Ruby's Revenge

By Izzie Piesse
This is my story, a story that has to be told even if
it is never believed. My name is Taylor Carter and I
am 17 years old. Something terrible happened to
me two years ago. It all began when my mother
died and my father insisted that we move away to
a new home and a new life and this is where the
story begins.
We had been a happy, chaotic family living in a
busy London street. My father was a banker and
my mother and I spent every spare moment
together with my older brother, Jason. Everyone
used to say that my Mum and I were more like
sisters, but to me she was my mother and my best
friend. She had always been there for me, when
times were hard at school or Dad was really strict.
Dad and I had never been as close as I was to my
mother but Jason and my father have always been
really close. I love my brother and my Dad very
much but life was never the same without Mum.
I will never forget the day my mother died. It was
so sudden and so horrific. She had a terrible car
crash, but there were no other cars involved. The
police said that it was one of the worst crashes
they had ever seen and they couldnt understand
what had happened. My friends tried to help me,
but even they couldnt reach me and they couldnt
be there like my mother was.
I liked living in London. I enjoyed shopping on
Saturday mornings with my Mum. I liked going for
pizza on Sundays with my family and playing ball
with Jason and just doing normal things. Dad sitting
at the kitchen table with a paper, Jason strumming
on his guitar, me playing with my rabbits and Mum
just being Mum. She was helping or cooking or
smiling or just being there and now she was gone
and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Dad packed us up and moved us out quickly. He
had a great big broken heart and he was
pretending to be so strong. He wanted us to like
the new house so much and it was beautiful. It
wasnt a house at all but a dear little cottage,
tucked in the woods, with roses and ivy, just how
you would imagine a cottage to be. But from the
minute we first moved in, it was as if I could feel
something watching me and it wasnt something
nice. I felt cold and I had shivers and sometimes I
thought I saw a flash of light but then it was gone.
At night I couldnt sleep, I heard bumps and
mumbles and I started to sleep with the light on
every night and then I put my chair against the
door.
One night I ran to Jasons room. I had heard talking
and laughing and I was very afraid. I woke Jason
up, but he told me to go away and told me that I
was being a stupid baby. He locked me out of his
room.
I returned to my room. It still smelt of paint. I could
see that Dads light was off and he was probably
fast asleep. I couldnt stand the thought of yet
another night lying in that bed, hearing those
strange voices. I found the panic rising in my throat
and knew I had to get a drink of water, so I crept
downstairs. The voices were getting louder and
there was a strange scrunching noise, like paper
being screwed into a tiny ball.
The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up
as I entered the kitchen. It was cold and the Aga
was off. There they were two old ladies taking tea
in my kitchen at 1.30 am, with this terrible child
sitting beside them. She looked about 10, maybe
older. She was so thin you could see her bones,
and she was wearing a white nightie, stained with
blood. It was her eyes that were the most terrible. I
have never seen such eyes. She kept her head
down, and her long, dark hair hung in clumps
around her face, which was covered in sores.
Who were they? The two old ladies were so warm
and homely looking, wearing old-fashioned
nightgowns. Their hair, slightly graying, was falling
from their nightcaps. They had rosy red cheeks and
looked so real I felt safe with them. I wanted them
to hold me in their arms. But the child. She was
hunched over so that I could barely see her face.
She was cutting and pasting and cutting and
pasting and rocking and mumbling. I think she was
humming a nursery rhyme, over and over, faster
and faster. I couldnt even look, but caught her eye
once and they were black to the core. I have never
seen such sadness as I did in those eyes.
The old ladies tried to get me to sit down. I wanted
to join them, truly I did. But I was too afraid and I
was finding it hard to breathe. I stumbled back up
to bed. Was this a good omen or a bad one?
Every night for the next two weeks, I went
downstairs and they were there. It was always the
same. I would sit for a while with the two old ladies
feeling safe and peaceful. But the child would
always be there, twitching and cutting and
mumbling. Always the same nursery rhyme, never
looking up, always cutting from the newspapers
she kept on the table, sticking into her little
notebook over and over again. Then last Thursday I
went down there and instead of having tea the old
ladies were pointing to the window, as if they were
trying to tell me something. I was scared.
The next morning Dad suggested I went to the
village hall where some of the village chidlren were
meeting up. I was excited and feeling happier that
day. I was keen to make some friends. But when I
got there it was the complete opposite. Everyone
ignored me. It was as though I wasnt there. I was
just about to leave when a girl with freckles and a
nice smile asked me, Hey, why are you leaving so
fast?
I sat down and we started to chat. Her name was
Amelia and she was really lovely. Her Dad lived in
the manor house and he knew all the history of the
village from the days of the Romans.
I wanted to open up to her and tell her everything
that had happened in the past year, but then I
didnt need to. She took me up to her Dad and told
him to tell me the story of the Van der Villiers who
had lived in our house.
This is what he told me.
In 1815 the Manor was owned by Lord Van der
Villiers, John, and his charming wife, Celia. They
were so happy and he was tall and handsome. She
was petite with blond hair and beautiful curls. She
had huge blue eyes, and was known for her
kindness and her twinkly smile. They had been
happily married for six months when she had
become pregnant and nothing could spoil their
happiness. They had great expectations for their
child (a boy, they hoped), and they had painted the
nursery and chosen the nanny. The tutor was lined
up and the house was happy with the butler, the
chambermaid, the cook and the groom all
humming and laughing. A big, happy house, and
then she died. Celia died giving birth to Ruby not
a boy but a girl! And John never forgave Ruby. She
had killed his wife, his beloved, and he hated that
baby with all his heart. He couldnt even look at
her, and had her sent from the house in the dead
of night to a terrible poorhouse in London. The
baby was never heard of again. Lord John stripped
the house bare. He burned the curtains and pulled
the wallpaper from the walls with his bare hands.
