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Page 51 of The Haunting of William Thorn

Edward knelt in the middle of an upturned room, one hand clutching a large piece of broken glass, the other lying helplessly on his thigh, bleeding out across his trousers.

There was so much blood. It was everywhere.

The walls were painted with it, and so was the floor.

And, like the rest of the house, the wallpaper had been torn and shredded.

It was like a wild creature had been let loose within Hanbury’s rooms and halls.

Edward was that wild thing. It didn’t take a genius to realise that the destruction was his doing.

Wallpaper hung in large slithers, peeling from the wall, draped across an overturned reading chair. Patches of harsh scratch marks decorated the plasterboard and stone. Deep grooves had been worked into the flesh of Hanbury Manor, and the blood made it look like the house itself was bleeding.

“What… have you done?” William stumbled over his words, fighting the urge to be sick.

Edward hadn’t noticed him yet. He just knelt there, back heaving with his heavy breathing, shoulders quaking as he sobbed silently.

Tears streaked down his pale face, the pupils of his eyes so wide there was almost no colour left to admire.

He was looking ahead at the wall, specifically the portrait of Robert Thomas that was still propped up against it.

“ He won’t stop. He just won’t leave me alone!”

Those first three words were all William needed to snap out of his stupor. He threw himself towards Edward, knees cracking against the ground, the pain meaning nothing compared to what was going on before him.

“It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I’m here,” William snapped, wrapping his arms around the terrified man before him.

Edward’s entire body shook. He was a leaf caught in the winds of a storm, and William was the only thing with the power to stop him from being taken away. “No one is going to hurt you.”

No one but yourself .

Taking the piece of glass from Edward’s hand took considerable effort. His fingertips were blue, his palm a mess of jagged flesh. Even the glass was warm to the touch. William threw it across the floor, wanting to put as much distance between Edward and danger he opposed himself, as possible.

Guilt found him, thick and fast. It weighed heavily on William’s shoulders. If he hadn’t slept, he could’ve stopped this. How long had he been asleep for, letting Edward harm himself – lose himself to this madness?

“I need to call you an ambulance,” William said to himself and Edward, who still didn’t seem to hear him.

It was a stupid idea but the only one he could think of.

He withdrew his phone from his pocket, ready to dial the numbers.

But the screen was dark. The phone was cold, like it hadn’t had battery in a long time.

But it had, only minutes before. Didn’t it?

“Please,” Edward sobbed, tears and snot blending down his twisted face. “Please, stop him. I can’t take it anymore.”

It was if he was speaking to the portrait, pleading with it.

“There’s no one else here, Edward,” William said, drawing his fragile body into his chest, securing both arms around his chest as if that would stop him from moving.

He could feel Edward’s heart through his back, thundering a canter so vicious that it was a surprise it hadn’t broken free from his ribs entirely.

“It’s only me and you. And I’ve got you. Do you hear me?”

Edward continued looking endlessly into space and time.

“Edward, fucking look at me!” William pleaded, voice breaking. “Do you hear me? I’ve got you… nothing is going to happen.”

William couldn’t even convince himself, let alone the horrified Edward.

Perhaps the urgency in William’s tone reached Edward in the lost part of his mind.

Slowly, Edward righted his eyes and met William’s gaze.

His pupils dilated, some clarity returning to his once dazzling stare.

William wanted nothing more than to fix hands on either side of Edward’s face and make it so he couldn’t look at anything else.

But he found his limbs immobile. There was something in the man’s stare, a hollow, aching sadness that sang a tale so dark that it chilled William to the bone.

“I’m so sorry, William.” Tears cut down his pale cheeks, lips cracked, eyes feral.

“It’s an old house,” William replied, not needing to look at the sheer damage another moment. “You don’t need to be sorry. But you do need to let me clean your hands. You’re bleeding a lot and I’m–”

I’m what? Frightened. Scared that you will catch an incurable infection, or die bleeding out on my floor.

“No.” Edward rocked his head back violently, suddenly fighting against William’s hold. “No, no. You’re not listening to me. No. No. I’m sorry–”

Whatever he was going to say died on his tongue as a new sound joined the heavy breathing and chest-breaking sobs.

And it was coming from behind William. His back was to Robert’s portrait, he didn’t need to turn around to know the sound came from it.

