A House of Silence

The day the stranger came to Renhold House, Margareta wished for the first time that she wasn’t afraid to go beyond the boundary of the woods. Perhaps if she could move without fear, she might have been able to chase him off, scream and run and wave her arms, push him back through the trees and fields and away from her and Father. Maybe then, she could have kept them safe.

Margareta did not hear the stranger approach. Father was in his workshop, where he spent most days, and so Margareta was busying herself with chopping and stacking firewood for winter. Her breaths were heavy and loud, ragged with exertion, and the stranger had passed through the trees in silence and stopped just beyond the low stone wall that bordered Renhold House.

“Miss Thompson?”

Margareta froze, hands gripping the worn handle of her axe. People didn’t come here, they hadn’t for years, and they had taken to avoiding even the surrounding woods since the village children disappeared. But it was too late for Margareta to retreat, to dash back to the safety of the house where thick, lacy curtains hid her and Father from view.

“Miss Thompson?” Light and friendly, but politely insistent.

Not knowing what else she could do, Margareta let the axe drop onto the damp earth at her feet and turned slowly around.

The stranger was young, perhaps only a year or two older than she was. Sparse hairs dusted his upper lip and his face still held a boyish roundness, but Margareta could not fail to notice his muscled shoulders and the gentle swell in his throat of his Adam’s apple.

“Eli Fischer.” The words escaped her lips in a whisper. Her hand flew to her mouth but it was too late; her utterance had already reached the stranger’s ears.

He smiled, removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. His thick curls were the colour of chestnuts, Margareta had long ago decided. “So you know me, then.”

Her cheeks flushed and she looked at the ground. To agree would be dangerous, but to deny it would be an obvious lie, so she decided it was best to say nothing at all.

“I’ve seen you watching me.” Eli stepped up to the low wall and placed his hand on the smooth stone. “In the village.”

Cold, nauseating panic spread quickly through Margareta. She had to venture out to the village each week for milk and eggs, without Mother to do it anymore. Dread always gripped her tightly with each step she took past the trees, fearing the villagers’ cold eyes and malicious tongues. It had never occurred to her that anyone there might be anything but cruel.

“I’ve been watching you too,” Eli said sheepishly.

Margareta took half a step back and reached out a hand to where she knew the door was. She fumbled along the wall for the handle, anxiety climbing with every word Eli spoke.

“Wait, Miss Thompson,” he held up a hand. “Margareta, please.”

Her fingers froze over the handle, stomach twisted with fear, heart beating with strange exhilaration. With a queasy sense of surreality, she watched Eli dig a hand into the pocket of his coat. It was as though her thoughts themselves had drawn him to Renhold House.

The handkerchief Eli held out to her was crumpled, and smudged with mud and grass stains. The thin fabric was no longer the buttercup yellow it had once been, now instead an ugly, smeary amber.

“I thought you might need it back,” Eli said, nodding to the grubby material. “You dropped it in the village.”

Margareta took the handkerchief from him and, as her trembling hand closed around it, her fingers brushed Eli’s. She snatched her hand back, handkerchief clasped tightly within, and stared for a moment at the boy, wide-eyed. Then, Margareta turned on her heel and dashed to the door, pulling it open and quickly closed behind her, collapsing into the cool safety of the house.

***

The dark, sombre trees of the wood sat quietly around Margareta’s crumbling home, the long branches that usually guarded her and Father from wicked, prying eyes no longer feeling like a stronghold. He had come here, here. But had escaped Father’s notice — at this thought, at least, Margareta could breathe relief; she did not like to think what he would have done to her if he had seen her talking to the boy.

But relief did not last long. The following day, Eli Fischer returned to Renhold House.

He knew he had frightened her, so now he did not stand so close to the wall. And, having no more of her possessions to return, he brought bluebells, a delicate bunch tied together with brown string. The next day, he gave her primroses. And in the days after; rose campion, herb robert and meadowsweet.

“Good morning, Margareta,” he said, a week after he had first appeared. “You look well. Today I have brought you poppies.”

Margareta stood on the other side of the fence, hair smoothed back neatly, waiting for him. She smiled and stepped towards the wall where Eli had placed the bright flowers for her to take. As her fingers closed around their damps stems, she felt Eli cover her hand with his. His grasp was gentle, tender. Margareta looked up quickly, gaping. She was used to their small conversations, but not to this.

“I have long been meaning to tell you,” Eli said, not noticing her surprise or choosing to ignore it, “how very sad we were in the village to hear of your mother’s passing. It must have been difficult for you, for your father.”

Margareta nodded wordlessly. Her hand tingled in his, but she did not let go.

“I should like to express my sympathies to him, too. Is he here today?”

Margareta’s eyes snapped up to Eli. Had he heard the rumours? Was that why he’d come?

