“Maybe you could put some bacon on while you’re there, and I’ll add the finishing touch to the bread when I get in.”
Eliza rolled her eyes, but as she turned, she froze. There, peering over the fence at the foot of the garden, was the book collector. “He’s back!” Eliza heard herself say.
Mr. Fallow stood, staring across the garden, his face an off-white blur in the growing dusk.
“Who’s back?” her mum asked.
“There’s a man at the end of the garden.” Eliza moved out of her mother’s way to give her a clear view.
“There’s no one there,” her mother replied.
Eliza turned to look back. He was gone.
Her dad filed out of the shed. “Probably just a curious neighbor.”
Eliza watched her parents walk through the long grass towards the foot of the garden. “Don’t go down there!”
Eliza caught the look of irritation on her mother’s face. And the question. There would be more questions to follow. Best to tell her now. Eliza clumped through the grass, soaking her feet and ankles as she pulled herself up and glanced over the fence.
The lane behind the houses was empty. Mr. Eustace Fallow had vanished. No doubt vaulting away like a locust. Eliza checked the trees just in case he was perched in one like some gruesome bird.
“Is this the return of Casper Mustard?” her dad asked with a wry grin.
“Cornelius Mustard,” Eliza corrected him. Cornelius Mustard had been her imaginary friend when she was younger. Before her mum drove him away and banned Eliza from the distractions of her imagination.
“Don’t bring that nonsense up again,” her mum said with a dark look. “So, who did you see?”
Eliza took a deep breath and crossed her fingers, an old habit. “There was this man. He knocked at the door earlier.”
“A man?” Her mum asked. “Why didn’t you say? Who was he?”
“He said he was a book collector. He was a bit…odd. So I told him that there weren’t any books and shut the door. I didn’t think it was important.”
“Carrion.” Her dad shook his head. “Vultures circling ’round a dead man’s house. They read the obituaries in the news, and it brings them out like worms after rainfall.”
“We don’t know Tom’s dead,” Eliza said.
“He’s not coming back,” her mum replied in a tone that was almost pleading. Once again, Eliza wondered just what her grandfather could have done to make his own daughter hate him so badly.
“Come.” Her dad placed a hand on Eliza’s shoulder as he smiled at her mum. “Let’s finish up. I’m beat.”
“Eliza, go back to the house,” her mum said. “And if anyone else knocks on the door, don’t open it. Come and find us first. We won’t be much longer.”
Eliza bit her tongue. She was nearly thirteen, not six. “Yes, Mum.”
But as they trudged back towards the house, Eliza took one last look behind her.
There was no sign of Mr. Fallow. Just a dark stretch of lane punctuated by deepening shadows.
3
Dark House
Eliza gazed up at the dark house. Strands of ivy curled across empty windows and choked the old brick walls. She shivered. Why did she find the place so unsettling? It was just a house, after all, and it was not as if she believed in ghosts or anything. Her mum had made sure of that. But her mum’s lessons on ignoring nonsense didn’t stop the feelings she got from time to time that the world wasn’t always as it should be. That sometimes there were things lurking at the edges of her vision that had no business being there.
Eliza opened the back door and stepped into the welcome blast of heat that swaddled the kitchen like a warm, invisible blanket.
She filled the kettle, placed it on the stove, and wondered if her grandparents had been aware of such things as electric kettles. Probably not. Their lives must have been so different from hers—Eliza growing up in a clean, sterile bubble, her grandparents stuck out here in a bygone era.
She examined the framed photograph over the oven, its glass speckled with globs of fat from the stove. It showed Tom and Susan dressed smartly, standing attentively before the camera, the sea and sky a washed-out blue behind them, its colors faded with time. Her grandparents looked so young, far younger than Eliza remembered them. As she considered it, she realized it had never crossed her mind that they had once been her age.
She took a cloth from the sink, soaked it, added a splash of dishwashing liquid, and cleaned the glass over the photograph, her mind wandering and returning to an old, unwelcome memory. It was a recollection she knew better than to encourage, and yet it had called to her since she’d set foot in the house.
Now, as she gazed at her grandparents, she let it unfold.
Six years ago, she’d sat in this very kitchen, with the same low table covered by the same red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. It had been a balmy June day, the bright blue skies darkening at the edges as the threat of a storm smudged the horizon.
It was the first time Eliza had stayed alone with her grandparents; indeed, she had only ever met them once before. Her mother had been recovering from appendicitis in hospital, her father abroad at some sort of dentists’ convention. She still remembered her mother’s concern as she’d complained that there was no one else for Eliza to stay with.
