Blackwater
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Synopsis
A baby will never be born at Blackwater.
There is much that heavily pregnant Grace still doesn't know about her new husband King's background. So, when word comes that King's father is dying, Grace is eager to accompany him to his childhood home, Blackwater, located in a remote part of Tasmania.
Things go badly from the start. The house is in terrible repair, King's dying father yells at Grace to leave and King's twin sister, Ruth, seems disturbed by Grace's presence. After his father's death, King convinces Grace they must stay and help Ruth settle the estate, but as time stretches on he grows strange and distant. When Grace learns about Blackwater's dark history, she begins to fear that it is the house itself exerting an evil influence on her husband.
Feeling increasingly isolated, and with the birth of her child looming, Grace knows she must uncover the secrets of Blackwater if she hopes to free her family from its grip.
‘A riveting story that twists present with a horrifying past. Blackwater is Australian Gothic at its finest.' ANNA SNOEKSTRA
‘A compelling, atmospheric and immensely satisfying novel containing echoes of Stephen King and Daphne du Maurier.' CHRIS WOMERSLEY
Release date: May 30, 2023
Publisher: Affirm Press
Print pages: 272
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Blackwater
Jacqueline Ross
King’s father is dying, and we have been summoned to his deathbed. We’re driving across the sliver of land that is the artery to the Tasman Peninsula, dark water glittering on one side, and the road begins to wind. My stomach clenches. Bile scorches the back of my throat.
‘Okay?’ says King, squeezing my knee.
‘How’s it possible to still be sick at seven months?’ I say.
King wiggles his fingers through a gap between the strained buttonholes on my coat, rests them on our baby. ‘Want me to pull over?’
‘Nope.’ If I’m careful not to move and keep my eyes fixed ahead, we should get there safely. My bag is crammed with sick bags, tissues and ginger-flavoured lollies that are supposed to help. They don’t. The early morning flight from Melbourne was easy compared to this. I glare at the landscape. Leggy gumtrees. Tea-tree scrub. Tidal flats.
‘Nearly there,’ says King.
‘Are you worried?’
He shakes his head, but his right hand grips the steering wheel. The scar on the back of his hand is a tight, white S-shape, a ghost of the knotty thing it usually is.
The peninsula in winter is an overcast, dark, frozen place. There is beauty everywhere in Tasmania, sweeping golden bays, craggy rocks and caves, lush forest. But evidently not here. I’m relieved this is a quick visit. We’re driving back to Hobart tonight and flying home in the morning.
We have turned down a dirt road – dun-coloured, swampy saltmarsh in the distance. We pass a few shacks, all rusty corrugated iron and gardens gone wild. I have not seen a person since we left Hobart.
We pull up outside the house where King grew up. It’s bigger than I expected, with a veranda that runs around three sides, and a second storey. It may have once been imposing, but some of the upstairs windows are broken and criss-crossed with tape. The wooden window frames and front door have been scoured grey by the salty air.
There are ruins of several other buildings near the house. A large sandstone block with no roof or windows has crumbled in on itself, but a few stone sections stand proud, circled by a choking vine. In another setting the ruins might be romantic, but this place was a convict outstation.
King said they sent convicts here when Port Arthur was full. There are several of these places on the peninsula. I can imagine the men – chained, hooded, broken. What was it like for King and his twin sister, Ruth, growing up in the shadow of this history? There is a solid-looking block that could be solitary cells.
King stares straight ahead. He makes no attempt to get out of the car. The front yard has a bed full of weeds. The tallest have translucent stalks that glisten with slime. Their fluffy, yellow flowers puff seeds into the breeze. There is a gravel path leading to the front door, studded with tufts of grass that have been trodden flat. Someone has been coming here.
I wonder how long his father has lived like this. I want to ask King, but his mouth is set hard. Finally, he unclicks his seatbelt and opens the door. I ease myself out of the car. The baby squirms in protest, as if I’ve woken her up. Wind snarls around my ankles. Most of the trees grow in a backwards curve, pointlessly trying to escape it.
