The Depths of Milford House

The town of Milford, with its single main street and weatherboard church, had always seemed to sleep beneath the vast South Australian sky. On the eastern edge, where the road curved past a row of old peppercorn trees, stood Milford House. It was a grand bungalow, its wide verandah wrapped around like a protective arm, built in the 1880s by a man whose name was spoken of with a mixture of awe and unease: Dr. Alistair Thorne, a neurosurgeon of considerable skill and peculiar habits.

After Thorne’s death, the house passed through several hands before being bought by the Harris family in the 1930s. They were the epitome of country generosity. Old Tom Harris, his wife Edna, and their daughter Clara had moved from the drought-stricken north to start anew. They opened their home to anyone in need, hosting Sunday roasts that spilled onto the verandah, and offering refuge to traveling salesmen and lost sheep alike. My own family had been friends with the Harrises for over thirty years. I had grown up with Clara, and their home was my second home. I remember the warm smell of Edna’s bread and the sound of Tom’s laughter echoing through the hall.

But before the Harrises, the house had been occupied by two elderly sisters, Miss Agatha and Miss Beatrice Wren. They had divided the house into two separate living quarters, each side shrouded in heavy velvet curtains that blocked out the sun. They were reclusive and rarely seen, and many whispered they were touched by madness. They died within a year of each other, both of natural causes, and the house stood empty for a time until the Harrises moved in.

When the Harrises took over, they found the house in a state of neglect. The cellar, which had been cut into the bedrock beneath the house, was a particular focus. It had three rooms, and the walls were lined with white tiles that had yellowed with age. A metal table sat in the center of the main room, and old surgical instruments rusted in glass cabinets. It was clear that Dr. Thorne had used this space for more than just storage. Tom and Clara’s older brother, James, were disturbed by the place. They boarded up the cellar door, nailing thick planks across it and covering it with a wardrobe to ensure it remained shut.

Years passed, and the Harrises lived their lives blissfully unaware of the dark residue that clung to the house. But I had always been curious about the cellar. As a child, I had once dared Clara to peek through the keyhole of the wardrobe that covered the cellar door, but she refused, saying her dad had warned her never to go near it. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties, long after the Harrises had grown old and their children had moved away, that I found myself alone in the house, caretaking for a week while Clara and her husband were away.

It was a hot January night, and the house creaked and groaned as it always did, but on that night, the sounds seemed more deliberate. I was reading in the parlor when I heard a thud from the back of the house. I assumed it was a possum on the roof, but then another, more rhythmic sound began. It was a steady tap, tap, tap, coming from behind the wardrobe. My heart hammered as I dragged the heavy oak wardrobe away from the wall. The boards over the cellar door were old and dry, and they splintered easily when I pried them off with a crowbar. The door itself was locked, but the key was in a small brass hook beside it, as if left for me. I turned the key, and the door swung inward, revealing a flight of stone steps descending into darkness.

The air that rushed up was cold and carried a smell I could not place—not decay, but something sterile and metallic, like antiseptic mixed with old blood. I grabbed a flashlight from the hallway and descended. The steps ended in a narrow corridor with three doors. The first two were unlocked and empty, save for cobwebbed hospital beds and rusty instruments. But the third door was heavy, with a brass handle that was oddly warm to the touch. I pushed it open, and the light from my flashlight fell upon a scene that stopped me cold.

The room was not a cellar room at all, but a modern operating theater, pristine and white, with a large central light. A figure lay on the table, covered by a white sheet. I approached slowly, my feet echoing on the tiled floor. When I lifted the sheet, I gasped and stumbled back. It was Clara, but not the Clara I knew. Her face was gaunt, her skin translucent, and her eyes were open but unseeing. She was breathing, but her breath was shallow, and her fingers twitched as if she were in a dream. I called her name, but she did not respond. I shook her shoulder, and her head lolled to the side, revealing a thin scar running from her temple to the base of her skull.

Panic seized me. I tried to lift her, but she was heavy and limp. I ran back up the stairs, my mind racing with impossible thoughts. I had just seen Clara at the grocery store, only hours ago. She had been alive and well, laughing. I called her name from the top of the stairs, but there was no answer. I stumbled into the kitchen and picked up the phone, but it was dead. The house was utterly silent now, the normal creaks and groans absent, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

And then I heard the tap, tap, tap again. It was coming from the cellar, but faster now, more insistent. I grabbed a kitchen knife and returned to the cellar door. The steps were wet, and the walls seemed to glisten with a thin film. At the bottom, the door to the operating room was open, and the light was on. I stepped inside, and the table was empty. The sheet lay crumpled on the floor. And then I saw the third wall, which I had not noticed before, had a door I had not seen. It was ajar, and a faint humming sound emanated from within.

I pushed the door open and entered a small chamber lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, each filled with glass jars. The jars contained pale, floating forms—fetuses, goats, and other creatures I could not name. At the far end of the room, a woman sat in a chair, her back to me. She wore a faded floral dress, and her gray hair was pinned in a bun. ‘You’ve come,’ she said, her voice dry and cracked, without turning. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

I stepped closer, and she turned. It was Miss Beatrice Wren, one of the old maids who had lived in the house decades ago. She looked exactly as she must have in the 1930s, not a day older. Her eyes were milky, but they seemed to see right through me. ‘He wanted to understand the mind,’ she said, gesturing to the jars. ‘He thought he could capture the soul. We helped him, my sister and I. We let him practice on us.’ She smiled, and I saw that her teeth were filed to points. ‘But we were his last subjects. He never got it right. The soul always escaped.’

I backed away, but the door behind me had vanished, replaced by a blank wall. ‘You’re trapped now,’ she said, rising from the chair with an unnatural grace. ‘Just like the others.’ She reached out a long, bony hand, and I saw that her nails were black. ‘But don’t worry. We’ll keep you company. Forever.’

The hum grew louder, and the jars began to rattle. I screamed and scrambled, but there was no escape. The last thing I remember is the feeling of cold ether over my face, and the sound of Clara’s voice calling my name, but from far away, as if from the bottom of a well. When I woke, I was lying on the operating table, my hands and feet bound. I could hear voices above, muffled, and I realized it was morning. The house was silent again, but I knew I was not alone. In the cellar, the jars held new souls, and I was one of them. The Harrises, they were all there, even the ones who had moved away. And the tap, tap, tap continued, a rhythmic pulse from the depths of Milford House, waiting for its next visitor.