stop visiting with her at night. Performing this tale is Jessica McAvoy. So when dealing with grief and loss, try to pull yourself together, even when everyone else seems to be going to pieces. She came to me again. Last night, her face pressed against the glass like frost. Her smile was like starlight, and her eyes shone of the moon. She whispered, and she kept whispering throughout the night. She told me enchantments, taught me curses, and sang low and sweet. I drifted off to sleep, and in the morning, as the sun rose,

I searched for her, brave by the ascending light. But she had gone. She had left fingerprints on smudges, an imprint of a watching face. But night after night she would come to me, blinking into existence like a star. I didn't tell my parents. I knew what they would say, and I refused to believe it myself. I shut and locked it away. There was no way Marie was here, and I refused to believe it. and I refused to believe it was a ghost

because then I would have to accept my sister was dead and I would not allow that she's not real I told myself you're dreaming and it's the wind and your imagination but the wind didn't know my name and my imagination

could not leave scratch on the other side of the glass. On the sixth day of the sixth month, she left her first gift. I had slept through the night without hearing whispers and feeling as though I was being watched. I awoke invigorated and hopeful,

and then I saw my window and what lay beyond it and my stomach plummeted. There was mud smeared on the window, thick and red like clay. And in it, somebody had drawn an arrow pointing downwards. An ominous hint that also felt like a warning.

I stared at it. It glinted doly in the morning light, much of it obscured with thick, dry mud. My sisters ring. On my window ledge without explanation, the last time I had seen it was on her hand nearly a year ago. And here it was now. Marie's severed finger still wearing it, bloated and rotting.

It smelled sickly of the sea. You would probably have expected me to scream, and maybe to cry and collapse from the shock. Surely, you knew, I would get my parents, and after the horrifying reality sank in, they would call the police and the search would be back on. This was evidence, tangible and real. and it would lead somewhere.

We would finally find my sister and lay her underneath hard rock and black dirt. I didn't tell anybody. Instead, I took the finger and tossed it in my drawer. I would deal with it when I was ready. That night, it was gone. Only the ring remained, still covered in dirt and mud,

the faint smell of blood. My father noticed the mess on my window before I had the chance to tell him. He pulled the ladder from the side of the house and cleaned it while mumbling to himself. I stood in his literal shadow, holding and watching the ladder. The thought of him falling entered my head more than once, and I was relieved when he finally descended. He was shaking his head and mumbling still. It was kids, assholes, he told me.

But he was wrong and knew so. His face was an ashen brown, and his voice shook. But it was the only explanation he could tolerate. He didn't have the capacity to think of another. Our house was set far on the edge of town. Our neighbors were trees, rabbits, and deer. This was the literal opposite of where we used to live, and a constant reminder of what we had lost.

to wind up here. No matter where we went, Marie was everywhere. We were broken. We all knew she was never coming back, but dared not say so out loud. Instead, we became ghosts. I rarely saw my mother,

and she wanted it that way. Looking at my face was looking at Marie. The loss was too much for her, and her mind went to pieces. She was a shell, and everything about her was fragmented and death. Sometimes, though, I think she also sensed, Marie. On rare occasions, we locked eyes,

and all I saw was stark terror, and a mist would waft her the dining room and settle over us like a blanket. Throughout my day, I often smelled blood in the air. And I knew Marie was with me. I imagined my sister clinging to my back, whispering as she caressed my hair with bloody fingertips. I didn't fault my mother.

I reeked of Marie. On the last day of the sixth month, I woke to the sound of my window slamming shut. The house shook and my heart pounded in my throat. The house remained silent, all except the sounds of my beating chest. The night was hot, and I was slick with sweat, but the window hadn't been open. It was now, though.

And there were muddy footsteps leading away. They stopped at my bed. Like a marionette, I followed and reached under my pillow, stained and dirty with thick green mud. It smelled, and as my fingers touched something soft and slimy, I wretched. I pulled out her tongue. It was black and blue, purple and wet. When I dropped it, it fell on the floor with a soft smack, and I watched as it disintegrated, and then dissolved.

It disappeared as though it had never existed. But as I changed the sheets, I found what she had left for me underneath the pillow. It was tiny and round, a piece of jewelry. Her tongue ring. It was also coated in. mud, but I put it in my drawer as it was, next to the ring. They remained there. I checked on them often. The summer days were hot, and at night the humidity felt like a wet kiss. I chased lightning bugs and held them in my hands. Sometimes I ripped their wings off and watched as their glow

faded. I wondered how long it took Marie to die. Days passed, and then weeks of nothing happened. I began to relax and started to live again. And then, on the 16th day of the seventh month, a crow flew into the kitchen and landed on the table as me and my dad ate. From its beak trailed strands of hair, soft and pulpy patches of scalp still attached. A hair clip glinted in the dull light. My dad snatched it from the crow and stared.

He held the hair and blooded. drift through his fingers. His food grew cold, and the sun set, left him. The room was alight like fire. Orange and red rays licked at him as though he were burning. He was consumed. My father was a gentle and simple man. He was strong and took care of me in his way after my mom was unable. That day, that crow, those dirty strands of hair, changed. everything in an instant. Life drifted away. He didn't cloister himself like my mother. Instead, he obsessed. And that was what broke him. We were damned. The days grew longer. The summer was endless, and pieces of my sister revealed themselves to us day after day. Her teeth were

sprinkled on the yard. And the next day when a storm came through, Rain pelted the windows and the wind shook the house. Words, when revealed. We found hundreds of pairs of eyes staring at us. Missing posters. Marie, have you seen me? Her gaze was accusing. Yes, only pieces, beloved.

The miasma of blood, rot and death settled in like a cloud. My mother never left her room, and my father was constantly away. He came back night after night, with dirt in his pockets and eyes red like blood. When morning came, the ladder was gone and wrapped around the trees was a noose. The hangman had come and left in his wake my father's forlorn corpse,

swaying gently in the humid breeze. A crow pecked and devoured his eyelids, and his tongue was swollen and black. The ladder lay on the ground, twisted and half melted. My father swayed and the branch splintered. But he didn't fall. It's night again. My father is dead, and my mother is contained inside herself.

Her horror and her grief have completely isolated her, and insanity has swallowed her whole. Outside my window, I see the light, and it calls to me. My sister. Her voice is warped by dirt and larva. But I hear her. She is singing. I look down and she gazes back up at me.

There is starlight and her eye is full. I rustle through my drawer and extract every last piece of her. I run outside and the air is thick and metallic. Her face is covered. But she moves like me. She doesn't wait for me, but I follow her. The trees are swaying and the air shimmers. The night is black and eternal.

I know what to do and where to find her. I will sift through the dirt and unearth her bones. I will grasp her hair and shroud myself in its blackness. When will rise. And so shall she. Together we will be entwined. And the hunger of our loneliness will be sated. We would no longer starve.

We would both live again. I'm sorry, Marie. I should have died with you. But now at least, we're no longer alone. The pieces I held on to in hopes of reunion are precious. And no longer will my soul yearn for just fragments. So it seems the phrase, going to pieces can be more than metaphorical. Who, yuck.