Any memory of Celia was wiped away.
Lord John remarried a lovely country girl. Her name
was Clementine. The house was redecorated from
head to toe and nothing of Celia remained.
Clementine never asked of Celia and didnt even
know of the baby that had been sent away. For she
would not have allowed it. She was kind and her
heart was pure. She gave birth to twins, the
sweetest, loveliest little girls you could ever wish
for. Lulu and Tilly. Lord Van der Villierss life was
complete until he received a telegram. Ruby had
died of consumption. She was 12 years old. Where
was the body to be delivered? Lord John felt no
shame or pity, just relief. Her body was delivered in
the dead of night in a little wooden crate with no
name, and he took it with his head gardener by
candlelight down to the cottage in the woods. They
dug a deep, lonely grave and threw her carelessly
into it. Lord John walked away and he never looked
back. The gardener, however, liked a pint of beer
at his local pub. He drank a lot and talked a lot,
maybe a bit too much! The story got out, but no
one really knew if it was true but they never
crossed Lord John.
Many years later Lulu and Tilly, the two lovely
sisters, moved into the cottage.They had married
and had children long ago. They were old and
widowed and Lord John had left them the cottage
in the woods in his will. The twins were jolly and
warm and everybody loved them. They sat by their
fire drinking cups of tea and they had cake and lots
of people came to visit. They fed the poor. They
were good kind people. The sisters died there,
peacefully in their sleep, one month apart, and the
cottage sat empty for many years until a long, lost
nephew of Lord John inherited it and needed a
place to stay and quick. That person of course was
my father.
I was in total shock. I said I had to go, and I ran
home as fast as I could. I wanted to see my brother
and to make sure that he was OK. Where was this
child, Ruby, buried? I had to know. But Jason was
out with Dad and I was all alone. I knew I had to do
it. The pressure was unbearable. I had to look. I
went down to the deepest part of the garden just
where the forest begins. I looked around. The forest
was empty and then I saw it, a mound of grass and
earth, where nothing grew. It was bare like a desert
landscape and I just knew that it was there. I had
found her grave. I could feel it in my bones. I felt
cold to my very core. I start to run, then the tears
started to fall for a little girl nobody loved. For of
course I knew it was her, that terrible creature who
sat there night after night with her stepsisters. But
what was she doing? Why was she there? And what
did this mean for me?
That night I went downstairs. I knew I had to see
her. She was cutting and pasting as always. The
dear old ladies smiled. I smiled back, but I could
see they were worried. I think they knew that I
knew. Then I saw that they were pushing the little
pad that she kept all her cuttings in over to me and
that they wanted me to read it. I was afraid but I
took it and hid it in my hoodie. I crept upstairs and
what I read filled me with horror. It was full of
pictures and clippings from the newspapers:
terrible deaths, freak accidents, my Mothers
accident. They were all in there, first the picture of
the person and then the clipping from the
newspaper. My mothers death was in there. She
had killed my mother. I felt myself slipping to the
floor. The puzzle had come together. The ghost of
the three sisters was living in this house.
Every person that had died in that book had
somehow been related to a member of the Van der
Villiers, including my Mother. And as I turned the
page I knew what I would find. And there it was,
my picture; I was next. I ran in to my fathers room
and woke him up, sobbing and crying. I told him
my story and he was wonderful. I tried to find the
book to show him but it had gone, but he listened
and he held me close. All I know, Taylor, he said,
is that this little family has been through a lot and
this isnt the right place for us. We need bright
lights and the big city. We are going back to
London. I cant say that I believe your story, but I
love you and something here is not right. I tried to
show him the little notebook but it was gone and
he just hushed me back to sleep. I slept with him
all night and the next morning we were on the train
to London. I have never loved him more. I knew
how much you have to appreciate the people you
have and love, because one day they could just
disappear.
Dad called a priest who went in and blessed the
cottage. He laughed when I asked him to do it, but
he did it all the same. He said he would leave it to
me and Jason in his will, but I told him I never
wanted to set foot in there again.
Two years later, I was enjoying a happy life in
London. Amelia and I kept in touch and she told me
that my really lovely couple had moved into the
cottage with their daughter Milly. She had brought
a little Shetland with her and they were really
happy, I tried not to worry for them.
One Sunday morning I saw my fathers face go
pale as he read the Sunday newspaper. His hands
began to shake and I saw him trying to hide what
he was reading. Jason asked him what was wrong.
His face was strained. Nothing, he said. I
grabbed the paper and ran to my room, and there
it was. Horrendous accident in sleepy
Gloucestershire village. Talented junior champion
rider Milly Thornton killed in freak riding accident
when pony trampled owner and broke her back.
Jason snatched the paper from me. Its a
coincidence, he kept saying. Calm down, its your
imagination.
Dad, I screamed, who were they? The family
that moved in to the cottage, they must have been
related to you Why didnt you listen?
They were distantly related. This is madness, he
cried, madness.
All this happened two years ago and the cottage
has been knocked down. We own a little plot of
land and Dad says he will sell it on some day but I
know that he knows better. He ripped up the deeds
and he burnt the papers. That little grave has
found its resting place and God rest her soul.