“No,” she said faintly. “He is in his workshop.”

“He works so hard,” Eli replied, nodding as though she had said something he might agree with.

Margareta glanced furtively around, in case speaking of him had somehow drawn her father out. She shivered at the thought, heart hammering. He would be so angry. It didn’t take much to irk him, even without the drink, and this, this. People did not come to Renhold House, people did not talk to her, people—

“Would you show me the house?” Eli squinted up at the building behind Margareta. “I should very much like to see it.”

Without waiting for her to reply, Eli moved through the gate and past her, into the shadows of the house. Margareta worked hard not to scream; this was not what they did, she and him.

“It must be lonely sometimes.” Eli’s voice sounded out of place, unnatural inside the house. Father spoke to her so rarely — if he did it was mostly to chastise her and she dared not talk back, so it was very infrequent that the old house heard any voices at all anymore. She and Mother used to talk often, sitting by the fire with their mending, or peeling and slicing vegetables in the kitchen. But that was before; Renhold was now a house of silence.

Margareta shivered, pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders and hurried after Eli.

He had already reached the kitchen. Glancing around it briefly, he made for the door on the far side of the room.

“What’s in here?” Eli asked, his voice losing its sweetness.

“The pantry,” replied Margareta breathlessly. “But please, don’t—”

Eli pushed open the door and stepped eagerly into the small room beyond. Margareta followed, squeezing herself in beside him amongst the rows of dusty glass jars. Seeing only preserves and pickled vegetables, Eli’s face fell, as though he had been expecting something else. Hoping, Margareta thought.

Eli looked at her in the shadows. “It’s been such a terrible year for the village. Those children disappearing as they did. And then your mother…”

Margareta stared at a cloudy jar of blood plums, unable to meet his gaze. It was as she had feared, then; he had not truly come here for her.

“It was nothing to do with Father,” she said. “He is a good man.”

Eli leaned forward towards her, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. “Of course not. I don’t believe what they say about him, about his temper, and I don’t believe he minded those children any more than anybody else.”

Margareta could hardly breathe. If Father came in now, he might do to her what he did to—

“Show me outside,” Eli said. He slipped quickly back into the kitchen and hall, and was outside before Margareta had time to think.

Eli walked briskly, making his way along the side of the house and then turning sharply to the right. At least he had not gone left, Margareta thought as she rushed after him, because that would have been towards Father’s workshop — but no, to the right was the pigpen and the barn. He couldn’t go there either, Father would never allow it. Eli had to stop—

“Those children were young, you know,” Eli called over his shoulder to Margareta, who had to half run to catch up, “so young. Some of the villagers say they heard noises that night, coming from these woods. Horrible noises. Roaring, screeching. Yelling.”

They had passed the pigpen now, and were crossing the yard more quickly than Margareta liked. She needed time to think, needed time to find a way stop him going over there. If he opened the barn door, if he saw—

“Of course,” Eli continued, heading straight for the barn, “some people speculate about your mother’s disappearance, too.”

Margareta’s chest was burning, unused to the exertion. “Father told the village what happened; she died of a fever.”

“Of course,” Eli nodded, not looking back over his shoulder. He was so close to the barn now, and Margareta watched him stride towards it like they were in a frenzied dream. “But some people, Margareta, some people say that’s not what happened. Some people say your father did away with those children and she found out. She confronted him, they say, and he killed her. That he hid her body, and those of the children, too.”

“No!” she cried, pushing herself over to him, grabbing at his coat. “That’s not what happened! Eli, please! Don’t!”

Eli shrugged her off with ease, but stopped walking. He looked at the barn door, its peeling paint and rusted handle, with victory in his eyes.

“Please,” Margareta implored weakly, “please, Eli.”

“Why not?” He spun around, chest heaving. “Why shouldn’t I?”

Without waiting for Margareta to respond, he took the handle with both hands and wrenched the door open.

The space inside was dim and cool, and emanated a stench of something rotten. From the shadows within came a small moan and the clinking of chains.

Eli peered into the darkness and, once his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he darted forward into the depths of the derelict barn.

“My God,” he cried, “Is that— what has he done?”

“Eli,” Margareta groaned, her vision blurring with panic. “You mustn’t.”

Eli bent down beside the shape on the ground, groping at the chains that held it to the wall. It did not take much for him to ease the bony wrists free and cast their shackles into the dust. Margareta squeezed her eyes closed, not wanting to see.

The sharp gasp of surprise was quickly stifled, replaced by a soft crunch and the sound of dribbling liquid.

“My darling,” Margareta’s mother murmured from the gloom. “Why do you not visit me any longer? You know I would never hurt you.”

Her eyes glinted in the dull light and she grinned, ready for this long-awaited freedom.