Well, I'm just glad that when I feel like I'm going to pieces, I can get help from speaking with a therapist. That's why this show is sponsored by Better Help. When you're at your best, you can do great things, but sometimes life gets you bogged down and you may feel overwhelmed, or like you're not showing up in the way that you want to. Trust me, working with a therapist can help you get closer to the best version of you. Because when you feel empowered, you're more prepared to take on everything life throws at you. If you're thinking of giving therapy a try, better help is a great option. It's convenient, flexible, affordable, and entirely online.

Just fill out a brief questionnaire to get matched with a licensed therapist and switch therapists anytime for no additional charge. If you want to live a more empowered life, therapy can get you there. Visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep today to get 10% off your first month. That's betterhelp.com slash no sleep. Thanks to BetterHelp for sponsoring this episode. In our final tale, we meet a family settling into their new home. It would be a happier situation if the new home wasn't the result of an inheritance after the death of the woman's father.

But as we learn in this tale, shared with us by author Simon Bleakin, becoming the new owners of an idyllic English country home might sound wonderful until you realize you've inherited not just the property, but everything inside the house as well. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson, David Alt, Andy Cresswell, Penny Scott Andrews, and Ash Millman. So if you inherit a house, check every room top to bottom, especially the attic, you wouldn't want to discover the horrors of whispering wax. It was a cold autumn night when we made the terrible discovery that would forever shatter the fragile dream of building a new life in the countryside. We had lived in the house for less than five months, and wanted nothing more than to put the unwelcome noise and pollution of London behind us. I had hoped to embrace a quieter pace of life in the countryside, and those first few months had truly seemed imbued with a sense of magic, of new possibilities, as if our lives were finally falling into place.

The house had belonged to my father, who had purchased it 15 years earlier. He had lived there for the last nine of those, after spending a considerable sum. restoring it. With his death the previous year, the house, along with his remaining assets, had passed to me as the eldest of his two daughters. It was an attractive property, nestled deep in the green heart of the Gloucestershire countryside, a two-story country house built in the late 17th century, boasting Italian and Dutch influences. The secluded treeline avenue curled gently up from the tall gates by the main road to the house with its tall windows and hipbed roof. Three dark Dormer windows were set into the attic at the front and back of the house,

framed by two tall chimney-stacks that rose elegantly at either end of the property. The walls of the house peaked almost shyly from beneath a dark covering of ivy, and inside the rooms felt private and secure, each carrying the weight of their history gracefully. The whole property brooded amongst tall trees, as though hiding from the modern world. At night, those trees blotted out both stars and the light from the village of Weirston that lay a mile to the west, giving the illusion that nothing

existed beyond the house but a dark void. Those same trees also muffled the sounds of the traffic, adding to the sense of stillness and tranquility. Beyond the house in its green vale, two solitary guardian oaks acted as a towering gateway to the long grassy lawn that meandered down past cherry trees and wild rows towards the still dark waters of a deep lake. The property's true name was Weirston House, but my eight-year-old daughter Sophie had started calling it the castle. I had to admit I found the house utterly fascinating. Walking those long halls, I felt that instead of the creaks and groans of old floorboards, it was the past I could hear, whispering forgotten secrets to the living. My husband, Christopher, was rarely home until late into the evenings during the

week. I didn't mind. I secretly relished the solitude of the house. It was my own private fortress, yet still close enough to civilization that I never felt isolated. Of course, the real reason I spent so much time in the house was down to my sharing my father's passion for books. The large downstairs library had been his pride and joy, as well as the room he had lavished the most attention upon during the restoration. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling on dark wooden shelves, interrupted only by the door, three long windows,

and the fireplace with its heavy stone mantelpiece. The rest of the room was a cozy refuge, of reading lamps, comfortable chairs, and a small writing desk. It was my favourite room, but I didn't just want to read books. I wanted to write some of my own, and that was exactly what I'd been trying to do on the very night that our dream first twisted into a nightmare. Angela? Chris called down from the top of the stairs.

Come and see this. I took off my reading glasses with a sigh, but then decided that I could probably use a break from writing, not to mention a coffee to boost my flagging brain. I crossed the library quickly and stepped out into the hall. See what? I folded my arms, looking up at him. Come up to the attic. I gave a forlorn glance in the direction of the kitchen.

It seemed my coffee would have to wait. I fixed him with a stern glare as I started up the stairs. This had better not be a big spider. I knew his impish sense of humour all too well. It's not, I promise. He took my hand in his. Despite being in his mid-30s, his face still shone with the expectant joy of a small boy on Christmas morning. It was a quality that somehow managed to be both endearing and infuriating at the same time.

He led me along the landing, past closed doors of bedrooms and guestrooms, and opened the small door that gave access to the narrow attic staircase. I followed him up those creaking wooden steps, the narrow walls pressing in on us, uttering a silent prayer that there wouldn't be anything unpleasant lurking up there. He turned on the lights as we reached the top. A few dim bulbs flickered feebly to life. Thick grey cobwebs, heavy and broken with the weight of decades of dust, hung like forgotten streamers from the bricks overhead. The attic space was claustrophobic with shadows, a maze of darkness and grime,

full of curious alcoves, odd corners and hidden spaces formed where the bricks of the chimney-breast reached for the roof. It felt like the kind of place where all the forgotten and misplaced things of the world might be hiding. It's back here. Christopher moved into the shadows, and for a moment I hesitated. The darkness there was too deep and unknown. I heard Christopher collide with something, curse under his breath, and then another dim bulb flickered into life. I need to get all this rewired.

What were you doing up here? I weaved my way through the narrow space after him. I was just having a snoop, really. I found some old papers. He waved a hand at an old bureau and a pile of dust-strand. crowded boxes in a distant corner. There's a lot stored up here. I'm surprised it hasn't rotted away.

Some of it looks to have been written by your father. The rest seems to be old records about the house and some old journals. Inspiration for your book, perhaps? That did pique my interest. But before I could give anything more than a cursory glance, Chris came shuffling out of the darkness holding a glass-fronted wooden case in his hands. Oh yeah, here, here, this is it. What do you think?

I turned to find myself staring into the horribly lifelike face of a wax doll. My first reaction was to take a sharp intake of a breath. The doll was about the size of a one-year-old child and was dressed in some kind of charcoal-gray blazer, matching trousers, and a white shirt yellowed with age. The face bore painted lips and blue-glass eyes, with a short head of brown hair, possibly real human hair, carefully fixed to the wax. Christopher was beaming.

Weird, isn't it? It's hideous. I barely concealed a shudder. Those glass eyes appeared to be following me. Oh, it's not that bad, is it? How old is it? No idea. It was in a wall cavity over here.

Looks as if it had once been bricked in, then, and covered again at some point. Let's put it back then. I hate dolls. Actually, I want to get it valued. I might be worth something. Fine. But if it is, We're selling it.

You know, I think you're overreacting, but... Upon catching my harsh glare, he quickly backtracked. Look, I'll stick it in one of the empty guest rooms for now. I'll try and get someone to have a look as soon as I can. Before next weekend? Well, no. It might be a bit longer than that, unless you wanted to take him into... No.