Edward heard it as well, snapping his eyes over William’s shoulder, the final dregs of colour leaving his handsome face.

“My glass,” Edward bellowed, frantic eyes scanning the room for where William had discarded it. “Where’s my fucking glass, William?”

Even if he wanted to reply, William was too focused trying to restrain Edward than waste energy on words.

Either way, he failed. With a great heave, Edward broke free. Spittle cast out pale lips as he continued to shout, turning the already destroyed room into more chaos as he searched for the shard of glass.

“Stop it.” William’s plea tore out of his throat. “Edward, you’re scaring me. Please. Just fucking stop!”

But Edward didn’t listen. He searched faster, more rushed and almost violent as the scratching sound continued.

William didn’t know what to do except check for what had caused Edward’s crack in sanity.

He spun on the portrait of Robert, ready to drive a fist through his canvas-made face.

Instead, Edward wrapped iron-clad fingers around the frame, ripped it from the wall, and cast it aside.

The room went silent. Edward stopped his incessant shouting, and William’s heart seemed to give out to him. All that was left was the whispered scratch as both men watched an unseen nail gouge two words into the wallpaper over and over.

Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. Tell him.

Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. Tell hi–

“I can’t,” Edward shouted, fury boiling the air around him. “You know I can’t!”

Edward was a blur, throwing his body to the wall, blocking it from William’s line of sight. He began clutching at the words, smudging his blood across them, using his ruined nails as if he could peel back the plaster and stone, forever hiding the words from view.

William tried to stop him but was knocked back with a push.

He needed to do something, anything; otherwise, this madness would never cease.

He spun around the room, unable to focus on the fact he’d just seen words etch themselves into a wall by themselves.

If he weren’t so panicked, so completely overwhelmed by Edward’s disturbing wails, perhaps he would’ve seen the reflection in the tall, dark window.

He might’ve noticed the glistening red coat and the dark eyes of a presence that watched on, pleased with the chaos it birthed.

Instead, William’s eyes fell on a candle stick – cliché. He clutched it, fuelled by the need for peace, and without another thought, smacked it into the back of Edward’s head. The crack was horrible.

A chaos-ruining thud, followed by the bliss of nothingness.

Edward crumpled to the floor, his body folding in on itself.

William stood over him, wide-eyed and trembling.

The candle stick slipped from his fingers, soundlessly bouncing across the carpet.

And then that peace William desired so much became so loud in his ears that he feared nothing would ever break it.

Looking between Edward’s motionless body and the wall of blood smears and carved-out words, he couldn’t put together how two words could have such an effect on a person – enough to harm themselves, enough to drive them mad.

Then again, William had been the one to drive a candle stick into his skull.

There’d not been much thought before that happened.

Madness didn’t discriminate. It came for even the soundest of souls, it had claimed Edward as its husband and took him from William. And then William, the jealous witness, fought back.

He supposed that Hanbury Manor could change a person, that its violent past had a way of worming itself into a person’s marrow.

Edward just stopped, bleeding and broken, on the floor.

With two trembling fingers, William found what he thought was a pulse in Edward’s neck.

Faint, but there. Relief was short lived when the scratching sounds began again.

Head whipping around the room for the cause, William knew with a burning certainty, that he had to leave the room.

Burn it down, if that was what it took to stop the walls from being carved with words.

He wouldn’t leave Edward behind. Not now, not ever.

Hooking arms beneath Edward’s body, William dragged him out of the drawing-room, closing the door on it for the foreseeable.

Blood coated the back of Edward’s head, coating the hairs in sticky knots.

William tried not to worry about the extent of the damage until he got Edward onto the sofa in the back living room.

He was clammy by the time he was done, but at least the sounds had dulled to a far-off whisper.

Whatever lurked back in the drawing room had not followed them. Appeased, maybe, that Edward was out cold.

“If you die, Edward,” William gasped, lungs aching with each hulking inhale. “I’ll… I’ll fucking find a way to kill you.”

William could almost hear Edward’s sarcastic reply whisper in his ear. “ How can you kill me if I’m already dead?”

He sat on the floor beside the sofa, his hand clutching Edward’s horrible-still fingers, head resting on his too-still chest, and waited. For death to claim Edward, or for the horror to catch up and claim them both.

Page 51 of The Haunting of William Thorn

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