My name is Katherine, though mother called me Katie, which I disliked. I am soon to be twelve years old and this is my first diary entry. The date is June the twentieth in the year of our Lord 1899 and I understand that everything I write in this journal is for the sole purpose of improving my mental health. I have been assured it will not be read by anyone but myself.

The book is well made and bound with black leather. It is lockable and was given to me by Doctor Franz Post, the highly acclaimed specialist from Switzerland who studies problems of the mind.

This psychoanalyst, or Franz as he prefers I call him, has a theory that by recording everything I can remember about my life in Africa, including the days before the fire that killed my mother; then the cure for my nightmares will follow.

It is an easy task and one I am willing to do, as long as the contents remain private and that Alice is also given a journal to write, which owing to her lack of skills would be simple, therefore of no interest to anyone.

Alice and I were brought to England by Richard, who is the lawyer appointed to look after my inheritance and welfare until I become of age. He is also going to help in the search for my father who was left behind when mother divorced him and sailed for Africa taking me with her.

I have heard it said that children as young as two cannot remember the things going on around them – but I am different. I recall everything about our arrival at the Plantation. I remember especially being taken to the nursery where I was placed into the care of Annie-Jo.

Annie-Jo kissed away my tears, rocked me in her ample, warm arms and sung a lullaby in the tongue of her mama, a language spoken by their tribe since the dawning of time itself. Annie-Jo taught me to sketch pictures in the rich red earth that stretched seemingly forever outside the veranda of the nursery. I learned to draw symbols that read like runes and told of things that happened many years before the white man went to Africa. I learned to love Annie-Jo with all of my heart.

It is the twenty-first of June. Richard says the English house purchased for Alice and I to live in, must be made fit for a young lady of substance. He has therefore arranged a period of travel whilst restoration takes place. My birthday is near and he thinks I need a tonic, so we are to journey to Wales where there will be plenty of fresh air and special water that one takes as a medicine. It is an elixir much treasured by the Romans during their occupation of England and Wales.

Franz will meet us there and insists I make use of all the facilities the Hotel offers, including their therapeutic swimming pool. He is sending a nurse to assist me with anything I might need and tells me her name is Eirwen which is Welsh and means Snow White.

I don’t like the idea of a nurse named Snow White, especially since my nightmares are of mirrors and of being trapped inside them. Either Franz is playing with my mind instead of healing it or he is not as clever as everyone says he is.

Richard has news of the search for my dearest daddy, and says he was last traced to the fishing town called Conway and looking at the map, it is only a short coach ride from the Hotel.

I intend to be good. I’ll take the waters, tolerate Snow White and do anything I can to rid my eyes of the dark circles that have given me a gaunt appearance so that when I meet up with daddy, he will think me pretty.

Meanwhile, as urged by Franz, I will continue with my account of those years in Africa. It is true in what people say about the man who seduced mother. He really did have riches beyond the dreams of avarice, though, at two years old, such credentials meant nothing to me. Mother saw to it that I took his title so the surname of Kingsley became mine, though I would prefer the one daddy gave me. But Kingsley is now the name I must use for it is how the diamond mines and the plantations in South Africa and in Kenya inherited by me are known.

My nightmares began when Kingsley’s mother put a curse on me. I told Annie-Jo, but she shook her head and gave me a slow, steady smile, ‘No,’ she cooed, ‘no one with blue eyes like yours could ever be cursed.’ I wasn’t convinced but just after that, Alice arrived and the nursery changed. She was all I ever wanted, better than any sister could be, better than any best friend could be and she was mine.

For a long time, I was free of the nightmares, until Kingsley’s mother said I was ready to start lessons in her study, and they returned.

Wrapped in Annie-Jo’s arms I sobbed out the story of my nightmare where I stood in a room surrounded by mirrors. One to the front of me, two either side, the floor and ceiling and one behind – where only moments before, a door had been. The room reflected me from front and back, above and below; it held images from every angle: me growing smaller and further away. I fled and hit the polished surface, ran back and hit the other. Everywhere was myself: multiplied. I grew smaller and more distant, moving further away until I became a dot. The only exit from the room was to wake up.

I showed Annie-Jo the storybook Kingsley’s mother gave me. It told of a mirror and a wicked queen who was really an ugly old witch. Annie-Jo took me by the shoulders and bade me listen to her words. ‘Curses can only work on those who believe in them.’

‘But the wicked queen does believe in them,’ I pleaded, ‘she believes in the magic of the mirror.’

‘Then, my lovely, you must use your big eyes as if they were shields, better than shields, imagine they are mirrors, and when anyone curses you, use those mirrors to bounce that curse off you.’ She held me close. ‘Do you understand what I said?’

I nodded my reply and fell asleep in her arms.

