Nevermore: A Soldier’s Tale
By Diane Broughton
The gates slid open onto a wide gravel path bordered by trees and lush green lawns. Neptune House was definitely in the top echelon of the properties I had ever delivered to. The client had stipulated that the package must be delivered between 4:00 and 4:30 P.M. You get used to all kinds of requests from clients working for Premium Couriers, and as an ex-serviceman I was used to following orders. It was just part of the job. A job that I used to enjoy until that last delivery.
My shoes crunched along the pathway, obviously signalling my approach, so I resisted the temptation to stray off the pathway a little and explore the extensive grounds. The sun was beating down and the package was beginning to make my arms ache when I finally reached the house. A fountain with a statue of Neptune in a chariot of shells, flanked by flower beds stood proudly in the forecourt. The air was still and thick with the scent of flowers. No signs of any human activity at all.
I knew better than to knock at the front door, so I skirted around the house until I reached the tradesman’s entrance and rang the bell. No answer. I checked my watch–4:15 P.M., so I was right on schedule. There was a large wooden box next to the porch. I opened the lid to find a pile of packages and letters, so I placed my delivery on top and closed the lid. Mission accomplished.
Walking back, I drank in my surroundings and allowed my mind to wander a little. Who lived in the house and what was in the package? Why hadn’t they picked up their deliveries? It had been a long time since I’d been able to let my mind run freely. I had to keep it under lock and key for fear of what I might be confronted with. I’d left the army in peak physical condition. The same couldn’t be said for my state of mind, however. A bird skittered across the trees and broke my reverie. It felt as if I’d been walking for a long time. I checked my watch–4:45. I’d been walking for half an hour, so something was clearly not right. I looked down at the earth beneath my feet. I must have wandered off the gravel drive somehow. How did I not notice?
Just then, I caught sight of two young girls ahead of me in the trees, both in long white dresses, with long braids down their backs. The taller one was about twelve, I guessed, and the younger one would be no more than five years old.
‘Hey, excuse me girls, could you show me the way out?’ I called out.
The younger one turned around and stared at me, then shook her head slowly. The older one suddenly took her arm and pulled her along. The little girl kept looking back at me and she was mouthing something that sounded like ‘ever’ or was it ‘never’? They suddenly broke into a run and disappeared into the thicket. Probably playing some silly game.
The sun was beginning to drop behind the trees, and I felt a slight chill. I decided to try and retrace my steps to the house and then stick to the gravel pathway. I caught a glimpse of the top of Neptune’s trident and breathed a sigh of relief. There was a chuckle from behind, and I turned to see the girls running through the flowerbeds. Rather, the older girl was running, and the little one was being pulled along. The younger one looked back at me again, and I felt as though her eyes were pleading with me. I felt a strange compulsion to follow them. I’m still quite fit, but they were young and agile, so I found it more difficult than I thought to catch them up. Eventually the trees thinned and opened out into a clearing. A small lake glimmered in the waning sunlight. The girls were on the other side, and I waved at them in what I hoped was a friendly gesture, but they seemed oblivious to my presence. To my astonishment, they began wading out into the lake. The little one was soon out of her depth, and I shouted over,
‘Hey, stop.’
It all happened so quickly. The older girl pushed the younger one into the water and held her head under. I tried to shout, but my throat was paralysed. I began wading into the lake, but it was so choked with rushes, and it was like walking through treacle. I stood stock still in horror at the sight of the child’s body floating face down, her dress billowing out, the water making unbroken ripples around her. I was so shocked I could feel tears welling up. But then I saw that face. The face of the older girl was twisted into a grimace of such evil that my state of inertia was quickly broken. Her eyes fixed on me as she began to thrash her way through the water towards me.
I ran back to the gravel path, slipping and sliding in my wet work shoes, her footsteps mounting behind me. Now it was my turn to be pursued. It had become much darker, and I scoured the perimeter for the security gate. It was no longer a steel structure but an old wrought iron gate choked with ivy. I scaled it in an instant, ripping my trousers on the spikes and turning my ankle as I jumped clear on the other side. I stood up shakily as there was a rustling of dried leaves and the gate began to shake. It took every ounce of strength for me to turn and run. It was about half a mile back to where I had parked my van, but I kept on running and didn’t look back.
