Page 43 of The Haunting of William Thorn

The darkness spat William out as though it was disgusted by his taste.

He bolted upright, squinting against a single beam of light that threatened to blind him. His head spun, foggy and thick. Attempting to lift a hand to the back of his skull, he found he couldn’t move it. Blinking away the light, he discovered why.

He was back in bed, his arm tucked neatly beneath rumpled bedsheets. The stiff sheets clung to his sweat slick body like an unwanted embrace.

Beside him, a person groaned. Looking, he found Edward peering at him through squinted eyes, his brown hair ruffled like the feathers of a bird – the signs of good sleep.

“Good morning,” Edward grumbled, lifting his head briefly before flopping back on the pillow.

Was it? “I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.”

“A bus?” Edward exhaled with a smile. “No buses this far out…”

“Make that three buses.” The pain was insufferable, and well deserved. William Thorn was experiencing one hell of a hangover, that’s what it had to be.

The rest of William’s words failed him. As much as he wanted to explain what had happened – thought had happened – he couldn’t bring himself to mention it.

His chest ached from the rapid beat of his heart, the burn of his lungs trying desperately to fill with breath.

All he could think about was his last memory.

The shadows, the scratching of nails and the impossible scene of Robert Thomas climbing out of the portrait.

Nothing else seemed to matter. Finally, he freed his hand and lifted it to the back of his head.

He frantically searched for a lump or wound – something to prove that last night was more than some nightmare.

But there was no pain – besides that offered by the amount of wine he’d drunk.

His hair wasn’t plastered with dried blood, only sweat, and his body wasn’t bruised.

Apparently, Edward had asked him something, but the question went over William’s head. After a few more moments of unbeknownst ignoring, Edward spoke again.

“Are you giving me the silent treatment because I snored or something? I do tend to do that when I drink…”

William didn’t let him finish. “I think I know where Teddy’s journal is.”

With that admission, they kicked out of the bed. Edward chased after William, eyes fixed to his back. A loud thump sounded beside William’s shaky feet as he stood. Looking down, he saw Robert’s journal, face down, on the floor. Even if he wanted to, he didn’t pick it up.

“Will, hold up for a second,” Edward panted breathlessly. “I’m… going to need an explanation or something…”

Edward’s request fell on oblivious ears as William moved for the barricaded door to the room – barricades he remembered moving last night.

And yet it was as if he’d never touched them.

Had it really all been a bad dream? There was both relief at the thought and panic.

On one hand, he didn’t want last night to be real, because then he could continue pretending ghosts weren’t real.

But on the other, it meant he really was losing his mind.

William dragged the furniture away from the door, making it to the landing beyond the room before Edward managed to grab hold of him.

“Calm down ,” Edward said, cheeks flushed red. His grip on William’s arms was firm but equally light. “Just give me a second to wake up, tell me what’s going on.”

William could’ve fought his way free, but something in the very real, grounding touch forced his body to pause. “I had a dream, I think.”

“That’s pretty normal, Will. What makes you think you know where Teddy’s journal is?”

William closed his eyes, aware his headache seemed like it was from more than just the wine.

The pain was suddenly electric, splitting his spine in half and filling with inch of his body.

“I do.” He tipped his head towards the bedroom where Robert’s journal was.

“I was reading another entry from Robert last night, and it said something about where Teddy’s journal might be. ”

It was all coming back to him in quick succession. The portrait, the journal in the frame, and the horror after he took it free.

“It was – is in the portrait downstairs.” William was holding Edward now, knuckles white as he clutched onto his broad shoulders. “I found it and then… and then…”

William forced his lips to seal, hoping it was enough for the rush of bile not to erupt out of him.

“It’s just another nightmare, okay?”

“It can’t be.” William shook his head. “It felt so real.”

And yet the bedroom was untouched, the barricade by the door unmoved…

The urge to check his head for the wound again was almost too strong of a siren call to ignore. If it wasn’t for Edward holding him steady, he just might’ve done it.

“If what you’re saying really happened, I would’ve known about it,” Edward said, as if it was that simple. And from the look he gave William, all raised brows and straight mouthed, it was clear his mind was made up.

“I tried to wake you up. But you were out cold.” William knew there was only one way to know. “Just indulge me, and let’s check Robert’s portrait downstairs. Either I’m right, or I’m…”

Crazy .

“Wrong,” Edward finished for him.

Edward’s hands shifted down William’s arm, until one of them came to rest in his palm. Warmth flooded across his sweating hand at the connection, fingers threading fingers until they were connected. Two men anchored together.

“Deep breath in and out, first. Better?” Edward sighed, eyes flicking between their hands, back to William’s face. “You’re acting strange.”

“I know. Just please, come with me.” William took a deep breath in, held and then released it. “I want to show you I’m not going mad.”