I take a few steps around the house, looking at my surroundings and stretching my legs. The ruins lie to the left of the house but on the other side there is a rusty water tank and another overgrown garden. Wild roses in late, shaggy bloom are tangled up with a noxious purple creeper. There are some woody shrubs, all grown into each other like an impossible puzzle. Past a jagged picket fence that marks off the garden is a field. A couple of sheep with mud-flecked winter coats are keeping the grass short, and in the distance, there is a goat. He seems to have noticed our arrival and stands very still.
Beyond the ruins and the field is a tidal lake, ominous and still. Further out, water that looks deeper. A strip of rocks borders the water, but to reach them would mean crossing a long stretch of boggy mud where a handful of stunted trees poke reluctant heads towards the sky. Everything is brown.
I walk out to the side of the house to see what’s round the back. On its south side, which never sees the sun, is a dense thicket of trees and shrubs. They have climbed all the way up to the second storey. The rooms on this side must be completely without natural light. I imagine those branches prodding the windows, a curtain of green leaves darkening the rooms. Beyond that, stretching as far away as I can see, are trees and scrubby bush.
I come back towards the car. King’s distracted, staring at the house, but his hands are busy. The nail of his right index finger burrows deeply into the reddening cuticle of his thumb. I grasp his free hand and he stops.
‘Did you swim down there as a kid?’ I ask, nodding toward the lake.
He nods. ‘In the black water. It was freezing. We must’ve been mad.’
‘Kids,’ I say.
‘Hope it’s not too awful inside. Doesn’t make you feel sick.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, knowing that it won’t. ‘And we don’t have to stay for long.’
‘Once he says what he needs to say, we’re gone.’
King’s father sent a letter asking him to come. It said that he had something important to tell him. We guessed it must be about his will.
King and Ruth are the only family he has. Ruth is forty-two. She’s never left home. I’ve never been clear about why that is, except that she doesn’t want to. She is very quiet – apparently. This will be the first time I’ve met her. She didn’t come to our wedding last year, although King said he invited her.
We walk slowly along the path, hand in hand. It’s cold, but King’s moist hand slips and slides in mine. There are two worn bluestone steps leading onto the wooden veranda. They have deep grooves in them, and I think about how many people must have come into the house over the years, who they might have been.
‘Okay?’ I say.
He nods. Grimaces.
Beside the front door is a brass plaque that reads, Hammond House. It is written in fancy italic script, but the words have almost vanished under a layer of black grime. King bashes the front door with his fist. It judders in its frame. He’s got his arm around my shoulders, fingers squeezing my upper arm, almost too hard.
We wait but no one comes. Is the sister out? I thought she was expecting us. King twists the front doorknob, and the door swings back and hits the wall with a thud. The smell of rot and rodents rushes out at me. Then we step into the house and are swallowed by the vast, shadowy hall.
‘Dad?’ he calls. Whenever King has mentioned his father, he calls him ‘Old Tom’ – not kindly.
There’s a muffled sound from upstairs that could be a voice.
Steep stairs rise from the centre of the hall. They are bracketed by chunky wooden bannisters that seem too big. There is no landing halfway up, just a dark void at the top where the second floor must begin.
This house seems much bigger now we’re inside. Several doors stand open down both sides of the hall, casting wispy light into the gloom. King suggests I wait in the front room until he sees if Old Tom wants to meet me. I don’t think he knows I exist. He certainly wasn’t invited to our wedding, although I never got a satisfactory answer from King about why. Perhaps the sister didn’t want to come on her own.
‘Where’s Ruth?’ I ask.
‘She’ll be in her room.’
‘Doesn’t she want to see us?’
He shrugs. ‘Maybe not.’
I follow King into the first room that has its door open. It’s darker than I expected inside, and the curtains are drawn. There’s a marble fireplace against one wall but its edges are scarred with cigarette burns the shape and size of inky fingerprints. The ceiling, with its crazy-paving cracks and patches of mint-green paint, looks like a map. On the walls is mustard-coloured embossed wallpaper, heavy and cloying, and in places the plaster is soft with damp. The room smells, impossibly, like wet dog.