I shook my head and stepped away quickly, almost colliding with a couple of dusty boxes. Just put it somewhere I can't see it. With any luck, I'll forget it's there, at least until you can get rid of it. I left him standing there, still holding that horrible thing in his hands, as I retreated back down to the warmth of my library once again. The next day was a wild and blustery Sunday. The wind chased slate grey clouds across the sky and whipped the fallen leaves into a swirling frenzy. But so far the rain was staying away. I was alone in the house for the morning.

Christopher had bundled Sophie into the car to go flying kite. on the common. I instead braved the dusty attic to gather up the old journals and papers, intending to study them from the comfort of my library. With the pale morning light creeping in through the dormer windows, the attic seemed less claustrophobic, but no less eerie or mysterious, as if the ghosts of the past were being stirred up along with the dust as I moved through it. My little expedition soon uncovered an old journal, in a heavy folder full of documents, which I carried carefully downstairs, taking my time on the narrow stairs. case, lest I ended up tumbling down in a fluttering cascade of old letters and battered journals.

It was just before I reached the door to the landing, the front of my jumper thick with dust, that I heard the sound of another door swinging open somewhere on the landing itself. A sudden chill flooded me. I froze, listening for any signs of movement from below. Was somebody in the house? I finally coaxed myself forward, taking one slow step after another down the remainder of those creaking steps. Despite the chill seeping down from the attic, my palms were sweating as they clutched their precious cargo of old documents. When I reached the bottom step and peered hesitantly around, I saw the door to the nearest guest room was open.

For a moment I held my breath, staring. Then as common sense gradually kicked in, I let out a long sigh and laughed at myself for my foolishness. There was nobody there, of course. It was far more likely that the door simply hadn't been shut properly, and it just swung lazily out. into the passageway due to a breeze or the house settling. I pushed it shut with my elbows I walked past, making a mental note not to let my imagination get the better of me in the future. The house felt unusually cold that morning, so I got a fire going and made myself a large mug of coffee before shutting myself away in the quiet of the library. Christopher had been right about the journal

belonging to my father. I recognised his distinctive, confident handwriting. The accompanying folder was a treasure trove of old letters, copies of public records, and printouts of newspaper articles that he must have uncovered during his restoration of the house and subsequent researches. It looked as if he'd been in the process of assembling an entire history of the property and its former occupants. Intrigued. I set my own writing aside, settled into my favourite chair, and started reading the history he had compiled. Houses seem to be very much like people. They are born, they live, and eventually they die, sometimes quickly and suddenly, and sometimes they linger on as hollow shells, merely awaiting the inevitable dissolution wrought by time and decay. This house and its past might have fallen to such fate, had it not been for the workmen making repairs in the attic, who uncovered the curious doll in its glass-fronted case,

bricked up behind a false wall with a whole bundle of letters, private diaries, and documents. It was quite a trove. When I started researching Weierston House, I quickly discovered that its true history lay with the arrival of twin sisters. The house itself was completed in 1787 for Harriet and Charles Danford Hunt, and it was here that they raised their two daughters, the twins, Berenice and Prudence, born in the house. 1792. Prudence was a sickly child, introverted and largely housebound in her childhood. Her pale face framed by copper red hair was often seen at her bedroom window by visitors. As she grew older, however, she developed a stouter constitution and gradually spent more time out and about in the local village of Weirston. Beronis, on the other hand, was something of a tomboy and a definite extrovert.

Early accounts suggest she was often found climbing the taller trees around the property, playing in the dirt down by the lake, and frequently being chided for unladylike behavior. She had a freckled complexion and the same long copper-red hair as her sister. The library door swung open with a faint click, breaking my concentration. I looked up, startled, before checking my watch with a frown. I hadn't expected Christopher and Sophie to be back so soon. That frown grew deeper when nobody appeared in the doorway, and no further sounds came from within the hall. Chris?

I set down the journal. Sophie? Silence answered me, quickening my heart. I walked to the library door and looked out into the hallway beyond. The front door was closed, but I could see through the narrow glass windows that Christopher's car wasn't back yet. The faint echo of a woman's voice broke the stillness. radiating from somewhere deep within the house. I turned, startled as it whispered through the empty hallways and rooms.

I thought it came from upstairs, though I couldn't pinpoint the directional location. It was a strange sound, almost watery, that lasted only for a moment and left me wondering if I had truly heard anything at all. I hastily retreated back into the comforting warmth of the library and shut the door. I felt shaken and uneasy. Common sense assured me it had only been the same. the aging water pipes, or perhaps the antiquated boiler system. But it had all sounded just a little too human for me to feel entirely comfortable with those explanations. I moved into the corner

chair, where I could keep an eye on the door as I resumed my reading. If I refused to acknowledge it, I told myself, then it had never happened. Amazingly, the ploy worked, and those old journals soon drew my attention back into them and their own unfolding story. In 1804, the twins' mother, Harriet, passed away following a short illness. I suspect a mental collapse of some kind may have been involved. Madness would continue to haunt the entire family for the rest of their days. Following their mother's death, the two sisters became inseparable, lost in their own shared world, as if tragedy had forged a strange bond between them that could not be shattered. from this point onwards they were rarely seen apart and never went anywhere without the other.

I believe this may be the point at which the seeds of the later insanity had their roots. It is said the sisters spent hours walking in the woods around the house, or sitting in their upstairs room in silence. Servants, however, claimed that the girls had some unspoken form of communication between each other. Their father saw them less and less, become lost in his own deep web of grief. A camp's claim he would take long trips away from the house, as if trying to excise the place from all memory.

The servants and the children's governess became the only parents they now had, and the sisters clung to each other, like the lone survivors of a terrible cataclysm. I glanced up with a start as the front door banged open. For a moment I held my breath, and then relaxed at the sound of it. of Sophie running in, eyes bright and hair wind-tussled. Mommy, I flew to kite! She rushed into the library, a wide grin on her face. I flued it!

Behind her came Christopher, shrugging off his coat. Winds's getting up, and other storms on the way. Great. I hate storms. Get much done? Oh, I'd just scratched the surface, really. Dad had already started researching the history of this place, though. It's fascinating. I'll get lunch started.

He smiled. I look forward to hearing all about it later. The storm that eventually unleashed its raw fury upon the countryside that afternoon continued to howl and rage late into the night, savagely rattling the windows and buffeting the house long after everyone had gone to bed. As the wind shrieked around the chimneys like a frenzied banshee, I lay awake in the darkness, listening to the tempest. Sleep had been chased away by both the unsettling groaning of the roof

and the loud snoring from Christopher's side of the bed. I could have coped with either one of them individually, but not both together. I have always hated storms. They made me want to bury my head under the duvet, to pull it up like a soft cocoon around my body. I could never quite let go of the fear that the roof would tear off or the windows would blow in, and I held my breath each and every time the house creaked. I was just reaching over for my phone to check the time, and I suddenly became aware that something was crawling across the bed towards me.

It was a slow, stealthy approach across the covers, as though whatever it was had hoped to go unnoticed. I sat up, propping myself on my elbows, linking blearily into the darkness. Jasper? Our cat always slept in Sophie's room and hardly ever ventured into hours. I shifted onto one elbow, stretching out my other hand, expecting to feel his soft warm fur or the brush of his head in greeting. My fingers encountered only empty darkness.