After that, the wicked queen grew tired of bullying me and soon I was given a tutor. I excelled in all his lessons, especially Greek and Latin. I like ancient languages, but none more than Annie-Jo’s where the lilting words sounded like singing. Even when she hums I can visualise the animals and places of the forests hidden within the notes. Oh dear, I was forgetting my use of tense, I should have said hummed, for since that awful night concerning the bullfrogs, my beloved Annie-Jo took her own life.

Today is the Twenty-third day of June, two days before my twelfth birthday.

Yesterday Alice and I were settling into the Hotel, leaving no time to write.

Eirwen is tall and thin with bright red hair, which, in my mind, does not seem apt when your name is Snow White. However, I did take her by surprise when I dived into the pool, swam the entire length underwater and popped up behind her. Alice sat amongst the towels by the edge, not being suited to water sport, or any kind of activity – whereas I love water and was taught to swim with the children of the Plantation, where we dived for clams and rode the turquoise surf of the ocean on the flat of our tummies.

Franz has been asking his usual questions – probing my psyche he calls it. He never takes notes when I tell him about my nightmares. All he wants me to do now is write about the lead up to the fire.

I did wonder what the fire had to do with mirrors but didn’t say anything to him.

Richard’s search for my father has come to a dead end, which is so disappointing, But he is hopeful his ‘bloodhound’ as he calls the man doing the searching, will have better luck with a new lead. We can only hope.

Snow White can’t swim. I think she uses her height to keep her from drowning. I don’t need her and she irritates me with her hair scooped into a cap, giving her the appearance of a medieval milkmaid. Snow White and I have the pool to ourselves. Richard arranged with the hotel management to keep two hours free from guests for every day of our stay. Even the attendants and waiters leave us alone, which is nice. I wish Richard could find some other useful employment for Eirwen, but apparently, she is employed by Franz and must supervise me.

I cannot wait to come of age.

Enough of that, as promised, I will continue with my journal.

In South Africa, the weather is hot and humid during the months before and after Christmas. The reason for this has to do with it being below the Equator. Daddy had sent me a miniature china tea set. It came all the way from England and was packed with straw in a wooden chest. Alice and I were so busy hosting doll’s tea parties in the ensuing weeks to notice the change occurring in the nursery. Annie-Jo said it was time Alice and I moved into the big girl’s room. This turned out to be the open space closer to the veranda where, she assured me, the cool breezes would blow through the shutters and fan me whilst I slept.

One night soon after moving out of the nursery, we were kept awake by the heat and the noise of the crickets. Rain fell so hard it bounced onto the timbered veranda roof like it was a terrible giant drum. Pools of rain brought the bullfrogs out and they croaked so loud the shutters on the windows rattled. I went in search of Annie-Jo to tell her to make them stop but she wasn’t around. Far away, further into the house and through the noise of all that was going on outside. I could hear mother screaming.

It wasn’t unusual to hear mother scream, especially after she had drunk too many glasses of brandy, and felt the need to get things off her chest. But there was something different this time and there were feet running urgent messages.

With visions of the old witch queen tormenting mother and shouting orders at the houseboys, I decided it was best to return to the big girl’s room and put up with the din of the bullfrogs.

Annie-Jo once told me a story about bullfrogs being made to be quiet by holding your hand firmly across their mouth.

I shuddered at the thought.

Alice and I lay still and waited for sleep to overcome us.

It did not but after a while the crickets stopped their chirping and the bullfrogs settled to odd outbursts of croaking. I got up and as I poured the last drops of water from the pitcher, a shadow passed under the door. Annie-Jo had returned to the nursery. I rushed into the room and found her bent over a crib. She turned and put one finger to her lips indicating I must be silent. She adjusted the folds to the muslin that hung from the canopy and, with her apron; she wiped sweat from her face. Annie-Jo looked exhausted but when she saw the empty pitcher in my hand, she whispered for me to go back to bed. She took the jug and motioned towards the passage leading to the kitchen. I nodded I understood. She left and moments later a squawk louder than a nest of hungry chicks erupted from the crib. If a hand over the mouth of a bullfrog worked, then it should be easy to silence the bawl of a tiny baby.

The following morning when it was discovered the child did not wake, the queen witch lay into Annie-Jo beating her unconscious with her walking cane. I ran to stop her and when I screamed out that I knew the nurse had done nothing wrong, the queen witch raised her stick towards me. I stood my ground and made my eyes into mirrors. Hatred burned in hers but as I continued to stare back, the old witch froze and I felt the curse change direction. Felt it turn and head straight into her evil heart.

Annie-Jo had been right.

But a heavy burden lay upon my beloved nurse. She had left her post and taking her own life was the only way to make amends. She did not say goodbye but her ghost visited me every night and whispered songs in my ears. Afterwards when it tried to warn me not to abuse the power held in my eyes, I grew tired of it and soon, the ghost began to fade.

