Suffer the Children

The graveyard was empty except for the woman in the veil. She let the tears run down her cheeks behind it, not bothering to wipe them away. What did it matter? No one else was here to see.

Clasping her rosary in tight fingers, she read the freshly carved words on the headstone once more. Such a short epitaph for her darling boy. 'Albert Caldwell, born 1879, died 1885, drowned in Rotterdam Harbour'. It said nothing about the joy she and her husband had felt after he'd survived beyond his infancy. Nothing about the pride they'd felt as he'd grown tall and strong, and gone out into the world to his chosen profession, a young man. Nothing about their heartbreak when the news of his death had reached them.

They'd said that he'd slipped on a wet deck while loading crates onto the ship, fallen and hit his head, and tumbled overboard. They'd said that he'd likely been unconscious when he drowned. As if it were a blessing that he'd not known the moment of his death. As if they'd found his body and could speak of these things with any certainty. Because they hadn't found him. They'd swept the harbour as well as they could, of course, but it was one of the largest in the world. Their darling Albert had simply vanished into the waters of the North Sea.

They had had three children before Albert came. Not one of them had lived past their sixth year. Their first, Arthur, had tumbled into a river while the nanny's back was turned. His name was the first, and the most worn, on the headstone. Their next, Elizabeth, had been born sick, with what the doctors had called 'water in her lungs'. She had battled for fifteen days before she succumbed. Their third, Katherine, had been born perfect – a little angel. She had been two months old when the nursery ceiling had collapsed during a heavy storm, old rotting beams bowed in by the weight of the rainwater pooling on the broken roof above. Soon after each death, another pregnancy. And after each pregnancy, another death.

They had found Arthur's body when they searched the river. The look of terror on his little face still haunted her nightmares. But they had assumed he had been frightened by the fall, or the ordeal of the drowning. Wouldn't that have been enough? They had buried him, and mourned him, and tried to let the coming of a new baby comfort them. But when Elizabeth had been born, and then died, and they had said their goodbyes to the poor child before the doctors took her away, that same look had been on her tiny face. That terrified look. What did a tiny sick baby have to be so afraid of? The grief had threatened to overwhelm them. But then she fell pregnant again, and they had endeavoured to persevere for the new child.

When Katherine was born healthy, they had been so relieved. When she had stayed healthy and come home with them from the hospital, they had been overjoyed. They had situated her in the nursery in the top floor, in the cradle that had been meant for her sister. They had had no idea that the roof above was damaged. In fact, the house had been surveyed just a few years earlier, before Arthur's death, when they were thinking of selling it to find somewhere bigger. The roof had been fine then.

But on the night of the storm, Katherine had been restless. She had put her daughter to bed, fretting at the babe's cries, and had been unable to sleep herself. It was close to midnight when the thunder began, massive rolling booms that shook the house. She had paced the halls for a while, then on a whim she had gone into the nursery to check on Katherine.

It was the first time – the only time – she had been present at her child's death. So it was the first time – the only time – she saw the shadowy figure that leaned over the baby, one hand pressed down over her face. Shadowy, not because she was hard to see – in those last few seconds the room was ablaze with lightning – but because she was composed of shadow. Shadow that leaked and coiled upward like ink in water. Hair that drifted around her face like it was caught in a current. And when she turned her head, ragged, empty eye sockets like they had been gnawed at by hungry fish.

She had had no time to react before there was an almighty crack and the ceiling gave with a tired groan. A cascade of water crashed into the cradle before it was obliterated by rotten wood and shattered tiles. Her shriek was lost in the noise. Her husband had gotten out of bed to investigate the crash, and had discovered her in the midst of the destruction, digging frantically for their daughter.

They had found her. There had been no sign of the woman. And on Katherine's little face, that same expression of horror.

Some time later – after they had buried their third child in what was now a family plot – she had asked him about the woman. What had she seen? Was she losing her mind? But the look on his face as she described the phantom had answered for him. He knew. And when she pressed him, he had told her everything.

