The Family Lie

by P L Kane

  That just left one other alternative: someone had done this to his father.

  But who? And why?

  Perhaps he’d find some answers at the family home? But Mitch spent ages just parked outside it, sitting on the bike and staring at the house, the front door. It was only when he began to draw strange looks from a family, a couple with children passing by, that he got off. The last thing he needed to contend with today was the police, called to investigate a person loitering outside the place. Although sometime soon, he needed to pay them a visit, maybe even arrange to see the body. It was too late today, however, Mitch decided. Or perhaps it was just another thing he was putting off?

  Remembering what his aunty and uncle had said about safety, he’d wheeled his bike around the back – locking it up securely and grabbing his stuff before returning to the front.

  Even then, he’d dawdled with the key in his hand. It just didn’t feel right to be doing this, but then who else could? He and Bella were the only ones left to sort all this out: the house, and whatever else needed sorting. Gritting his teeth, he put it in the lock and turned it. The door opened with a loud creak; it sounded like the hinges hadn’t had any attention in aeons.

  Regardless of the fact it was only late afternoon, it was dark inside the house. And cold, in stark contrast to how it was outside and how it had been at the previous home he’d visited. Mitch half expected to see his breath turn to mist in here. It was as if the spirit of the person who’d owned it had kept it warm, and now that he’d gone—

  Yeah, he’d been warm all right. At the end.

  Mitch blinked away the images that were forming in his mind, the horrible pictures of his father alight, staggering through those trees at night-time, his flesh turning black and …

  Dumping his stuff in the hallway, dropping his helmet on top of that, Mitch closed the door behind him with a slam. Then he leaned against it, summoning the strength to continue with this task. Eventually, he pushed himself off and made his way through the hall, wooden beams guiding him along.

  With every step, memories came rushing back. Of running up and down that hallway as a nipper, bounding up and down the stairs that were on his left a bit further in. So full of energy he couldn’t even begin to imagine doing that now; it was like the world out there, and what had happened, had conspired to suck all of that out of him. At this moment in time, he would have given anything to be that age again. God, he was far too young to be so jaded, wasn’t he? So cynical? What had happened to him?

  Life. Just life. Getting older and the consequences of that, of his experiences – especially recently.

  The door to the living room on his right was open and he glanced inside, taking in its faded maroon sofa and a couple of chairs (one wingback), bookcases lining the walls, a fireplace with its mirror hanging above it, the small TV in the corner on which Thomas used to watch those programmes he’d bitch about. Every presenter must have looked tiny on that!

  He ventured upstairs next, taking the steps slowly and using the wooden handrail – so much of this place was wood! – ending up on the landing. In front of him were the two rooms that made up the toilet and bathroom, separate in case someone wanted to use the loo and another person needed a bath or a shower, which were actually one and the same combined. On his right was a corridor that led off to two bedrooms opposite each other, the first of which had been Bella’s when she’d lived here and the furthest away had been his. Neither had changed very much, he noted when he looked – but then there wouldn’t be any cause to. Single beds in each, a wardrobe, dresser, desk for doing homework on.

  At the other end of the landing was the master bedroom, where his mum and dad had slept when she’d still been alive – and his father had done the same on his own for all those years after she passed. A double bed in here, the covers still rumpled from the last time it had been used. Mitch pulled a face at the thought of kipping in there, but then he didn’t particularly fancy sleeping in a single bed again after all this time. He’d just change the sheets in a bit, he told himself. That should help.

  Returning downstairs, he came across the study he’d been thinking about earlier. It looked like there had been some attempt by his aunty and uncle to keep things tidy, but there were still books and papers scattered about everywhere, especially on the desk and chair Thomas used to work at. If Mitch knew his dad, he would have fought any kind of intrusion into this inner sanctum, and might have messed things up again afterwards even if they had been inside. Then again, maybe the disorder in here had been part of his father’s affliction? No, he’d been this way even before he started to become vague. Mitch remembered it being disorganised.

  Continuing on to the kitchen, with its large wooden – more wood – table in the middle. They used to eat on that. Never in the living room, that wasn’t allowed, always at the table like civilized people. Mitch had been told the cupboards and fridge-freezer should still be well stocked, enough provisions to last him until he could get to the shop. There was tea, he was assured – his aunty and uncle were obsessed with that particular drink – and long-life semi-skimmed milk, and the kettle was in full working order, so that was all right. Get your priorities straight. He checked a few cupboards, finding tins inside them, and in the one they’d used for medicine: plasters, bandages, paracetamol, and so on. Only now there were also prescription pills for various other ailments, many of which he didn’t recognize. Some of which were probably for the dementia, Mitch figured. There were so many that it was a wonder Thomas Prescott didn’t rattle when he walked. If he took them, that was.

  Mitch was turning to head out again and fetch his stuff, when he froze. Saw the door there on his left, ajar. The door to the only part of this house he hadn’t revisited yet. Mitch swallowed dryly. It had always given him the creeps, that bit of his old home. But then they did with most people, didn’t they? Those sections of any house. The very top bit, the attic (which thankfully this place didn’t have), and the very bottom. The underneath of the house.