Today I am twelve. It is early and I want to write as much as I can before the activities planned by Richard begin.

There was no time to make an entry in my journal yesterday because Snow White decided to take me for a ride in an open carriage. Richard had to go back to the city and Franz had asylum patients to see, so I was left with little choice other than to oblige.

She has a bad habit of raising one eyebrow whenever I insist Alice must be included in any plans concerning me. And her attitude was not to my liking with regard to the moment before we left the hotel room. I was tilting Alice’s hat so as to hide the side of her head where her hair was burnt.

Snow White insisted we hurry. I stopped attending to Alice’s hat and faced her square on. What if the coach driver was waiting? Why should that matter to her? She turned from my stare, uttered she was merely concerned the horses would become restless.

I made her wait longer than was necessary. When I was satisfied with Alice’s hat, I set about tilting my own, that way our hats would appear to be a trend of fashion rather than an attempt to hide an ugly bald patch. Just as well I did, because the fierce June sun would have scorched my face if the brim’s acute angle had not shaded it. Me-thinks Snow White knows very little of nursing.

When we returned to the Hotel, Richard was waiting in the foyer. He had no further news of daddy’s whereabouts other than the original lead had not come to a dead end after all, so that is good.

Snow White hovered in the background, her nose red across the bridge where the sun had caught it. I notice her eyes light up whenever Richard turns to her, yet his interest in her is only to ask how I am coming on.

I had the dream last night but was awakened before it turned into a nightmare. Alice’s fist dug into my ear and that woke me up. Good old Alice. Or I should say, good young Alice because she is two years and six months younger than me. Her breaking my dream is why I am able to make this early start to the journal.

So, where were we? Ah yes – as I wrote, the ghost of Annie-Jo kept me strong. I tried to close my ears to the arguments going on in the far side of the house. Kingsley accusing mother of drinking too much, thus weakening the child before it was born and mother weeping, not even having the strength to scream back at him.

A string of new nurses came to look after me but they did not stay, saying I was possessed because I talked to the ghost of Annie-Jo who was still being mourned by the whole community. Alice and I tried to host tea parties but a cloud hung about the entire house notwithstanding the nursery’s isolation. We took to sneaking out and going for walks. One day we came across Kingsley riding his horse. He did not see us but a thought entered my head that if he disappeared then mother would return to England and my daddy would smile again.

Today is the twenty-sixth ofJune and my latest session with Franz went well. He sat back in his chair and listened, fingers pointed like church steeples, whilst I told him about my mirror dream. When I finished he probed my memory to reveal more about Kingsley’s mother. I only told him what he needed to know about her seizure – nothing more and anyway, her son’s death was nothing to do with me. He fell from his horse during a Safari hunt.

Mother inherited all his wealth yet it did her no good for she pined for things lost in the past: just like I did for my dearest daddy, besides, everyone knows the fire was an accident, and if mother had drank a little less brandy that night, she might have been able to escape that section of the porch where she kicked the lamp over.

In Africa, sudden whirls of wind can flare up from nowhere. The natives have names for them, when translated they mean devils, furies, demons and imps: anyway, before it took hold, the fire was put out. The houseboys worked hard to save mother, but to no avail. It was for the best really, with so many dreadful burns, she would have suffered such awful pain.

I have decided to instruct Richard to cut short Doctor Franz’s psychological examinations of me. I do not take kindly to his constant questions with regard to Alice’s burn marks. And someone has been tampering with the lock on my journal. I suspect it to be Snow White: so she too can go.

Peace at last.

Eirwen and Franz are gone. I’ve already mentioned that she was not a swimmer – so why she insisted on being in the pool with me I will never know. And when she floundered, as usual, there was no adult in sight – just me and dear, dear Alice, who was sat amongst the towels.

I thought of pulling my nurse out when she slipped and hit her head against the tiles. I thought of helping her to the surface like I’d been taught to do when I was a six year old, but she looked so calm in the shimmering dappled water. I was thinking about all kinds of things when dark shadows moved across the surface and two members of the hotel staff dived in, pulled her limp body out of the water and began to massage her back. When water gushed from her mouth, and a deep breath made her cough and choke, I knew she would live: anyway, they are gone now and Richard has news of daddy’s whereabouts.

I long to re-unite Alice with daddy. What better gift could there be for all of us? The latest information is that he took employment with a fishing crew, here in Wales.

I will not leave until he is found. I keep vigil, watching for him among the street crowds now that we have a hotel room with a front-side view – the one that was vacated by Snow White. Also, I have bought a strongbox to keep my journal in. I feel it is safer now.