I stretched further, leaning forwards. Now my fingers brushed something smooth, cold, and waxy. A cold hiss of breath emerged from the darkness before me, and I snatched my hand away. I was too startled to make a sound. Anxiously I groped for the bedside light, felt the soft click of the switch under my fingers, and was staring into the blue, glassy eyes of the wax doll

that squatted on the bed before me. I just stared at it. The cry of shocked fear was caught in my throat, unable to escape. The doll was motionless, if indeed it had ever actually been moving. Little wax fingers curled like pale maggots over a fold in the bedclothes. The painted mouth appeared to smile. The eyes sparkled. I wanted to reach out, to push the awful thing away, to hurl it across the room.

But I felt frozen in place. My paralysis only broke when I realised something else was moving beyond that horrible doll, a shift of shadow and light from the corner of the room. It took every ounce of effort for me to turn my head and look. A woman was emerging from the shadows, like something long buried rising up from the gritty silt of a lake. Her matted hair hung in limp, dripping clumps, and her sodden nightgown, darkened by mud and filth, clung translucently to the pale and bloated body beneath it. She stretched out her arms, long, broken nails reaching for me like jagged talons. And as if imploring or cursing.

As her mouth yawned in a silent scream, more filthy water bubbled from her throat. She had no eyes, only hollow pits in her puffy face. I felt the cold radiating from her and heard the squelch of the saturated carpet as she shuffled closer. Now my scream came,

bursting from my lips as I hurled the bedclothes aside. As I scrambled from the bed, the doll hit the floor with a muffled thud wrapped in a tangle of blankets. I fled towards the door, not even thinking about Christopher in my mad panic to escape. I threw the door open and woke with a start, still in bed, as the window rattled furiously in its frame. Still in the grip of panic, I sat up and flicked on the light. Mysterious darkness yielded to familiar room in a second.

There was no doll on the bed, and no monstrous phantom skulking in the corner. Regardless, I felt nauseous and couldn't rest until I'd checked the room was. safe. Everything was as it should be, and there was no sign of that horrible doll or any nocturnal phantom. I reluctantly returned to bed, but I couldn't shake the after-effects of the dream, and I knew that there would be no sleep tonight. It was a little after midnight when I finally admitted defeat. Throwing on a dressing-gown, I made my way downstairs, and brewed a pot of Earl Grey before creeping back into the library. The frenzied pattering of the rain against the windows was strangely hypnotic.

And as I sat back in the soft comfort of the reading chair, hauled in a soft oasis of light, the story unfolding in the journal drew me back in so that even the mournful howl of the wind outside quickly faded. By 1812, Prudence was with child. The records do not record the identity of the father, but there is talk of a scandal that shook the village, followed by the swift dismissal of a young stable hand.

By this time, their father was still spending a great deal of his time away from the house. Beronis was now all but running the household, though by all accounts the strange bond between the sisters was, if anything, stronger than ever. A letter from a former governess makes reference to the girls being like a single soul split between two bodies. Perhaps they had a connection that went deeper than anything most people experienced. or perhaps this was just another manifestation of the madness which haunts the Danford Hunt family lined like a curse.

I awoke early the next morning still sitting in the library chair. The silent stillness broken only by the soft cooing of wood pigeons from the tangle of trees outside. I sat up, rubbing my head as my muddled memory struggled to sort dreams from reality. I dressed and then woke Sophie, helping her get ready for school. Outside, the grey-dorn mist clung wraith-like to the trees, invading the house with a chill that the radiators again proved unable to disperse. Christopher had already left for work by the time I padded into the kitchen to feed Jasper. Mrs Jessup is dropping you in today, I reminded Sophie.

So hurry up, she'll be here soon. Her car smells like wet dog. I tried not to smile. Well, it's her turn this week, and it's very kind of her too. Mrs. Jessup and her eight-year-old son Peter arrived in their old red ford a quarter of an hour later and collected Sophie. I waved from the door as they pulled away down the drive.

After they had gone, I loaded the breakfast things into the dishwasher and got a fresh coffee on the go. I was just waiting for the kettle to boil when the phone rang, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness of the house. I could tell by the background noises that he was still on the train. Hotel for a few days. We're close to getting a deal fixed up

and they don't want to risk delaying it if the train's close down. How many days? I had caught the news earlier. The yellow weather warning was in place for the next 48 hours and the possibility of travel disruption was high. They were predicting winds in excess of 80 miles an hour and heavy rain and flooding. I've heard that before. Nothing. Never mind. I rolled my eyes. Love you. Travel safe. Love you too. I slipped back into the library with a steaming mug of coffee and a wall shawl draped around my shoulders. The pale light crept in fragile fingers through the curtains, falling in faint strips across the floor, but the room at least still felt warm and cosy, and I soon had a fire

crackling to banish any lingering chills. I had originally wanted to replace the fire with an electric one, worried about the smoke damaging the books, but watching those glowing, living flames, dance and pop were somehow magical and mesmerising, and I was glad we hadn't gone through with those plans just yet. Outside, the wind howled mournfully around the house, a herald of the approaching storm. Tree branches scraped and tapped at the windows like skeletal fingers, and the whole house groaned and creaked faintly, the structure seeming almost to swell, then exhale as boards flexed and windows rattled softly. I looked up as the door moved, but it was only Jasper. The tip of his raised tail curled like a question mark as he marched inside. He gave a welcoming chirp to announce. He gave a welcoming chirp to

announce his presence, and then sprang into one of the chairs across from me, wrapping his tale about him as he got comfortable. Feeling the cold too? He offered me a slow blink, and then settled down and went to sleep. I left him to it. I eased myself back into my favourite chair and picked up the journal once more. By 1813, however, it seems that Prudence's pregnancy never came to term, and no child was born. It is around this time that Berenice met a young gentleman from Cheltenham, Mortimer Abbott. They began courting, and before long were engaged. Evidence suggests prudence did not favour this relationship, as it appears to have shattered the bond between the sisters. Beronis was clearly spending more time with Mortimer, leaving Prudence

to drift along behind them like a forgotten ghost. It is around this time that the first tangible signs of prudence madness became apparent. She was found in the kitchen one night, covered in blood, and trying to harm herself with a large knife. Servants claimed she was trying to cut something out of her belly, as though convinced something was trapped inside of her. For her own protection, she was isolated within a locked upstairs bedroom, from which all of the furniture was removed, save for a bed. It is reported that she screamed and howled most nights, worse when the moons were full. But Berenice would not allow her to be taken away from the house and spent much of her time nursing her deranged sister herself. Prudence seems to have degenerated

into an almost feral state by this time, soiling herself, clawing at anyone who came near and throwing food at the walls. In March 1814, their father was killed when a tree fell upon his carriage during a storm. In the months that followed, Bernice and Mortimer married, with the young man taking up residence in Weierston House, whilst his new bride continued to care

for her increasingly disturbed sister. In early 1815, Bernice gave birth to twins, Ruben and Mary Turning the next page, I frowned when I discovered the journal abruptly ended. Only the jagged remains of torn away pages revealed where the rest should have been. The thought struck me that perhaps I'd simply missed them up in the attic, and so I went up to investigate. I shivered as I crossed the hall and hurried up the stairs.

