The Haunted House From Hell

Prologue Catherine Porter heard the horse and carriage pull up outside, just as the grandfather clock in the hallway struck 11pm. She turned up the gas to help brighten the room, and made her way towards the front door to admit her son. Outside, the rain lashed down on the cobbled stonework and she had to strain to hear his footsteps on the other side of the wooden door, as he drew closer up the path. Before he had a chance to reach for the bell-pull, Catherine opened the door. “Mother,” said Martin Porter, evidently shocked by his mother’s attendance. “Where on earth is Moresby?” “I gave the servants the night off,” she replied, standing back to allow him entry. Martin wiped his feet on the coarse coir doormat and pecked his mother on the cheek as he brushed by her on his way in. He walked over to the ornate hall stand and placed his bag underneath. Having removed his topcoat and hat, he surveyed his appearance in the mirror, sliding his index finger across his moustache. “Filthy night,” he remarked. “Well, you’re home now so why don’t you come into the parlour and sit beside the fire?” Martin turned to her. “Did you receive my telegram? I did say I would be home this evening expecting supper, and yet you saw fit to give the servants the night off.” Catherine smiled. “I know, my darling boy, I’m sorry. But I had Cook make your favourite. Why don’t you pour yourself a drink and I’ll bring it in for you? I had Moresby decant a bottle of that Madeira you’re so fond of.” Martin’s eyes lit up. “I thought you were saving that for Christmas?” Catherine nodded. “I was, but I thought after your latest triumph in London, it would make a nice treat.” Martin Porter spun around, and for a terrible moment, Catherine feared her son was about to launch himself at her. The look in his eyes flashed menace. “You read about my work?” he enquired, his eyebrows dipping together as he scowled. Catherine nodded. “Do you think father would have been proud?” asked Martin. “I’m sure he would have. I know I am.” Martin seemed perplexed. “You are?” “It’s not every day a mother can boast about her son giving his first address to the Royal College of Surgeons,” she replied proudly. Martin relaxed. “Ah, yes, of course,” he nodded. “It did go rather well, even if I must say. Did you read Simpson’s account in the Times? Extremely flattering.” Catherine placed her hand on his arm. “Why don’t you go inside and warm yourself? I’ll be in in a minute with your supper.” Martin nodded and made his way into the parlour, where he was greeted by a roaring fire and a full decanter sitting on the sideboard. He poured himself a large measure, and knocked it back without bothering to savour the rich aroma that he usually enjoyed from that particular vintage. Martin felt a shudder of warmth seep through his aching limbs, and he allowed himself an audible shiver to dispel the night air. The train from London had taken far longer than anticipated and, by the time it finally arrived at St Albans station, he was beginning to wish he had refused old Cuthbert’s offer of a drink at his club. If there were a championship for talking tedious nonsense, the tiresome old bore would walk away with the trophy, and he had bent Martin’s ear for the best part of two hours before he finally managed to make his excuses and leave. Martin refilled his glass and made his way over to the fire. Standing with his back to the guard, he warmed his behind, drying off the bottoms of his trousers, which were still wet from the puddle he had not seen as he left the station. The Madeira floated on his tongue as he swilled it around in his mouth, savouring the flavour. His mother was right, he did deserve this. But not for his address – that he could have done with his eyes shut. No, his other work was far more important, if not vital for the survival of their future generations. Naturally, his mother did not understand, and even refused to discuss it. But Martin knew that his father would have. Had he have not been taken by that stroke the previous summer he would have probably insisted on working with his son to achieve his momentous goal. Only a fellow surgeon would understand. But, that said, Martin was loath to reveal his work to any within his present circle, some of whom had already proved to be far too judgemental and narrow-minded. But once his mission was finally recognised and celebrated, as such revelations should be, then, and only then, would he reveal himself to his peers and revel in their adoration. Martin smiled triumphantly and, in his mind, he could hear the cheers and applause from the Royal College as distinguished fellows clamoured to shake his hand and pat him on the back. Such accolades would indeed be worth the wait. Catherine trundled in his supper on a serving trolley, and laid everything out on the table for him. The aromatic smell of succulent steak and kidney in a red wine gravy assailed his nostrils, and brought an even broader grin to his face. “Oh Mother, splendid,” he