Alice is happy for me to help her with her writing. She is such a dear and remembers all sorts of things, which I had completely forgotten. She too remembers Annie-Jo with affection but thinks perhaps I was cruel to disregard her ghost’s advice. I don’t mind Alice thinking that, she only wants the best for me. Of that I know.

Alice agrees the old witch was mean by not allowing her to attend lessons; and confining poor Alice to the big girl’s room, all by herself, so afterwards I taught Alice the whole lesson, with me pretending to be teacher. We like playing school. When Richard finds daddy and my nightmares go completely, Alice and I are going to make a pretend hospital and I am going to perform an operation on her horrid scar.

She should never have been near that porch lamp. We would have both been tucked up fast asleep only for those demonic gusts that circled the veranda and made the light from the porch sway throwing shadows to swirl across the big girl’s ceiling. We so missed our beloved Annie-Jo, who would have calmed us. But she was no longer alive and her ghost was no help – it only lectured. Mother had the houseboys keep an eye on us. They were never intrusive, which was how we sneaked past them unnoticed.

The lamp had to be taken down from the porch’s hook and placed where it couldn’t send shadows towards our ceiling and frighten us.

Alice’s eyes were keen. She loved playing scout games; following unseen trails, but when we reached the hook holding the lamp, it was too high for me to reach, so I put Alice on the floor and quietly pulled one of the chairs from the garden to climb upon. I was loathed to spill oil onto my nightgown and carried it with care to place it out of the wind. When the flicker steadied, I returned the chair to the garden.

I heard mother dancing along the inner hall, swirling to some song inside her head. I didn’t want her to see me. We were forbidden to wander after hours. Besides, she was bumping into furniture, giggling and obviously tipsy. I’d supposed she was looking for the houseboys, but I never got the chance to find out because she tumbled over the lamp. Why, I’ll never know. It was lit for goodness sake – couldn’t she see it?

Fearing the clatter would alert the servants, I hid amongst the terrace furniture. The flare from the lamp raged, spreading burning oil across the porch’s floor. The boys guarding the big girl’s room put it out. They did not know I was there, so whilst they attended to mother, I crept to the side of the porch and spotted Alice, tossed into a corner by the force of water as the boys dowsed the fire. Her lovely yellow hair blackened and frizzled: peeling away from her pale porcelain head. I scooped her up, slid away and returned to our room without anybody knowing we had ever left it. I bathed her several times, desperate to rid her of the smell still lingering in her joints. I buried her clothes in the sandpit.

By the time of mother’s funeral, I had nursed Alice back to her beautiful self, except for the awful bald patch, that is.

Richard came into our lives soon after the fire. He was the company’s legal expert and appointed to look after everything important. I trust him absolutely but wish he would stop worrying over my mental welfare, once he has found my dearest daddy, my nightmares will cease – I know it.

Without the Doctor visiting, I have no need for journals but they have become part of my life now. And while everyone behaves and Richard concentrates on finding daddy, I am relaxed and so far, I have had no more nightmares. There was one little concern, Snow White has written to me on several occasions wanting to know how Alice’s satin sash got onto the pool steps? When asked later, the attendants that saved her life, say no ribbon was found in the pool or on the tiled walkway.

They never stop, do they? Questions all the time, probing my poor sick brain. No wonder I have nightmares.

(C) 2024 Pat Barnett.

“Fractured Images” is a masterfully crafted psychological thriller set in 1899, following twelve-year-old Katherine through her diary entries. As she records her memories of life in colonial Africa at the behest of her psychoanalyst Dr. Franz Post, a disturbing narrative unfolds. The story reveals the dark truth behind her mother’s death in a plantation fire, her beloved nurse Annie-Jo’s suicide, and her companion doll Alice. Through Katherine’s increasingly unreliable narration, we discover her fractured psyche, her manipulation of events, and the horrifying reality that Alice is actually a doll damaged in the fire that killed her mother – a fire that Katherine herself may have caused. The narrative builds tension through subtle hints and revelations, ultimately exposing the disturbed mind of a troubled child grappling with trauma, guilt, and delusion.

Pat Barnett crafts tales that masterfully blend the ordinary with the extraordinary, drawing from her rich life experiences spanning from post-war Manchester to the shores of Australia. Now based in Pickering, North Yorkshire, she brings her diverse background to create stories that explore the darker corners of human nature, while maintaining a deep connection to her Manchester roots and love of Yorkshire’s mysterious landscapes.

“Creatures” is a spellbinding collection of short stories that delves into the shadowy boundary between reality and the supernatural. From chance encounters during morning walks to unexplained phenomena in ancient Yorkshire buildings, each tale invites readers to question “what if?” The collection showcases Barnett’s talent for crafting unreliable narrators and building psychological tension, making it perfect for readers who enjoy their supernatural tales with a dash of psychological complexity.

Read on Amazon