I want to prove to myself more like.

“We both already know the answer to that, but if it makes you feel better then lead the way,” Edward whispered.

Both men worked their way downstairs. At every moment, William expected to see the shadow wearing Archie’s coat.

He was prepared to find the portrait of Robert Thomas laid on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, the bent-necked figure still clawing its way free of its gilded prison.

But as they took those final steps to the ground floor, nothing was out of order.

Even the door to the drawing room was still closed.

With his free hand, William pushed it open. The hinges screamed as the door swung open. There was almost no difference to the sound the hinges made to the noise that’d erupted from Robert Thomas’s dead mouth.

The room, as he was beginning to expect, was left as it was. Nothing was out of place, even the portrait in question was hung back on the wall, dust-covered and sun-bleached.

“You see, nothing is wrong. It was a bad dream.” Edward still didn’t drop William’s hand; he squeezed it tighter. “I think the combination of stress, alcohol and the days of interrupted sleep isn’t helping.”

William replied with a unconvinced grunt, his eyes fixed on the portrait of Robert that was hung on the wall.

“That doesn’t sound as believable as you think it does.”

Edward was right, though. It had just been some terrible nightmare, and yet William would’ve preferred to believe in ghosts. The last time his dreams were occupied with such terrifying scenes, he had been admitted to a place he’d refused to ever go back to.

Choosing to avert the conversation from William to the issue at hand, he finally broke their contact and moved for Robert’s portrait. All the way across the room his hand tingled with the echo of Edward’s touch.

Maybe it had just been a dream, but he remembered that Robert had written about his and Teddy’s secret hiding place.

That would be the first place he checked.

“What are you doing?” Edward asked as William hoisted the frame from the wall.

“Testing your theory,” William answered, struggling against the weight of it.

The déjà vu was strong as he lowered the frame, propped it against the wall and began undoing the rusted clasps at the back.

His body moved, actions robotic and rehearsed.

As it finally came away, William reached inside.

His fingers, as he knew they would, brushed against something out of place. A book – no, it was a journal.

A sickness clung to his gut as he withdrew it. He didn’t even need to look at the cover to know who it once belonged to.

“Is that…” Edward asked, his skin so pale it was as if he saw a ghost – funny that. “I can’t believe it.”

I told you so , played on William’s lips, but he kept it back. Character growth, knowing when to let the rude comments out, or keep them in. “Teddy’s journal.”

There was a sudden weight lifted from William’s shoulder. This was the final proof that what he’d been through had just been a dream. He latched onto what Edward said about dreams and refused to let go.

“Here,” William said, handing it over. “You should be the one to read it.”

More so because William didn’t want to hold it for very long.

There was a hesitation from Edward, as if he feared what was in the pages too. William didn’t blame him because there was nothing more frightening than the truth. But this was what Edward had come here for – answers.

Before he took it, Edward locked eyes with William. “Are you sure?”

“I am.” William took Edward’s hand, laid the journal upon his palm and then curled his fingers around the cover. “I’ll go and get some coffee on, and rustle something up to eat. Meanwhile, why don’t you make a start on it?”

Edward mumbled something, but William couldn’t make it out.

He did notice that Edward’s hands shook as he held the journal.

He seized it as if it was some delicate flower, or perhaps his reluctance came from thinking that the journal had the potential to be dangerous.

Either way, William withdrew his hands, feeling as though he’d just handed over a burden to be shared, then ushered them both out of the drawing room.

They parted at the apex of the kitchen and the living room. Edward was so transfixed on the journal that he almost walked into the doorframe. Even when William gave him an audible warning, he didn’t notice.

William didn’t have an appetite, not even for the coffee, but he made it anyway.

As he filled the old stove kettle, he caught movement out into the back garden.

Peering out he found Edward was out there, sitting on a tired old metal chair, looking over the overgrown grass glittering with morning dew.

He was just glad it wasn’t some unknown figure. Maybe everything would go back to normal now the journal was found.

There was a sadness that came with Edward’s posture.

He seemed to hunch over the journal that rested on his lap, his messy hair falling over his eyes to conceal his emotion from the world.

It pained William to see him like that, although he almost couldn’t look away.

When he did, he focused back on the task at hand.

He noticed something out of the corner of his eye – a detail out of place.

The door to the basement was ajar. For a second, he was frozen to the spot. The dream so real in his mind that he could almost hear the sound of scratching at the door, the banging and ungodly noises that had followed.

Slowly, he moved towards it, expecting to find marks in the wood.

But there was none besides the odd figure of eight carving into the inner frame.

Peering down into the basement, it was so dark, so much so that William expected it to reach out and claim him through the small crack.

Before it had the chance, he booted the door closed, made sure it stuck and turned away from it.

He had no desire to go down – in waking or dreaming – ever again.