The furniture in here is ancient – a velveteen chair with fat, clawed feet and a couch with a pink frill around the bottom, bookcases piled with decaying paperbacks, several china cabinets heaving with knick-knacks, and an art deco drinks trolley that could be worth something if it was cleaned up. There are boxes everywhere spilling papers, bedding, crockery, even car parts. A dead fridge, door lolling open, supports a pile of boxes, the top one brimming with empty glass bottles and jars.
King gives my arm a squeeze and leaves me in the room. I can hear his footsteps going up the stairs.
I need light, so I weave around the junk and struggle with a curtain that won’t budge because the wooden rings are stiff with dust. Finally, it opens to reveal a lovely bay window. With the sudden flood of daylight, a cloud of insects rise up from the threadbare carpet in a frenzied dance then scurry into distant corners. I can feel the itch of a flea bite on my ankle, and suddenly wish I’d waited in the car instead. But I was curious to see where my husband grew up. Now I can only see why he left.
I clear a space on the couch and perch on the edge of the seat. Dampness seeps up from the cushion through my jeans. The baby writhes and twists, limbs flailing furiously. I stroke my belly and reassure her that everything is okay.
A piece of paper is wedged in the tight space between the cushion and the upholstered side of the couch. I ease it out, unfold it carefully. The handwriting is loopy and old-fashioned, the paper fragile. I hold it up to the light and read.
Dear House,
We are a very bad family and don’t deserve you.
Please help us and keep us safe.
I am so sorry.
Chapter Two
I try to imagine who might have written it, and what it means. Maybe it was the reclusive sister. There is so much I don’t know about King’s family. When we met eighteen months ago, I wanted to know everything about his childhood.
‘I’m about making a future with you, not getting sucked back into the past,’ he’d said.
I’d let it go because there was clearly hurt there, a bruised look in his eyes. But it hadn’t satisfied me then, and it satisfies me even less now.
Time limps. I pull out my phone but there is no signal.
When King finally comes back, it feels like he’s been gone for hours. I’ve never seen the look on his face before, and for a moment I’m confused. Then I realise it’s shock. King is in shock. I stand up so he can take my seat, but he shakes his head. ‘Old Tom wants to meet you.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘But what’s happened? What did he have to tell you?’
‘Nothing. He’s just really sick. I didn’t realise how bad it was.’
‘But the secret?’
King hesitates for a moment. ‘There isn’t one. He wants to meet you. It’ll only take a minute, and then we’ll go. I think he’s pleased I’m married.’
‘Well, that’s nice.’ It sounds so banal. There is nothing about any of this that is nice. And where is Ruth?
We walk out into the hall. I take King’s hand, but he does not respond to my reassuring squeeze. There are pictures hanging in heavy, dark frames, mostly photographs of unsmiling ancestors that King must have heard of but has never mentioned to me. I feel very far away from him. I climb up the uncarpeted stairs, stopping a couple of times to catch my breath.
We emerge in the middle of another wide hall with rooms leading off either side. The layout seems identical to below. The three doors on the south side are closed, the other three open. Ruth must be behind one of those closed doors.
King’s father ran the place as a guesthouse for a while when King was a boy. That would explain why each of the doors on the north side has a tarnished brass number on it, although the closed doors are not numbered. There is something strange about the doors – they seem too flimsy for the age of the house. Then it’s obvious. The doors and walls are made of plywood, covered with a fake, pine veneer. A cheap renovation has been done at some stage, carving up a large space into rooms to be rented out.
In the distance is a second, dizzying staircase that must lead to an attic or perhaps a maid’s room. There’s a landing, but then the stairs twist sharply to the right so I can’t see where they end. King puts his hand on the small of my back, pressing me towards the open door of Room One.
‘What do I call him?’ I say.
‘Thomas.’
‘Right. Thomas.’ I’m nervous, scared that ‘Old Tom’ will just slip out. The baby still moves furiously. I massage a tiny foot or hand that is trying to thrash its way out of me, and she calms a little. The smell up here is worse. Much worse. There’s the same wet dog smell as downstairs but mixed with menthol and urine.
We step into the room, and it’s clear how sick this man really is. He is lying down flat and there’s so little of him he barely makes a bump under the blankets. I’ve never been in a room with someone who is dying, but this must be what it smells like. Rancid, sour, like a mouth full of teeth that have never been cleaned and something worse – faecal. I can hear his laboured breathing from the door and remember someone once telling me about the death rattle.