Her grandmother had been out that day, visiting her mum in hospital, leaving Tom and Eliza in the house.
Tom had decided they’d have pizza for breakfast, fish and chips for lunch, and a Chinese takeaway for dinner, and his eyes had twinkled at the idea. They’d sat in the kitchen, a slight breeze blowing through the back door as they picked through their lunch. Eliza could still smell the vinegar covering Tom’s chips, could still see the strange, clunky rings he wore on his fingers. She’d asked him what they were.
He’d told her they were magical.
Eliza had laughed, but when she’d looked up at him, expecting to see him smile, he’d looked quite serious. But before she could press him further, they’d both jumped, as a huge crash had come from above.
Tom’s eyes had strayed to the ceiling as he’d muttered a strange word that Eliza had never heard before. Or since. He leaped up. “Stay here,” he had commanded her as he’d run through the kitchen.
Eliza had remained in her chair, listening to the din of his feet on the stairs, her heart thumping. And then she’d peered at the half-torn label on the vinegar bottle. She had stared and stared at that label, fighting the urge to get up and follow her grandfather.
Eventually, her curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d found herself tiptoeing up the staircase. She’d made it halfway up when Tom had run from his bedroom, flying across the landing, a bulky rifle clenched in his hand. Thankfully, he’d been too intent on the hallway to notice her.
Eliza had frozen, her instincts crying out to return to the kitchen, but her curiosity had taken her up the stairs because she’d needed to see what had caused the commotion.
She had needed to understand, because somehow, even though she’d been only six, Eliza had known that some distant part of her future lay at the top of those stairs. That this might be her one and only chance to peek through the curtain her mother had drawn across her world.
Eliza’s steps had been slow and precise as she’d walked along the hall, avoiding the places that would set off creaks. Ahead, she’d heard voices speaking, hushed, urgent, and angry.
They’d been coming from Tom’s library, a large room that, like most of the rooms in the house, was lined with bookcases. But his library was larger than most and usually its door was locked. Eliza had peeked around the corner.
It had been empty.
Yet she’d still heard voices—her grandfather’s, low and threatening, and another, which had been deeper than any voice should be. From time to time it had hissed, putting her in mind of a nest of snakes.
Slowly, Eliza had stepped into the room, checking the window and finding it closed. So where had the voices
been coming from?
And then her eyes had been drawn to a slight gap between two bookcases, an edge of a door she’d never seen before.
A secret door.
Eliza remembered clutching her sleeves as she’d stepped towards the gap, as the voices had grown louder. More urgent, more threatening.
As she’d reached the door, something had flitted past, a tall, dark shape. It may have looked a little like a man, but she’d known it wasn’t. No, whatever it had been, it hadn’t been a man. Or a woman.
It hadn’t even been human.
She’d wanted to scream and run back down the stairs and out of the door and away across the street. To keep running until the world made sense once more.
But she hadn’t. She’d taken another step, her eyes wide and unblinking as they drank in every detail.
“Get back to the city!” Tom’s voice. Different now. Deep with authority.
“No,” the other had replied, its voice low. “I’m going to live here. It’s so much nicer. Brighter.”
“You shouldn’t have come. You know the rules. Go back to where you belong, or so help me, I’ll shoot you dead where you stand.”
The other had paused and sniffed. “Ah, I smell a drearspawn child. So succulent.”
“Get out!” Tom had cried, and Eliza had heard a click. “One more step towards my house, and I’ll paint the walls with you. Get back. Now!”
The other voice had growled as something sliced through the air, followed by the sound of books tumbling to the ground.
Once again, she’d thought of running. But she couldn’t have left Tom, and she had known, instinctively, that somehow, this moment was important. That one day she’d be forced to face such things as whatever lurked beyond the door. Better to face it now and understand what lay in store.
So Eliza had pushed the door open and stepped into the room.
The figure had been larger than she’d first thought, so tall it had to stoop to avoid its scorched head touching the ceiling. Its scarlet face had stood in stark contrast to its sleek black suit. Its eyes had been wide and bright yellow, two tiny black balls at their centers. It had grinned at Eliza, revealing a mouth lined with long, curved teeth.
“Eliza! I told you to stay downstairs,” Tom had said, his eyes unwavering from the line of his rifle, which was aimed at the creature’s heart.
“Eliza,” the other had said. Her name had sounded revolting coming from its lips. “Good evening, Eliza.”
“It’s afternoon,” she’d replied and swallowed, hoping it hadn’t noticed her shaking hands.