cried, making his way over to the table, and placing his half-empty glass next to his plate. As he began to eat, Catherine retrieved the decanter of Madeira from the sideboard, and brought it over for him. She topped up his glass, and placed it beside him. After his third mouthful, Martin looked up. “You’re not joining me?” he asked. His mother shook her head. “No thank you, I ate earlier. I find it hard to digest such a large meal this late at night.” Martin nodded his understanding, scooping a dollop of creamy mashed potatoes on to his fork, before shovelling it into his mouth. Catherine sat opposite him and watched as her son made short work of his supper. Ordinarily, she would have scolded him for rushing his food in such a manner. But, under the circumstances, it hardly seemed worth the effort. He was enjoying his meal, and that was the main thing. Barely stopping to draw breath, Martin polished off his meal with gusto, determined as ever to track down the last pea on his plate, before eventually replacing his knife and fork and pushing his plate away. “That was delicious!” he announced. “One of cook’s best and no mistake.” “Have you room for a little cheese?” asked Catherine. “Those water biscuits you like arrived yesterday.” Martin nodded before throwing his head back to drain his glass. Catherine left him alone while she fetched his cheese. With shaking hands, she cut him generous portions of Cheddar and Stilton and placed them on a board, along with some grapes, an apple, and a stack of water biscuits. She had noticed that her son was now on his fourth glass of Madeira, so she was confident that she could retire in peace after he had finished the rest of his meal. Martin devoured his cheese with the same enthusiasm he had applied to his main course. Catherine watched as he swallowed another full glass from the decanter. When he was finally done, she refilled his glass once more, noticing that there was barely enough left for another, should he desire it. “Why don’t you take this over to the fire and relax in the armchair?” she suggested. “I’ll make sure the fire in your room is lit so that it will be lovely and warm when you retire.” Martin took his mother’s hand, and lifted it to his mouth to bestow a kiss. “Whatever did I do to deserve such a wonderful woman in my life?” he asked rhetorically. Catherine bent down and kissed the top of his head, smelling his hair as she used to when he was a baby in his crib. As she climbed the stairs, she felt a single tear escape her eye, so she brushed it away with the back of her hand. Upstairs, Catherine made her way along the landing until she was outside Martin’s door. Turning the handle, she went inside. Everything looked just the way he liked it. The servants had been informed by her son, in no uncertain terms, of exactly what he expected, and the consequences should they fail to adhere to his requirements. The bed was neatly made, his pyjamas were draped over the foot, with his slippers warming by the fireplace. His dressing table was immaculately laid out, with everything on top of it displayed at the correct angle, and in order of size. Catherine walked over to the largest wardrobe, and opened the door. All her son’s clothes were meticulously arrayed within, with each item facing the same way, as he insisted. Reaching inside, Catherine retrieved the large, leather-bound scrapbook from under his folded undergarments, and took it over to the fire. She removed the wire fireguard and placed the book on top of the flames, adding a few extra logs from the pile beside the grate. She watched as the paper caught, and within seconds the book became a flaming mass. Returning to the wardrobe, Catherine resettled the remaining garments to remove any evidence of her tampering before shutting the door. Before leaving the room, Catherine turned and took one last look to ensure that the last of her son’s scrapbook was destroyed before she shut the door and made her way to her own bedroom. The bath had been set up for her in front of the fire, which she had assured the servants she would light when she was ready. The water was tepid, having stood for so long, but it was more than suitable for her purposes. Catherine removed her shoes, and placed her jewellery on her dressing table. Opening the top drawer, she removed the letter she had written earlier, and made sure that it was prominently displayed, so that the servants would find it upon their return. She took out the cut-throat razor with which her husband had shaved until his dying day and carried it with her over to the tub. Climbing in, fully clothed, Catherine sat down, allowing the lukewarm water to cover her body, up to her neck. She undid the cuffs of her dress, and pulled back the sleeves, revealing her bare flesh. Taking a deep breath, Catherine whispered a silent prayer, then she sliced through each wrist with a deep vertical thrust. Placing her arms under the water, she watched as the colour grew crimson. Her final thought was for Martin’s immortal soul.