King leads me over to the side of the high bed. The man – my father-in-law, I realise with a start – is a skeleton already. Cheekbones press against thin, yellow skin and his lips have disappeared into his mouth. He’s asleep, and a thick string of drool attaches his chin to the stained pillow. I involuntarily put my hand over my nose. He is rotting from the inside out. Suddenly his colourless eyes spring open. I rear back, but King’s hand on my shoulder is firm.
‘Dad, this is Grace, my wife.’
My hand leaves my face and instinctively cradles the baby. Thomas glances down. Then he looks up at me, and his eyes have changed. I cannot read the emotion. Repulsion? Fear? Something awful.
He looks at King. ‘You didn’t tell me there was a baby coming.’
‘Yes, we’re very excited. Still a little while to go,’ says King.
‘She can’t be in here.’
‘Don’t start with that, Dad.’
‘Get her out,’ he gasps.
‘Please. She’s my wife.’
‘She can’t be here; you should know that.’ He tries to sit up in bed but can’t manage it and falls back onto the sodden pillow. ‘Out! Get out now!’
‘Come on. Relax for God’s sake.’ King draws me to him protectively.
‘We should go,’ I say.
‘Out! Out! Get out of this house!’
I don’t wait for King to make up his mind. I’m out of the room, down the stairs, then through the front door and away, not stopping until I reach the car. The watery sun has warmed the car bonnet, and I press my hands flat against it. The tips of my fingers are numb.
King comes out, slamming the door hard behind him. The glass pane at the top of the door shakes, and I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. He strides down the path, face knotted with anger and concern. When he reaches me, I burrow into the nest of his shoulder and he presses his knuckles into my back. My cheeks burn from the cold.
‘Stupid old bastard,’ says King. ‘I didn’t see that one coming.’
‘What was that about?’
‘I’m sorry, babe, it’s not you. He’s just old and crazy.’
‘Crazy?’
‘The cancer drugs. He’s doped up on morphine.’
I pull away and blow my nose. There’s a sodden collection of tissues permanently up my sleeve and in every pocket.
‘Are you crying?’
‘Why was he so upset that I’m pregnant?’
King gently tugs the back of my hair the way I like, lets it run through his fingers. ‘He has some funny ideas about things. Please don’t let it bother you.’
‘Of course it does. I want to feel welcome in your family home.’
‘It hasn’t been my home for a million years. I hate the place, actually.’ Pain flashes across his face.
I suddenly remember why we’re here. ‘Sorry, darling. I’m making this all about me. It must be terrible for you to see him so sick. Do you think he’s … that’s it’s going to be really soon?’
King presses his lips together and then nods. ‘I can’t leave Ruth to handle this on her own. We’ll have to stay.’
Chapter Three
As I’m trying to digest this bad news, an old brown hatchback pulls up behind our rental car. The handbrake is yanked up with a screech that makes King wince. A young woman inside sucks furiously on a cigarette, the air opaque with smoke.
‘Who’s that?’
‘His nurse, probably. Comes twice a day.’
The woman gets out of the car. She’s barely out of her teens and is wearing hipster jeans and a cut-off top that shows her stomach. How can she not be cold? There’s a little bulge of white flesh where the waistband of her jeans cuts in. She’s got the kind of curvy fullness most men like. Most men, except King. He used to like my petite, angular shape. Now pregnancy has swollen everything, and I feel lost inside someone else’s body.
The nurse grinds out her cigarette under the sole of a Dr. Martens boot, opens the back door, pulls out a bulging shopping bag and then walks towards us. I run my fingers under my eyes in a hopeless attempt to fix my make-up. I made an effort today and put on mascara for the first time in weeks.
‘Hey,’ she says. Then she shoves out her hand. Her nails are pearly pink with polish and speckled with gold glitter, too manicured for anyone who does much work. She smells of coconut oil and smoke. ‘Miley, the nurse.’
King shakes her hand and introduces me. Then he asks a few questions about his father’s progress.
Miley says that he should h. . .
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