I had to confess I was starting to feel a little differently about the castle since learning about its history. It was like discovering a beloved family member was harboring a deep secret. His house was still our refuge, but I was increasingly seeing it as the place where Prudence and Berenice had wandered together in their own strange little world. Two sisters bound together by grief and loss, and it seemed loneliness. I ran up the old staircase into the attic and flicked on the light as I reached the top. The weak mid-morning light stretched long, pale fingers across the floorboards, though deep darkness still held dominion over the farthest recesses of the attic. As I stood there, hesitating. The swelling wind rattled against the roof and shook the windows.

The sound of the softly groaning timbers was a little like being on a ship at sea. I was very glad I would be back downstairs before the storm hit in earnest that night. As I reached for the second light switch, a cold breath wheezed in my ear, and something moved in the corner of my vision. I turned with a gasp, eyes widening. A woman stood there, staring at me. It was the woman from my dream. She was pale, ethereal, and partially transparent, reaching out with arms like white smoke. She walked forward,

her sodden and filthy dress clinging to a body swollen with wormy decay. I could hear the rasping whisper of her tattered hem dragging over the wood, the sound punctuated by wet feet slapping against the floorboards. Dripping copper-red hair fell in a dark-matted cascade around her shoulders, and beneath empty eye-sockets, her wrinkled blue lips were stretching into a silent scream. But all that came out of that rotting black throat was a stinking gush of brown silty water that sprayed across the floorboards at my feet. I staggered back.

My mind was screaming that this was impossible. Impossible or not, that monstrous apparition shuffled closer, ragged hem dragging and slimy feet slapping against the boards of the attic. A sudden rush of intense coldness swept over me, like being plunged into icy water. I opened my mouth, but it couldn't draw any air into my lungs. I felt strange, almost weightless. The attic swam dizzily about me, shimmering like light through water. Even as I felt the floor slide from under me and realised, on some distant faraway level that I was falling,

my body was no longer responding to my commands and the world was growing dark around me. I toppled backwards, collapsing against the dusty brickwork of the old chimney. The last thing I saw before blacking out was that pale, dead face and those dark hollow eye sockets looming over me. It was Mrs Jessup who found me sitting in a daze down on the main staircase when she dropped Sophie off later that afternoon. I don't know how I got down there from the attic, but I was filthy with dust and had cobwebs in my hair. It would be weeks before any real recollection of the events in the attic would come back to me. And at first, only snatches in horrible nightmares that I gradually pieced together. At the time, I only remembered waking to find myself sitting on the stairs,

confused as to where I was and who was addressing me. The back door was unlocked, so we came in. I continued to stare blankly at Mrs. Jessop. We must have been knocking at the front door for a good ten minutes and ringing your phone. My phone? I blinked again, my awareness slowly coming back. It's in the library and I was... I broke off, staring at Sophie as if seeing her for the first time.

What are you doing home? It's gone for. Mrs Jessop gave me a concerned look. Are you feeling all right? It is? But it can't be. I quickly checked my watch, as if doubting her word. It is.

Sorry, I must have zoned out there. I shivered, rubbing my hands together. I don't really remember. I was going upstairs, I think. Is it cold in here? Mrs. Jessop took my hand. Oh, you're frozen. Can you stand? It seems like you've had a bit of a funny turn. Do you want me to run you to the hospital? I shook my head and eased myself slowly to my feet. No. No, I think I'm all right. In the end, she stayed for an hour. We had tea and biscuits while Sophie and her son played upstairs, and I found myself warm. to her. It was good to have someone else in the house my own age, and made me feel as though sanity

was being restored to a world that, for a moment, had slipped out of kilter. The house felt uncomfortably empty after she left. With my husband away, it would just be me and Sophie braving the storm that night, and I was again feeling anxious. What had happened to me earlier? I wished I knew, but my memory of those hours had been swallowed by a fog that I couldn't seem to penetrate. I didn't feel like cooking that night, so I decided to surprise Sophie and put an order through for two pizzas. While I waited for them to arrive, I went upstairs to check on Sophie. As I neared the landing, I could hear her chatting in her room and smiled to myself. I paused in the doorway without knocking. I liked watching her play. There was something endearing about the innocence of youth,

something that had the power to take me right back to my own childhood. Sophie was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, an old scarf spread out like a blanket under her. She was having a pretend tea party with her dolls. One lump for you, Pandy. She pretended to drop a sugar cube into a plastic teacup before passing it over to a small stuffed panda that was propped up by a pile of books. And did you want some tea, Giedon? Giedon.

My smile faded at the unfamiliar name. I peered around the edge of the door, and a sudden dread flooded me at the sight of the horrible wax doll and its little grey clothes and painted face leaning against another pile of books. The glass eyes sparkled with an awful inner life. What is this?

I asked, unable to keep the shock out of my voice. It's a tea party, mummy. Sophie's voice was suddenly low and sheepish. Her face confused, as if trying to work out what she had done wrong. Why did you take the doll? I demanded, trying to soften my tone and failing. You know you mustn't play with it?

But I didn't take it. What did I say about telling lies? But I'm not. I'm not lying. Giedon wanted some tea. Why are you calling it that? It's his name. She pointed at the doll. He whispered it to me. I don't want you playing with this doll, okay?

Play with your own toys. We're going to get rid of this one. Despite my revulsion, I grabbed the doll by one of its arms. It was heavier than I expected. But Gidon likes it here. Sophie, stop it, please. I don't want you playing with this thing. I bit back the guilt as I stormed out of the room,

carrying the doll by the arm. Sophie's face screwed up, and I heard the tears even as I hurried down the staircase. I put the doll out in the garage, propped up on a box full of old lawnmower parts, and locked the door behind me. Leaves clattered and skittered across the driveway as I returned to the house,

and the treetops were already swaying wildly. The storm was coming in. Sophie barely touched any of her pizza when it arrived. She sat sulking at the kitchen table, which only made me feel guiltier for the way I had behaved. I didn't want that horrible doll in my house, all around my daughter, but I felt bad that Sophie now believed she'd done something wrong.

I tried to assure her that I wasn't cross with her, but finally I wrapped the cold pizza up and put it in the fridge, and then took her up to bed. As I tucked her in, Jasper curled onto the, the bed beside her. She looked at me with sad eyes, red with tears. Giedon won't like it out there. He gets lonely. He's camping out, I said not sure what else to say. He'll be fine. I switched on her nightlight, kissed her good night, and then went downstairs to tidy up. With the plate stacked in the dishwasher, I poured myself a large glass of red wine,

planning to put my feet up and watch a movie. Instead, however, I found myself remembering the last-fronted box up in the guest room, the one the doll had been snored in, and decided to take that out to the garage too. I knew it was irrational, but I wanted every trace of that doll out of the house once and for all. I crept upstairs and made my way to the end guestroom. The box was still on the side table, but as I lifted it, a wad of torn paper tumbled out and landed on the floor. Surprised, I bent down for a closer look, and my eyes widened when I realized they were the missing pages from the journal. Had Sophie torn them out, I wondered. But no, surely not. Why would she? I decided it was a question that could wait until morning. I took the pages down to the library, got a fire going,

and settled into my chair. The first line I read made me gasp. In 1821, Prudence hung herself with her own bedclothes when a servant unthinkingly provided extra sheets to keep the woman warm during a severe winter. This appears to have been the final straw for Baronis too, and the start of her own decline. During the examination of Prudence's body, something unusual was observed. The doctor removed a lithopedian from within Prudence's body. This is a rare occurrence where a fetus forms outside of the womb, dies and calcifies within the mother's body. They are sometimes called stone babies and can go undetected for years or decades. Beronis, according to accounts, seized this stone baby and fled from the room, refusing to let anyone else near the dead

infant. She left the house the next morning, and when she returned a fortnight later, having even missed her sister's funeral, she had a wax doll with her. I turned the page with trembling fingers, a sick, horrible feeling flooding up from deep within me. I thought of the doll that had been hidden in the attic, and of how unusually heavy it had been. The next page contained the tattered and pressed remnants of an old letter or note, scrawled in a shaking and unfamiliar hand. I had to strain my eyes to read it. I know God sent you to us, my angel, my miracle, my beautiful little Gideon. I name you, for you. I know, God sent you to us, my angel, my angel, my miracle, my beautiful little Gideon. I name you for the saint, for you also are the keeper of my faith.