He had been a sailor, before Arthur was born. When she had fallen pregnant, he had given it up to take on a safer and better paying role in an insurance broker's office, and they had married. But before that, he had been employed on long journeys far across the globe. One such journey had taken him to the coasts of Japan. And being so far away from home, he had … indulged himself in the entertainments of the country. Strong rice wine, and pretty young women.

One such woman had followed him back to the ship when they were preparing to leave port. She had found him on the deck of the boat and seized him by his arm, shaking him and talking rapidly in her own tongue, gesturing to her stomach. She had been crying. He could not understand her. He had told her to go home, but she would not. Finally, he had started pushing her back toward the gangway, forcing her off the ship. At the last step, she had slipped on the wet deck and fallen, hitting her head on the side of the ship on the way down. He had watched her disappear into the murky water, and not come back up.

The ship's deck had been empty at the time, except for them. No one on the shore seemed to have noticed. There had been no one he could call for help in time, or so he had said. And she had been nobody that anyone would miss.

So he had turned his back and let her drown.

That same night, as the ship was cutting through the Pacific Ocean, he had had the first dream. Of the young woman floating close to the sea bed, tangled in long weeds, lifeless ... but still reaching out for him, and gesturing to her belly. Weeks later, the next dream – or nightmare – showed her, bloated and rotting, with fish nibbling at her fingers and eyelids. The dreams continued, infrequently, with the young girl becoming more and more terrible to look at … until the last few showed her as not much more than a shadowy shape in dark waters – a shape with empty eyes.

He had sworn to her, over and over, that he had not understood what the young Japanese woman had meant. She did not believe him. She knew exactly what that poor girl had been trying to tell him. What else? He had shunned her and left her and their unborn child to die. And now … And now …

That hand on Katherine's little face. Those empty eyes. The water.

With each one, it had been water.

She had tried desperately to put it out of her mind when Albert was born. They had raised him in terror of the day when the woman would come again. Each year that passed, each birthday, they relaxed a little more. Each Christmas, they had given their thanks to God for keeping their only living son safe. When he had turned 16, she had almost convinced herself that she had never seen the shadowy woman. Slowly, they convinced themselves that the curse – if there ever really had been one – had lifted. When he announced that he wanted to be a sailor like his father, she had swallowed the panic that had threatened to overwhelm her, and told herself that there was nothing to fear. She had gifted him with a St. Christopher's medallion to wear around his neck, kissed him fondly, and wished him good fortune.

She had found out she was pregnant again just two days before the news arrived. For a brief moment, she thought it proof that they had broken the curse. A new child while the other still lived! But of course, that was not the case. The news had just taken a while to reach them.

She had not needed to see his body to know that his eyes would have been wide, almost bursting out of their sockets, his mouth contorted in a grimace of fear. She had not needed to be there to know. Again, the water had taken her son.

And now all that was left of him – just like his siblings – was a name carved into a stone.

The wind cut across the graveyard, tugging at her dress and lifting the veil from her face. Dimly, she heard thunder in the distance. Her husband had chosen not to accompany her today. He was burying himself in his work, hiding in papers and numbers. That was fine. She could hardly bear to look at him any more. Her hands cradled the small swell of her belly. Still a few months to go. The thought of it sickened her. She didn't think she could stand to raise and love and care for another child, only to bury it with the others. How long would this one live? A few years? A few days? She couldn't bear to think of it. No nursery was prepared for this one, no delicate clothes, no tiny shoes. She couldn't do it. Not again. Please, God, not again …

A movement in the trees ahead of her caught her eye. Looking up, she saw a figure she had only seen once before, yet it was as familiar as the sight of her own face. A shadowy figure, that leaked and coiled upward like ink in water. Watching her from empty eye sockets.

The world stood still. No wind, no sound. Her heart hammered in her ears. “Please,” she managed to whisper.

The figure raised an arm and pointed to the east. She understood right away. She didn't know if this was an act of mercy, or simply the culmination of the woman's curse on her husband. The last thing she could take from him. It didn't matter, either way, she had no other choice. She turned to the east and started walking.

The river wasn't too far away.