  The cellar.

  Both similar kinds of spaces, meant for storage primarily. Places of ladders and slatted steps, of cobwebs and insects. Full of dark nooks and crannies where a child’s imagination could run riot. He’d never been brave enough to go down there on his own, had never really had any cause or desire to. The thought alone was enough to send a chill up and down his spine, along his shoulders, to tickle the back of his neck.

  Quickly, Mitch went over and closed that door shut. Then he continued out of the kitchen, without looking back.

  ***

  Once he’d unpacked some of his stuff, turning on a few lights throughout the house, he thought about heading back into the study to have a poke around.

  But, after surveying the scene once more, Mitch became so depressed with the thought that before long he’d need to sort out everything, not only in this room but in the whole house – possibly alone, unless he could convince Bella to come – that he just shifted the detritus and sat down in his dad’s chair, staring at the computer screen which looked like it had seen better days back in the ’90s. It was like there had been some vague attempt to move with the times, but only a little. Christ alone knew what kind of operating system that thing used, the tower looked like it was carved out of granite or something.

  There were several sets of drawers on either side of that desk, however, and Mitch found himself opening a couple and rooting around inside them. One was filled to the brim with old copies of The Acre, another with journals and periodicals. In the very bottom one there were more piles of papers, a few boxes of staples and paperclips. But underneath all that, something else. Mitch’s fingers recoiled at first, because he wasn’t expecting glass. Then he looked properly and he found most of a bottle of eight-year-old German brandy tucked away inside. He couldn’t help smiling at that.

  ‘Good old dad,’ he said out loud, determining to have a drink or several in his memory that evening.

  More searching, and in another drawer h
e found a stack of photo albums. Mitch opened the first, only to be confronted with a picture of his mum and dad who looked even younger than he was; than his aunty and uncle had been when they met and she brought Vince to the village. They were standing in the square, the photo light but still in colour, when colour must have been quite new. The couple – were they even married at this point? – appeared so happy. Smiling and holding each other like he and Lucy were doing in quite a few early photos – for dates, special occasions … birthdays – on his phone, and stored in the cloud. He wondered then, as so often he did, what would happen if technology suddenly failed one day – say after some kind of huge EMP? Would all those digital memories be lost forever? (Would there ever be any more photos of him and Lucy like that?) Were the ones he was holding any better: they could fade; they could rot. They could be destroyed.

  He flicked through more pictures, a whole history in just that single album. More in the others, some of Bella when she was only a baby, when she was a toddler. Mitch grinned again, decided to take these into the living room along with the brandy and make a night of it.

  So, he carried the photos through, grabbing a glass from the kitchen for the alcohol – of which he poured a generous measure as he sat down on the couch. He considered lighting the fire, with yet more wood – because it was still quite chilly in here – but knew the brandy would soon warm him up. Sucking in air through his teeth at his first taste of the drink, the brown liquid simultaneously fiery and smooth, he flipped through page after page of photos. They showed not only the history of their family, but Green Acres itself, although it had to be said that hadn’t changed as much as the people who resided there.

  Mitch had never really thought about why they were so resistant to change, but looking at the buildings, the scenery in the background, it was pretty obvious. There was not only a rich tradition here of communal celebrations – from harvest festivals, to winter carol services – dating back generations, but also it was just such a pretty place. Compare it with the likes of Downstone, Hannerton, and Granfield, with all their glass, metal and concrete, and it wasn’t hard to see why the folk living here wanted to keep the outside world at bay. Where some might argue it belonged.

  Now the outside was creeping in, wasn’t it? The thefts that his aunty and uncle were talking about, the housing developers sniffing round – it was only a matter of time, all that land out there – and just a sense of life speeding up and spiralling out of control.

  Imploding.

  Pouring more and more brandy, Mitch pored over more and more photos. Coming at last to one of his father, middle-aged, standing proudly outside his home, leaning on one of the walls. He had no idea who’d taken it, a neighbour or relative, but Mitch fished it out and held it up, then put down his glass and traced the edges of his dad’s face with a shaking finger.

  He hadn’t cried, not in all the time since he’d heard the man was dead, but now those tears came. And they came in abundance, wracking Mitch’s body as he sat back on the sofa still holding the photo, only gradually letting it fall to his lap when it felt too heavy for him.

  Heavy, just like his eyes – the stinging saltwater making them sore, making them want to close and stay closed. Suddenly he was very tired, too tired to fight it anymore. His body was crying out for the sleep it had been denied since he’d found out his father had died.

  Since his father had been killed?

  No, don’t think about that. Just think about how warm it is now in here, how comforting that blackness is since you’ve shut your eyes.

  How it feels to rest. To be at rest.

