Gretchen-Jane’s Moon — Final
A Gothic Horror Story in the Tradition of Turn of the Screw
The story so far… In 1874, prison volunteer, Constance Breckenridge, strives to unearth the chilling truth from Gretchen-Jane Nadel, a convicted poisoner facing the gallows for her horrific crimes. Now, two decades later, has Gretchen-Jane returned from the grave to exact her revenge upon Constance?
Suddenly, Gretchen-Jane was before me. She seized my arm and thrust her face into mine.
“You shall hear every last detail!” she hissed.
I glanced helplessly towards the door of the cell.
“I have told them to leave us alone. They shall not bother us, I have made sure of that,” said Gretchen-Jane, her eyes glittering.
And so I became the prisoner of a mad-woman. Eyes slitted, her mouth an ugly sneer, she confessed everything to me: first, the agony of the dying Lady Chatterton and the seduction of her elderly husband, blinded with lust for Gretchen-Jane.
Next, she described the terrible deaths of the Fleming children.
I was sure I would faint. “So… it is true then?”
“I killed them with no more thought than if I had drowned a bag of kittens!” gloated Gretchen-Jane.
She proceeded to tell me how she sprinkled poison into their cocoa, and described their piteous cries of pain as she watched them in the final throes of agonising death. Then Gretchen-Jane boasted about the murder of Jane Fleming and her enslavement of Mathias.
“No more!” I begged, pressing my hands against my ears.
Gretchen-Jane stared in genuine surprise. “But I am only at the beginning! There is much, much more to tell — ”
Seized with a burning rage, I shoved her from me. Gretchen-Jane staggered backwards, falling over her wooden stool and cracking her head against the wall. She lay quiet and still.
I ran to her, horrified at what I had done. I patted her cheek and called her name. Gretchen-Jane opened her eyes.
“Please forgive me… I did not mean—” I stammered.
Gretchen-Jane spat into my face and screamed curse after curse, her breath like the devil’s, hot and foul, scorching my skin.
I stumbled to my feet and backed away as a horse-faced guard marched into the cell carrying a silence mask.
It was the last time I saw her alive.
20th May, 1874
They came for her at eight o’clock in the morning and escorted her up the stairs to the gibbet. The hangman strapped her hands close to her body and slipped the noose over her head.
“Have you anything to say?” he asked.
Gretchen-Jane looked down and fixed her pale, green eyes upon me, her poisonous glare hitting me with the force of a blow. I stood rigidly, every muscle tensed. Would more vile blasphemies spew forth from her mouth?
The condemned woman’s eyes narrowed and her lips curled into a snarl, but she remained silent. The hangman’s hands shook as he pulled the death hat over her face. He drew the bolt.
The trapdoor opened with a loud click, and she dropped into the emptiness below. I heard the snap of her neck and watched as her body jerked and twitched at the end of the rope like a broken marionette.
I exhaled a long, deep breath.
It was over.
Gretchen-Jane Nadel was dead. She could do no more harm.
So why did it feel like it was I who had stepped off the precipice and descended into Hell?
Winchester, Hampshire 1894
17th May
Constance shut the book with a weary sigh, chilled, but curiously relieved.
Her terror of Gretchen-Jane’s retribution had lessened as the years passed. Determinedly, she took aim and tossed the book into the fire, where it crackled and hissed like a burning serpent as it slowly disintegrated.
Constance leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Despite her long-held fears, she was alive and comparatively well. She dozed until a sudden noise awoke her. Miss Hammond stood before her, holding a cup and saucer, a coy smile on her face.
“For you, Miss Breckenridge. I reckon you might deserve it after looking after the boys. I’ve just finished giving them their cocoa.”
What luminous eyes she has, thought Constance. “Why, thank you Miss Hammond. That is most kind of you.”
Constance sipped her tea. It was good and strong. The maid continued to stare at her, smiling. She tucked a strand of yellow hair behind her ear.
Constance began to feel uncomfortable. Where had she seen that gesture before? Her stomach fluttered.
Then the agony began.
Constance’s heart pounded like a piston-engine; her stomach cramped, and she began to vomit. Sweat poured from her brow, she clutched at her throat, unable to catch her breath. Constance collapsed to the floor, her body racked with horrible convulsions.
Grinning, Miss Hammond tiptoed to the window and opened the curtains. Moonlight beamed into the room, wrapping Constance’s now motionless body in a shimmering, silvery shroud.
The End