That night, I dreamt about my last tour. The town had been heavily shelled, and we were assigned to make sure no one was left, be it friend or foe. She was squatting down in the corner of the ruins, a young child terrified and traumatised. I dropped my gun at once, but she suddenly took off and raced out of the building. The sniper picked her off easily. I had never forgiven myself. If I hadn’t scared her like that. For a long time afterwards, I kept re-living that tragedy. The girl’s face appeared when I was shaving, indeed anytime I looked in the mirror. I re-played that moment over and over in my head and each night I dreamt of it. I could have saved her.
I was given a medical discharge, and then adapting to civilian life became my focus. It hadn’t been easy, but the delivery job had helped me and life had gradually returned to an even keel. It had been years since I thought of that tragedy. The drowned girl in the lake had stirred all up all those long-buried memories. Then doubt crept in. Had it all been some kind of hallucinatory experience? There was only one way to solve it. I had to return, but this time I’d be prepared. I lay awake that night planning my operation.
Next morning, I parked the van at the start of the pathway as before and walked up to the security gate. I punched in the code hoping that they hadn’t changed it. Nothing–so I decided to skirt around the perimeter until I arrived at the old ivy encrusted gate where I had made my escape. Thank God I hadn’t dreamt that, anyway. I vaulted it easily now that I wasn’t pursued by that monstrous vision.
All was quiet as I approached the house and retraced my steps to the tradesman’s entrance. I lifted the lid of the storage box. Nothing had been touched; my package was still on top of the pile. I picked it up and studied the address. It was hand-written in an elaborate cursive that reminded me of my grandmother’s spidery writing. There was a return address on the underside “Morgan & Mayhew, Solicitors.” I took out my penknife and cut through the tape. I slit the lid of the sturdy cardboard box inside and removed the paper packing. For a few minutes, I stood at the entrance to the porch, scanning the grounds and listening intently. If I was discovered, this would cost me my job. I returned to the package and slid my hand in, lifting out another box. This one felt soft and damp and it was easy to open the lid. My stomach clutched at the sickly-sweet smell that arose. It was a large cake almost entirely covered in a fuzzy grey substance. The pink roses iced on its crown and the bracelet of shells around its sides were spotted with green and black spores. A threadbare pink silk pouch contained five candles. Physical disgust soon gave way to a mounting horror. Was this the drowned girl’s birthday cake? I quickly replaced it in its box and applied the fresh tape I had brought with me. Safely repackaged, I returned it to the wooden box and closed the lid.
Then I went in search of the lake. There was a glimmer of water in the distance and I shuddered, but all was calm and peaceful, no sign of the girls.
There were footsteps behind me, and I turned quickly to see a man walking towards me, pushing a wheelbarrow.
‘Can I help you?’ he said.
I had already concocted my cover story.
‘I delivered a package here on Friday and I seem to have lost my watch’.
He looked at me strangely.
‘Well, you must have got yourself lost in the grounds too,’ he said.
‘Something very odd happened,’ I said. I couldn’t keep up the pretence.
‘I know what you’re going to say.’ He held up his hand to halt me.
‘Yes, something very odd happened here a long time ago. The house has been abandoned now, and the relatives just keep me on to look after the grounds. Whatever you saw is best forgotten.’
‘But I need to know about that little girl. Why did the other girl. . .’
‘I told you. It was a tragedy that’s best forgotten. No one could prove anything at the time, and no one can do anything about it now.’
‘But it will just keep on happening?’
‘On that day every year until. . .who knows? We don’t have answers to all of life’s questions. I just carry on doing my job and mind my own business, and I suggest you do the same. I just make sure never to be here on that date. I’ll walk you to the gate’.
Neither of us spoke as we walked back. Perhaps the gardener had been sworn to secrecy, and I was stunned into silence by his admission and appalled by the idea of that little girl caught in some kind of unending loop of torture.
We reached the gate, and he looked me squarely in the face.
‘My advice to you is to never come back.’
The gates slid shut behind me.
Driving home I tried to put together all the pieces. There were so many unanswered questions, but one thing stood out for me. It was a cry for help.
I agreed with the gardener that we can’t answer all of life’s questions and we can’t solve all of our problems, but I’d always been committed to going that little bit further. I could never go back and change what had happened during my last tour and I would always have to carry that burden of guilt. Here was an opportunity to make amends, to put things right. I’d be ready next time, and I’d do whatever it took to save that little girl.
When I got home, I marked the date in my diary.
1997