  But that feeling of contentment soon drifted away, as Mitch began to dream. A dream not of darkness itself, but a descent into darkness. Going down one step at a time when he couldn’t even see them, having to gauge where he was as he went further down and down. Suddenly stopping, hearing a noise and seeing something. Shapes in the blackness. Outlines really, figures moving about. Then shadows, flickering shadows. Monsters, even though he knew they didn’t really exist. Monsters who were going to—

  Mitch jerked awake when he heard the scratching sound, his whole body tensing. Used to living on his nerves, he hadn’t been able to ignore the sound once he’d registered it, however faint. However far away it seemed.

  Shaking his head, attempting to clear the fog, he looked first from the bottle of brandy in front of him – which was almost empty now – to his watch, which told him it was the early hours of the morning. He’d been asleep some time, and wondered how long that scratching might have been going on before he noticed it. Clearly he’d been deeply asleep.

  Mitch started to rise, his legs feeling like jelly and hardly able to support him. He just about managed to stop himself from crashing back down into the seat again, rolling over to use the arm of the sofa to lever himself up.

  There it was again: a scratching, creaking sound. What was that? Burglars trying to get in? Maybe someone had heard the place was empty and decided to try their luck, those newcomers his Uncle Vince had been so worried about, that he didn’t trust? If so, they’d definitely picked the wrong night to do that. If he could just get to his feet properly, he’d give them the pummelling of their lives!

  Oh, who was he kidding? They’d flatten him in this state.

  So he glanced around for a weapon he could use, spying the poker on the hearth. Mitch tottered towards it, trying desperately not to topple into the fire itself. It wasn’t lit – just how do you accidentally set yourself on fire again? In a drunken stupor maybe? – but it still wouldn’t do him any favours. Snatching up the iron rod with the jagged end, he nodded to himself. It felt like a good replacement for his baton back when he was on duty. Could potentially do more damage than that thing if used in the right way.

  Okay, right. Time to go and see what that blasted noise was. Mitch swayed as he made his way out through the living-room door, cocking an ear to work out where the scratching and creaking was coming from. His right he decided, along the corridor and into the kitchen. Listening again, just to make sure, he set off in search of those burglars to wallop them.

  But when he arrived in the room, the lights still on in there too as he’d left them, he found it eerily empty. And didn’t a part of him feel worse because he was on his own in there? Especially when that noise came again, louder than ever.

  It was coming from the door, also on his right.

  The cellar door.

  Mitch’s hands began to shake again. No, anywhere but there! The scratching came again, more urgently. Definitely from inside. Good Christ! He had to check it out, what other option did he have? He wasn’t just going to curl up back to sleep knowing there was someone down there. Someone who might come up while he was asleep and—

  Swallowing even more dryly than before, possibly because of the dehydration, he stepped forwards gingerly. To be fair, it was the only way he could step forwards, because the room was spinning. Fuck! Why had he drunk all that brandy in the first place? Toasting his dad.

  Poor choice of words. Very poor choice.

  Mitch shook his head and raised his free – still shaking – hand. Reached out for the handle of the door, though it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. Time stretched out to match his fingertips, which were now brushing the edges of that handle. Was it his imagination, or was it hot? Burning even?

  It didn’t matter, he needed to get that door open. Steeling himself as best he could, holding the poker high in his other hand, readying to strike.

  The noise had stopped. The scratching and creaking. Now there was nothing, and he began to wonder if he’d simply imagined the whole damned thing.

  Then the door itself banged, loudly, as if something was trying to force it from the other side. Mitch leaped backwards, nearly tripped and fell over, but righted himself at the last minute by grabbing the edge of the wooden table. A good job too, because if he’d fallen over he might not have gotten back up again.

  The thumping against the door remind
ed him he still had another problem to deal with, a very real one on the other side of that barrier.

  ‘Sod this!’ Mitch muttered. Rushing forwards, he grabbed the handle, the poker up and primed for action. Pulling on both the handle and the door, it swung wide open, revealing the absolute darkness inside.

  He immediately regretted his decision, wanting to slam it shut again – but it was too late. Mitch was already staring into that particular abyss. What’s more, it was staring right back at him. Whether it was the nightmare he’d just had, the brandy, or something else, he was seeing those figures moving, those flickering shadows again. Those monsters in the cellar. And he wanted to descend, that part of his mind making him move forwards off the edge even though it was dangerous, even though it might kill him.

  ‘W-Who’s there?’ he asked, unable to keep the flicker from his own voice. ‘I said who’s—’

  Suddenly there they were: eyes. Bright eyes in the darkness, the thing he’d felt staring back at him. Glowing orbs, boring into him. Rushing at him as swiftly as he’d rushed at the door and flung it open, eager to face whatever was behind it – or not.

  Shadows, outlines, barrelling towards him, and Mitch swung the poker to meet them, causing a swishing sound as it cut through the air. Causing him to almost drop forwards and topple down the cellar steps he knew must still be there – even though he couldn’t see them for love nor money. He’d be descending quicker than ever then, wouldn’t he? A broken neck putting paid to any chance of tackling whatever it was that had been scratching and banging.