This House is Haunted Read Free Page B

terror were free to exhale and sigh and feel that all was well in the world once again, which was when he took us by surprise with a single sentence, making us scream when we thought we could relax, terrifying us into the depths of our very souls and allowing himself a brief smile at how easily he could manipulate our emotions.
    As he read, I began to fear that I might not sleep that night, so certain was I that I was surrounded by the spirits of those who had left their corporeal form behind but had not yet been admitted through the gates of heaven and so were left to trawl through the world, crying aloud, desperate to be heard, causing disarray and torment wherever they went, uncertain when they would be released to the peace of the afterlife and the quiet promise of eternal rest.
    When Mr. Dickens finished speaking, he bowed his head and there was silence from the audience for perhaps ten secondsbefore we burst as one into applause, leaping to our feet, crying out for more. I turned to look at Father who, rather than appearing as thrilled as I had anticipated, wore a pale expression, a sheen of perspiration gleaming on his face, as he inhaled and exhaled in laboured gasps, staring at the floor beneath him, his fists clenched in a mixture of determination to recover his breath and a fear that he might never do so.
    In his hands, he clutched a handkerchief stained with blood.
    Departing the theatre into the wet and cold night, I was still trembling from the dramatics of the reading and felt certain that I was surrounded by apparitions and spirits, but Father seemed to have recovered himself and declared that it was quite the most enjoyable evening he had spent in many years.
    “He’s every bit as good an actor as he is a writer,” he pronounced as we made our way back across the park, reversing our earlier walk, the rain starting yet again as we marched along, the fog making it almost impossible for us to see more than a few steps ahead of ourselves.
    “I believe he often takes part in dramatics,” I said. “At his own home and the homes of his friends.”
    “Yes, I’ve read that,” agreed Father. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be invited to—”
    Another coughing fit overtook him and he struggled for air as he bent over, assuming an undignified position on the street.
    “Father,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulders as I attempted to right him. “We must get you home. The sooner you are out of those wet clothes and lying in a hot bath the better it will be.”
    He nodded and struggled on, coughing and sneezing as we leaned on each other for support. To my relief the rain came toan abrupt halt as we rounded Bayswater Road for Brook Street, but with every step I took I could feel my feet growing more and more soaked through my shoes and dreaded to think of how wet Father’s must be. Finally we were home and he forced himself into the metal bathtub for a half hour before changing into his nightshirt and gown and joining me in the parlour.
    “I shall never forget tonight, Eliza,” he remarked when we were seated side by side by the fire, sipping on hot tea and eating buttered toast, the room filled again by the scent of cinnamon and chestnuts from his pipe. “He was a capital fellow.”
    “I found him truly terrifying,” I replied. “I enjoy his books almost as much as you, of course, but I wish he had read from one of his dramatic novels. I don’t care for ghost stories.”
    “You’re frightened by them?”
    “Unsettled,” I said, shaking my head. “I think any story which concerns itself with the afterlife and with forces that the human mind cannot truly understand risks disquiet for the reader. Although I don’t think I’ve ever experienced fear in the way that others do. I don’t understand what it is to be truly frightened, just how it feels to be disconcerted or uncomfortable. The signalman in the story, for example. He was terrified at the horror he knew was sure to come his way. And