You are the one fated to endure, not to age or wither like the rest of us, but to stay eternal and unending forever. God has sent us a savior, a protector, a child of stone, an angel who never drew breath. My beautiful sister's legacy lives with you. You will be with us forever. You keep us safe. The children love their new doll.

They know it is special that it watches over them. They tell me they can hear it whispering to them. And I remind them to be kind, to treat their little cousin with respect. As long as Gideon is here, we are safe. Prudence has given us a guardian. After the letter, my father's familiar handwriting returned. Baronese was eventually confined to an upstairs bedroom. Servants reported hearing constant whispering to an unseen angel.

Her husband subsequently hired a nanny to help raise the children. As the years wore on, Berenice slowly faded from the world, becoming lost within herself and all but forgetting about her own family. She spent her days nursing the doll as if it were her own child, an eternal child that never aged nor grew. At night, the servants could hear her talking to it, and during the day she would demand it be brought down to attend lessons with her own children. Bernice's health waned during these years. She grew weak and frail, as if the vitality had been leached out of her by grief for her sister, or perhaps by the doll she held to her breast nightly. The servants expressed deep unease about the doll, claiming it walked the house at night.

Allegedly, it was also blamed for several accidents about the property, including the sudden death of a pet dog. Eventually, in a bid to retain his household staff, Mortimer locked the doll into a glass case and secured it behind a false wall in the attic, where it could watch over the house safely. In an unsent letter to his brother, he wrote, I can't get rid of it. That would shatter what remains of Beronis's mind. Right now, as grisly as that doll is, it is, I fear, an anchor to her fragile sensibilities. The children, too, have become abnormally fond of the thing.

I heard them talking to it as though it were a living sibling. I think it best to put it where it can do no harm. Sometimes I wonder what has become of this house, and whether all reason and sanity has fled these walls. This place gathers secrets like most houses gather dust. I cannot say why the letter was never sent, though it is fortunate for history that it remained here. Perhaps the shame and scandal was too much for him to share.

Bernice took the loss of the doll hard, according to surviving accounts. They claim she screamed and cried at night like a grieving mother, beating her fists against the walls and tearing at her hair, demanding the doll be freed from its imprisonment. Her husband weathered this storm well. But even he finally surrendered to his very human need for love by taking somebody else into his arms. It is said that when Berenice, watching from her window one night, spotted her husband holding another woman, she finally succumbed to the madness that had been growing inside of her.

Servants found her room empty the next morning. The bed hadn't been slept in. A set of keys left accidentally on a table by a househouse. had gone missing, and a search of the house and grounds quickly began, a search that ended with Berenice's cold, dead body being pulled from the lake at the bottom of the garden. She had become lodged in the weeds, and the birds had pecked out her eye. Mortimer subsequently inherited the house and remarried. He sold the property shortly afterward and moved away from the area. Following this, the house passed through a short succession of brief ownerships, before finally falling vacant.

As an aside to my overview of the history of the house, tonight I made something of an archaeological fine. I found the doll. It was hidden behind a false section of wall up in the attic, right where the old letters said it should be. It was incredible to see it. I am amazed there is no sign of rot or decay on the clothing, and the whole thing is. is in an amazing state of preservation. I have decided to bring it down to the library. It deserves pride of place as part of the history of the house. The next entry was dated two days later. I appear to have something of a mystery on my hands. I heard something moving downstairs last night and came down to find the doll sitting in my chair in the lounge, though I know I had left it inside its case in the library. I can find no evidence of a break-in or intruders, and even if I had,

these actions make no sense, seeming the work of juvenile pranksters rather than thieves. Following this section, my father's handwriting became shakier, less legible, as though he were writing with some difficulty or with unsteady hands. I no longer believe this doll is what it appears to be. The old records make no mention of what happened to Prudence's deceased baby after Baronese took it. If it had been somehow embalmed or covered with wax, it would certainly appear like a doll. The notes are too vague to be sure. The doll has been walking again. I heard it in the night, tiny feet pattering across the floor outside the bedroom. I know that is not rational, and it flies in the face of everything I have ever believed possible

my whole life, but I cannot reach any other conclusion. It is as though by removing the doll from within the hidden alcove in the attic wall, I have awakened some curse that has laying dormant for all those long years. But what began a simple childish mischief has been growing steadily darker and more sinister with each passing day. For the past five nights I have lain in bed and heard the scraping of those tiny wax hands at the door, the whisper of a voice at the keyhole. But the doll is not the only presence that appears to have awoken.

I saw a figure at the end of the bedroom, framed against the window. But the moonlight that should have rendered that shape a silhouette, instead filtered through it, as though the body had no substance. This same ethereal figure seems to be following me throughout the house. Is this dripping eyeless monster, Berenice? Or what remains of her? Tonight I saw a second figure lurking at the foot of the stairs as I stared in shock from the landing above.

The stench of feces and vomit assailed my nose as this diabolical entity ascended the stairs. It was a woman. Her naked body foul and filthy, broken nails scraping against the banister. There was a deep incision in one side of her body, as though something had been cut out from within her. And all at once, I realized it was prudence, filthy from her mad fits and bearing the deep cut where the dead child had been removed. The malice in her gaze was chilling. A violent and desperate insanity. I should leave.

