Stories by Amber Bristow

If walls could talk, they would share tales that would make your hair stand on end. Stories that had the power to keep you up at night, in shock of what once took place in your now quaint home. Would you want to know about the lives of those who once slept in your place? Or would you be able to live in blissful ignorance, looking past the marks etched into each wall?

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This was a weight that sat heavily on Geny's shoulders. The scrawls she one day uncovered on the walls of her home, sat in the front of her mind each day and each night. At times, she felt as if she could hear them calling to her, as if a voice were trapped within each word, desperately wanting to be heard. She longed to know the origin of these unsettling riddles and the stories of their author. What had they had to endure to be filled with such morbid thoughts? Were they a victim to their own mind, or something much greater?

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The tide of endless questions had drawn her in, and in time she found herself on a quest for answers. She delved into the archives of Heath House, desperately hoping that what she found would put an end to the questions that taunted her. The truths she uncovered were like nothing she could have ever imagined. The vile, unforgiving history of her home would be something she could never forget.

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Pages upon pages, detailed the events that took place many years ago. Geny found herself perplexed over the countless articles, news clippings and reports that seemed to go unnoticed, as innocent young victims perished within her very walls.

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The name of one young girl lit up the headlines. Rosemary Cole. Her face was printed alongside a photo of Geny's now home, in the year 1865, beneath a bold headline offering a reward for her return to the family home.

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The papers spun a tale that Rosemary had become the Master of the houses protégé, working alongside him to run his manor in return for a pittance. Locals believed that on the day of her employment she went to live with the Master, given the room at the top of the stairwell. Some reported that they saw her at night, sitting by candlelight in the window of Heath House, humming a solemn tune. Others had said they told authorities they had seen her scratching at the glass as if in pain, but the police vehemently denied their claims.

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Young Rosemary was reported missing in her third week of supposed employment. She had failed to respond to her family's letters and when questioned about her whereabouts, the Master insisted she was a runaway.

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By 1866, the life of dear Rosemary was a mystery. The Master had reportedly moved from Heath House several weeks after her advert was published in the papers, telling those within his town he was going to care for an elderly relative upstate. He had left Heath House as an empty shell, but the chilling sounds that came from within persisted.

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Those who lived nearby wrote about the times they still saw a dim flicker come from the room at the top of the stairwell. They spoke of the cries that came from that room and the incessant knocking they heard from within its walls.

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Years went by without any further mention of Rosemary’s disappearance, until 1870, when the Masters' crimes came to surface; ones of torture, slavery and despair. Geny's heart sank as she read of the young boys and girls who fell victim to his malevolence. Their sweet, unsuspecting smiles lined an article published by The New York Times, with Rosemary’s final headshot centred on the page. It was said that she was the only missing child not to be found on the grounds of Heath House, giving hope to the town that maybe one day she would return.

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That was the last time the name Rosemary Cole was written. Since the year 1870, the only reports of Heath House spoke of the solemn tunes that were sometimes heard from within the vacant building. It was said to be believed that the spirit of each young victim was trapped within its walls, begging for freedom and a second chance at life.

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With the chilling truth of her home uncovered, Geny made her way to the room that sat at the top of the stairwell. She looked out over the bed she slept in each night and the etchings that had been made above it. She froze as the image of dear Rosemary played in her head. Her small, frail body, leaning against the wall as she wrote, begging for a life outside of Heath House. How could someone harm something so innocuous and demure? A pure helpless child, now confined to the pages of an old yellowed newspaper.

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Geny gathered all she had read and made her way to the dining room, to lay the history of her home in the centre of the hearth. Trapped in a state of anger and despair, she flicked a match against the chimney's breast, her eyes frozen upon the flame as it illuminated the room. She could not help poor Rosemary, or the other young lives that perished within these walls, but she could free them from the ties they unknowingly still held with the Master, even after death.

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She watched as the fire blazed, the edges of each page curling and blackening as one by one they succumbed to the heat; the last remaining stories of the Master soon turning to ash.

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Looking across the aged floorboards, she couldn’t help but think about how such evil once walked these very halls. She stared at each panel that lined the room and quivered at the thought of what they had seen.

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If these walls could talk, Geny would ask them to silence. To hide their wounds and conceal the secrets of the lives that once slept in her place. She would ask them to release the spirits they hold and wash themselves of the scars they carry, in a hope to provide peace to those who had passed, and deprive evil from the privilege of being remembered.

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