Story
The Devil called. . . !

Part one

By Mansoor A. Rathore

The faint sound of the door-bell echoed through the main hall of the villa; its shrillness somewhat muffled by the loud thunder, the screeching howls of the gusty winds enveloping the house and the heavy downpour that lashed the tempestuous night. Almost sick with apprehension and despair, Rachel turned around to look at the tiny digital clock resting on the mantelpiece. 1:17 am. Shivering more out of anxiety than fear, she walked towards the main door, and cautiously unlocked it. The unusual creak of the old wooden door as she opened it startled her, but Rachel heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the person standing on her doorstep, drenched in rain, her curly hair concealing her face. But dread gripped Rachel's heart the instant she saw the girl's scarlet eyes filled with terror, her pallid, pale face reflecting the storms raging within her. There stood Rachel's friend, Dorothy holding a revolver in her hand, and all the guilt on her face that is created only when a person commits the unpardonable sin: murder.

Rachel ushered her into the house and made her change into dry clothes, settling her in the armchair close to the fire. Dorothy did not utter a word; it seemed she had lost the ability to say anything. She was petrified, shocked beyond words. Slowly Rachel spoke to her.

"Why did you go there? Dorothy, say something…please tell me what happened. Is everything all right?"

Dorothy simply looked at her with blank eyes, as though she was unable to understand what Rachel was saying. Rachel tried again and again, desperately, and it was only when she was about to give up hope when Dorothy said what Rachel did not want to hear, what she had been fearing the most.

"I killed him...Alfred, my husband," she whispered, tears welling into her eyes and fainted.

T T T T T

They sat in front of the huge television, watching the same news report again and again. It was a crisp, placid morning, entirely the opposite of the previous stormy night; warm rays of sunlight penetrating through the glass window. Dorothy sat huddled on a sofa, her arms around her legs. She had still not lost her sickly pallor, and the scarlet of her eyes. The large domineering words on the screen gaped at her, threateningly.

MURDER IN DALTON

MANSION

The words of the newscaster echoed in her mind, making her feel like a criminal being humiliated in public, being flayed for her sins.

"….and the police investigations are still in process. Mr. Alfred Hallward was shot dead in his library. Mr. Hallward was the Chairman of Dalton Enterprises, which he had been running ever since the death of his father-in-law, and the founder of Dalton Enterprises, Mr. Henry Dalton. His wife, Mrs. Dorothy Hallward, who is legally the owner of the entire Dalton properties, has been unwell for quite a long time, and thus has stayed aloof from her husband's murder investigations. Sources close to the Hallward household suggest that the couple's mutual relationship had turned sour over the past few months, primarily because of Mrs. Dorothy Hallward's psychological illness, which doctors claim_"

Rachel turned off the television, seeing the perturbed countenance of her friend. Dorothy was trembling all over and twisting her fingers. Rachel got up and seating herself close to Dorothy, put her hand on her frigid arm. Dorothy looked up at her and in Rachel's eyes she saw the questions that she wanted to ask and which Dorothy could not eschew. She would have to speak.

"I am not mad, Rachel," she whispered, her voice heavy with fear, "You know I am not crazy. He wanted to kill me…Alfred…last night when I went to his house…he had a dagger in his hand. He said he'd stab me. I had to shoot him or he would have killed me. Rachel, believe me." The rest of her words were obscure, just moans of agony. Rachel hugged her, tears in her eyes, too.

"I believe you, Dorothy. Don't worry. It'll be all right," Rachel assured her, trying to sound optimistic, feigning conviction. She knew it would not be easy.

T T T T T

Inspector Harrison walked into the drawing room of Rachel Lucas' house. Rachel rose from the arm chair on which she was sitting.

"Good evening, Officer! Please have a seat," she said.

"Thank you, Miss Lucas…umm I was expecting Mrs. Hallward to be here. I want to talk to her," said Inspector Harrison.

"She is not well, Inspector. But I would be most willing to assist you in any possible way."

"Very well then, we can talk to her some other time. Miss Lucas, you are, I presume, a distant relative of Mrs. Dorothy Hallward?"

"Yes, and a very close friend."

"And she has been living with you for nearly a fortnight now, right?" he inquired.

"That's right," said Rachel.

"So did she…I mean Mrs. Dorothy Hallward, leave the house last night?"

Rachel hesitated for a minute, and then said gingerly, "No. She was not well so she slept all night. I informed her of the tragedy in the morning. It devastated her."

Inspector Harrison narrowed his eyes, and stared at Rachel, his sharp gaze attempting to pierce through her mind. Rachel looked down and nervously fumbled with the tassels on her shawl.

"Very well, Miss Lucas, just one last question. Is it true that Mrs. Hallward had developed a mental phobia, a fear of her own husband? Did she claim that he wanted to murder her?"

Rachel paused and then muttered, "She was ill. Yes, it's true. That is why she had shifted to my house."

"So you'll agree that it was merely delusion, a horror of the mind?"

"Yes. Alfred loved her and she loved him too."

"Just as the servants of Dalton Mansion had said. Thank you, Miss Lucas, for your cooperation. But I hope to see Mrs. Hallward one of these days."

"Yes, of course, Inspector Harrison. I'll see to it. Thank you!"

T T T T T

It was raining profusely when their car skidded to a halt in front of the police station. Rachel helped Dorothy out of the car, and they rushed inside. They were both dripping from head to foot, one shuddering with cold, while the other with consternation. They waited outside Inspector Harrison's office.

Holding Dorothy's hand tightly, Rachel whispered in her ear, "Just say what I told you. Stay composed and everything will be all right."

Dorothy looked even more terrified and emaciated than ever. She could barely stand on her feet. Turning her exhausted eyes towards Rachel, she said, "I need to freshen up. I'll be back." Without waiting for an answer, she walked towards the restroom. Rachel looked at her with worried eyes as she receded into the dark corridor, going inside the restroom, her instinct telling her that Dorothy needed to be left alone so that she could clear her mind of the horrors that haunted her, even if temporarily.

Dorothy splashed her worn out face with cold water, closing her eyes as she did so, forcing her abhorrent thoughts out of her mind. The faint sound of rain pattering against the washroom windows seemed to be in perfect unison with the monotonous dripping noise of water from taps and pipes. Dorothy felt a torturous emptiness gnawing at her insides. The very thought of being interrogated, of being coerced into speaking of the detestable night that she would give everything to forget, made her insides burn, causing nausea. She knew she would not be able to keep the truth hidden for long. Despite Rachel's assurances, she knew that she would soon be stripped of her spurious innocence, and be exposed to the world as a woman who had committed a heinous crime. The world would see Dorothy Hallward as a murderess, and loathe her for as long as she lived. She took a deep breath, and slowly opened her eyes. She looked into the mirror and what she saw stopped her heartbeat. She nearly choked, as if some cold invisible hand was strangulating her, tightening its grip on her throat...

 To be continued…