I should flee this house and not look back. But my own stubborn pride prevents that. This is my house, my home, and I refuse to permit these horrors to drive me from it. I'm going to take the doll back up to the attic, along with everything I found. Perhaps by doing so, I can lay to rest whatever I have awoken. Something thumped against the outside of the library door, and I jumped, dropping the loose pages with a startled shriek. Sophie? My fingers gripped the arms of the chair. The sound came again, followed by the patter of tiny feet against wood. It was a sound somehow too human to have been the cat moving about, and was eerily childlike. On shaking legs I made my way to the closed door. Dolls do not move by themselves. They are not alive, especially not ones locked away. way in garages. But then, what are the words I had just read? Pened by one of the most rational

men I knew. No, I told myself firmly, the doll cannot be in the house. To prove my point, I pulled the library door open. There was nothing there, only long shadows stretching away and finally merging with the unbroken darkness further down the hallway. There's nothing there, it's just, I saw something move on the edge of that darkness. Something small. small and pale, a glint of waxy skin, and then it was gone. The jolt of alarm shot through me. Sophie? Though in my heart I knew it wasn't my daughter. It's just Jasper, I tried to assure myself, knowing that I should brave the darkness to check, and knowing that the idea of moving down that black hallway to the light switch was more than I could manage right now. I glanced up at the

landing, in the direction of Sophie's room. I should check on her at least, I told myself. But the upper floor felt a world away, and an ocean of unknown horror waited between it and me. I wondered if I was a terrible mother, leaving my daughter alone upstairs. Not alone, I reminded myself. Jasper is curled up next to her. But still, it felt a hollow assurance. The longer I looked, the deeper the shadows became, as if the house were refusing to allow my eyes to adjust, anxious to keep its secrets. I exhaled, the sound far too loud in the stillness. I wanted to scuffle back into the light and warmth of the library like a frightened child, as if that light and heat were a magic shield, a barrier that would keep the unknown things at bay.

The patter of feet came again. I backed inside the library, slamming the door quickly, feeling a small surge of relief as it clicked into place. The door was solid and heavy, and I drew a sense of comfort from that as I pressed my hand against it. It's just your imagination. Even so, I retrieved fire poker before returning to the chair. Somehow having it beside me made me feel better. I tried to focus on putting the scattered pages back into some semblance of order, but my eyes kept reading the same lines over and over as my ears strained to listen to the house. The fire popped, sending sparks dancing up the chimney. Outside, the storm had arrived in full force, the wind howling mournfully about the chimneys and rattling the panes in the window.

From somewhere in the darkness of the library's shadowy edges came a faint, ragged breathing. My head shot up as a cold shiver iced my spine. I gripped the pages hard enough to tear them. It's in the room with me. It's in the room. The door was still shut. I would have heard it if it had opened.

I scanned the shadows around me, panic threatening to flood through me like a river bursting its banks. The sound of the breathing was lost in the racing of my heart. Then my gaze set up. on the tiny face half hidden by shadow near one of the stacks of books. My heart froze. Glassy eyes were watching me from out of that waxy face. Again, the pages dropped to the floor. I didn't notice. Suddenly, the only things that existed in that room were those awful eyes in that tiny head. I tried to blink, but I couldn't. Nor could I swallow or turn my head. My whole body felt numb and

unresponsive. Instead, I closed my eyes, willing the thing away, telling myself it couldn't be real. It couldn't be here. It just wasn't possible. When I opened my eyes, the doll was only a foot away from me, just standing there, watching me. With a fierce scream that was part terror and part fury, I sprang to my feet and struck out with the fire poker. I hit the dolls squarely in the face and sent it flying across the room. It landed on its back near the fireplace, the limbs writhing as it attempted to get back on its feet. The head turned to look at me. There was a fresh split in the wax on the upper lip where I had struck it,

a gap that showed something grey and lumpy underneath, like calcified flesh. A soft sound was issuing from inside that waxen shell, whispering out of that crack above the upper lip. It sounded like a name. It sounded like Giedon. Get out of my house! I lunged forwards and drove the pointed end of the poker down. into the doll's chest as if I were slaying some sort of tiny vampire. It hissed and clawed the metal

with those horrible little fingers. The face contorted monstrously as though there were muscles beneath that wax. It shouldn't have been able to move, but it did. Half-crazed and shaking, I threw the poker and impaled doll into the burning coals of the fireplace. It went up in seconds, the old clothes and hair bursting into flame, and the wax beginning to bubble and melt. I staggered back, struggling to catch my breath. The doll was completely engulfed in flames now, still writhing but held down by the weight of the heavy poker that pierced its heart. A horrible wail issued from its mouth as its burning limbs flailed, the cry of a child in agony. Sophie!

In a desperate panic I remembered that my own child was still upstairs and hurried out into the hall. I had to make sure she was safe. The mournful howl of the wind through the chimneys made it sound as if the house were crying out, giving voice to the terrified, desperate scream my own lungs refused to issue. I took the steps two at a time, my sweating palms slipping on the banister. The stretch of landing leading down to Sophie's room had never felt so long or so dark before. Like some terrible nightmare hallway, her doorway seemed to get no closer as I stumbled towards it. I all but clawed my way down that hallway.

Was it possible to become drunk on fear? I felt as if I might pass out or be sick at any moment. and always, in the back of my throat, that dreadful pounding of my terrified heart. A figure was waiting at the far end of the hall. Little more than a silhouette against the moonlit window, but I recognised her from my nightmare immediately. It was Berenice, eyeless and insane, her mistlike arms rising up as she turned to face me. I didn't stop.

Sophie's bedroom door lay halfway between us, and I intended to get there first. There was a low rumble of thunder. and a brilliant flash of lightning lit the hallway. I saw in that brief moment that Berenice's mouth was open in another of her silent screams. But that flash of light revealed more than I expected. There was a second figure behind Berenice, hunched and sinister. I got a glimpse of a face twisted and crazed anguish from beneath a cascade of matted hair, and then the stench of vomit and excrement assaulted my nostrils.

I knew this had to be prudence. They were both waiting for me. Stay away from us! I barged into Sophie's room as another flash of lightning split the sky, lighting the room in monochrome brightness. Sophie stas up with a startled cry, blinking at me in terrified bewilderment. I snatched drop without any explanation and turned back the way I had come.

I half feared they would be in the doorway already, barring my path, but it seems I was too fast even for them. From the corner of my eye I saw Jasper spring from the bed. He was following us, as if sensing that it was no way. longer safe to stay. As we emerged into the hallway, I saw the two figures shuffling closer, menacing shadows against the window. I felt Sophie tightened her grip at the sight of them, and prayed I'd make the stairs before the next flash of lightning revealed them in all their horror. I could smell the smoke and feel the scorching heat of the fire even as I neared the top

of the staircase. The library was burning. Through the open door below, I could see flames spreading greedily along the stacks and rising quickly up the walls. I realized. I realized, then that the burning doll must have crawled out of the fireplace and fallen against the shelves. For a moment I faltered, watching the room I loved, the room my father had put so much care into, vanishing into smoke and flame. Sophie dug her nails into my shoulder. That was enough to spur me on, and I chanced a glance back as I reached the staircase. Veronese and Prudence were a few feet behind us. Their twisted faces were masks of demented horror, raw with anger and hatred. I could hear the wet footfalls of Berenice as they squelched in the saturated carpet, and I could smell the filth

of Prudence's foul body. Don't look! I held Sophie tightly in one hand, the other clutched at the banister as we hurried downstairs into smoke and chaos. The speed with which the fire was spreading was terrifying to behold. I feared those flames might cut us off from the front door, though I knew it was more likely that the searing heat and smoke would kill us long before the flames did. The sudden numbness filled my body, as if the nerves in my arms and legs had gone to sleep. The heat that beat against my skin and face was gone, as an icy coldness filled my body instead. But I couldn't move. I had one hand wrapped around Sophie, the other locked in place on the banister, and my legs were rooted to the steps. I was trying to get them to function, but nothing was happening. Strong arms

closed around me from behind, as if in an embrace. I smelled the rank stench of Prudence's soil rotting body as she pressed up against me. Sophie was screaming, but the sound was curiously distant, seeming to belong to some other time and place. Everything was growing dark, my body swaying and my head spinning. I thought I would fall or pass out. There was a shrill whining in my ears, a band of pain behind my eyes like a migraine.

I realised then that I was being drawn from my body, pulled into some dark place by that hideous phantom that had seized me, Was this what had happened before, in the attic, a few hours before Kate Jessop had found me? It was Sophie who saved me, saved us both, by digging her fingernails into my arm hard enough to draw blood. The pain cut through the haze and snapped me out of whatever dark void I had been sinking into. Prudence's decaying arms released me as if she could no longer maintain her hold on my mind and my body. She melted back into the shadows with a savage snarl of fury. We made it down the front door as the halls started filling with choking, acrid smoke.

The library was a hellish inferno. Burning debris dropping from the ceiling, and licking, roaring flames had spread outwards into the rest of the house and the rooms above. I whispered a silent prayer as I snatched the keys from the bowl by the door, thankful I hadn't forgotten to put them back. I crouched low as I wrestled with the lock, my eyes stinging. It was already hard to breathe, and I could well understand why people who went into smoke-filled areas never came back. out. I turned the key, and for a horrible moment I was sure the door wouldn't open, then realized in my haste I had forgotten the double lock. The door opened, and fresh air reached our lungs at last. We staggered out into the storm moments before the library windows exploded in a spray of glass.

We were lucky not to have been any closer. We staggered down the driveway as a fresh fork of lightning lit the night. The wind whipped the trees furiously and drove icy bullets of rain into our faces, obscuring our already poor vision. I almost stumbled twice. Sophie was so heavy in my arms. I made it to the trees by the bend in the driveway, far enough to be safe from the burning house, and we half sat and half collapsed into the wet grass,

barely noticing the driving rain that soaked us. We were outside, and we were alive. Nothing else mattered at that moment. Behind us, the old house was a roaring inferno, lighting the night sky like a beacon. It was truly frightening and astonishing just how quickly it had taken hold. Flames had already reached the roof, licking at the broken windows of the bedrooms.

The lower windows were already like open furnace doors. I could feel the intense heat even from here. The storm wind caught the flames and fanned them into a frenzy. Are you hurt? I asked Sophie, wiping wet hair out of her face. No. She shook her hair. but her eyes were wide as sources in her face.

But, mummy! I looked back at the house, dazed and numb. Streams of molten lead poured from the roof as the flames danced in triumph atop the house, defying the rain. From within that nightmare inferno, there came a great groaning roars as floors collapsed and walls toppled, and I could only stare in helpless horror. Then I realized that something was moving in a broken window of the library. I stood up, shielding my eyes against the rain and tried to get a better look.

From out of the flames of my father's once majestic book collection, a tiny dark shape was wriggling through the shattered window. A sharp icy horror gripped my heart. It tumbled onto the ground outside the house, a writhing black shape lit by the blazing conflagration behind it, then it crawled slowly forward through the leaves and broken glass. Behind it, the house shivered, as though in horror at its own fate. More windows broke, and I heard the heavy crash of falling beams. Then one chimney collapsed

with a shuddering sigh. Moments later, with a splintering crack, the roof followed it, collapsing inwards into the attic, sending sparks soaring into the sky to dance amid the billowing plumes of rising smoke as Weirston House met its end. I have often thought back to that final destruction, and how abnormally quickly the house went up. It seems to me as though the The place welcomed the fire, as though it desperately sought to be purified of all that had infected it for so long. When the smoke cleared, I rose shakily to my feet at the sight of two figures moving through the flames. I blinked rainwater from my eyes, struggling to see through the storm. For a moment, I was sure I must have imagined them. And then I caught sight of them again,

two people walking through the fire and the rubble at the front entrance, one after the other, as if in some kind of procession. They paused for a moment to pick something up, and that was when I recognised them as Berenice and Prudence. Bernice came first. Her head bowed down as if looking down upon the tiny dark bundle she now carried in her arms. A bundle I quickly realised must be the charred and blackened remains of the doll. Prudence followed behind.

Her thin, filthy arms folded around her waist as though hugging herself. They walked almost reverentially away from. from the burning and collapsing house, and stepped solemnly through the trees of the garden. I seized Sophie's hand. As wet and cold and terrified as we were, I had to see what was happening. I had to know. Sophie tripped and stumbled in the darkness, shivering and miserable. So I picked her up and carried her, and together we followed those phantom figures down into the garden. I think I understood their destination moments before I saw it for myself. At the end of the garden, the inky waters of the lake stretched out before us, and the ghostly sisters carried the remains of the infant down into the waters where Berenice's own life had ended.

Moments later they were lost to sight as the murky water closed over them. The horror ended there, on the edge of that lake, with the flames roaring behind us. Our dreams ended there too, the dream of a life in our own castle, safe in the quiet green countryside. The house was beyond saving. By the time the firefighters arrived, it was a mere shell. They assumed some kind of fuel or accelerants must have been used, but no trace was ever found. I knew the truth, though. The house had wanted to be cleansed. It was the only thing that made sense. Jasper turned up the next morning, calling hungrily for food as he prowled the driveway before the charred ruin of our house. I suspect he lost one of his nine lives that night, but otherwise seemed no worse for

wear. As for the rest of my family, I knew the insurance would take some of the sting out of the destruction, but we still lost so much that was precious that night, things we could never replace, and I'm not just talking about physical possessions. I still have my savings, though, and I vowed to use what money we got back to find a new home for us. For the first time, the idea of moving back to city life was starting to have fresh appeal. We relocated to Cheltenham a few months later, settling into a large townhouse near to a beautiful park. Christopher has forbidden me from looking into the new house's history. I still think about the castle often.

In some ways I miss it, especially that marvellous library, where it felt as if dreams might come true. Speaking of dreams, sometimes I still see Baroness in mine, that infernal wax doll too, but never as keenly as when I was inside that house. They are like ghosts of a dream now,

or ghosts of ghosts. I have been wondering also about the truth behind my father's own demise. They say he tripped and fell to his death down the staircase late one night. These days, I can't think about that without imagining tiny wax hands grabbing his ankles, tripping him as he tries to get away, or some eyeless spectre pushing him as he tries to run. Over the last few months I have tried to rationalise what happened, even to attempt to assign a motive to that doll and those demented spirits.

I am still no closer to understanding what they wanted from us, or why they chose to attack us with such malice. Perhaps they merely wanted to drive us from their house, or perhaps they hated the happiness we had as a family that they had been denied in life. Or maybe they were just consumed by their own madness and suffering, and there was no motive beyond that. I suppose I will never know for certain. Wisden House is a hollow shell now, slowly being reclaimed by nature. History once locked within those broken walls is just a fading memory. The empty windows now echo only with the sounds of the wood pigeons that roost there. But still, I pity anyone who ever tries to build upon that spot.

I have no doubt that Berenice and Prudence, and perhaps even the spirit of that terrible doll, walk there still. Are you fully braced for Season 19? It starts next week. We hope you'll be raving about it. Until then, dear listeners, stay sleepless. Visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn more about our show and to delve into the hundreds of hours of audio horror content from our archives.

This audio production is copyright 2023 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.