“Is it? I shall have to find out what an afternoon is, shan’t I? Perhaps you can give me a tour of your world?”
“Eliza, look away,” Tom had said as he brought the rifle up, aiming it at the creature’s head.
Eliza hadn’t looked away. The creature had stared back with a look of rapt concentration.
And then it had bowed to Eliza with a theatrical flourish, turned and leaped upon a desk, bending low and climbing through a huge stained glass window.
Eliza had stared at the window, drinking in the strange fragrances that had seemed to pour through it until Tom had crossed the room and slammed it shut. He’d shaken his head as he’d pushed her from the room. “It’s all my fault. I’m sorry. I forgot the binds and seals. I’m not cut out for this anymore.”
“Cut out for what?” Eliza had asked.
Tom had leaned over, his large brown eyes staring into hers. “Eliza. Whatever you think you saw, you didn’t.” He’d placed a hand on her forehead. “You’re getting a fever. You’re hallucinating. And if we ever have a hope of seeing each other again, you must never mention this to your mother. Now, please, go downstairs.”
Tom had followed her from the room, pulling the wall closed behind him until Eliza had found herself standing once more in a study lined with books.
And if it hadn’t been for the rifle in his arms, she may have believed that she really was coming down with fever dreams.
Eliza looked away from the photograph of her grandparents and into the garden. The shed door was still ajar, torchlight playing over the ground as the sky darkened. Night was setting in. Soon her parents would be finished. She glanced at the ceiling, thinking of the hidden room and the creature that may or may not have passed through a stained glass window.
Had that really happened?
It couldn’t have. Her mum spent most of her life telling Eliza there were no such things as monsters. The very idea was nonsense.
But if that was the case, why did she feel the need to repeat this to Eliza at every available opportunity? And why wasn’t she allowed to watch or read anything imaginative? What was the problem, if these things were just made up?
Eliza looked back to the shed. Once her parents were finished out there, the inventory would nearly be complete and soon they’d pile into the car and she’d most likely never see the house again. Then she would be back in the suburbs, in their concrete and magnolia bubble, spending her days being micromanaged by her mother while her father fixed people’s teeth.
She took the stairs two at a time, flicking on light switches as she went, dousing the house in a soft yellow light to drive out the shadows.
As she passed along the hall towards the library, Eliza’s heart thumped. She told herself it was just exertion from the stairs, doing her best to ignore the whispers that seemed to issue from the empty rooms.
4
The Hidden Room
As she passed the tall, arched window opposite the study, Eliza stopped.
The winter sun set heavy and red, the road below empty but for a few dead leaves skittering across the pavement. Despite there being no sign of the so-called book collector, Eliza yanked the curtains closed.
She stood before the study door; her hand faltered on the doorknob. She took a deep breath, turned it, and pushed the door open, reaching for the light switch.
The room was exactly how she remembered, a soft off-white carpet and deep-red walls lined with bookcases. The books filled the air with a musty scent, their thick spines colored in somber tones. Eliza examined the corner where the secret door had been, scouring the wall for the tell-tale sign of a crack, but there was none.
She pulled the bookshelf. It didn’t move.
She scoured the bookcase for a switch and, after a while, began to question her memory. Perhaps Tom had been right. Perhaps she really had been coming down with a fever. Perhaps the whole nightmarish memory had been a figment of her heated imagination.
Eliza stopped searching. If the door had ever existed, she couldn’t find it. But as she was about to leave the room, something caught her gaze.
A black-covered book stood out among a set of tan-colored volumes. It wasn’t the book’s color that caught her eye, however, but the gold embossed symbol on its side. Eliza thought back to the book collector’s description:
…a thin rectangle inside two circles, a door inside two worlds.
She pulled the book, producing a soft click and distant clatter of gears. As the hidden door appeared, Eliza froze, her excitement turning to dread. What would she find on the other side? Tom? Was this where his dead body was? Was that why he’d gone missing? Perhaps he’d fallen and bashed his head and died alone in his secret room, hidden from help.
For a moment she considered running downstairs and fetching her parents. Let them deal with it. But if she did, the room would be emptied, sealed, and she’d never see it again.
Eliza ignored her trembling hands, threw open the door, and stepped into the hidden room.
5
The Book of Kindly Deaths
The room was empty—no corpse upon the floor and no sign of her grandfather. She took another step.
It was just as she’d remembered, a small room with a large wooden desk and behind, a huge stained glass window. The image embedded in the colored glass showed a tower and moon and below, a sea of sloped roofs.
Just like the painting above the firepl
ace downstairs.
Eliza was about to examine the desk when her eyes were drawn back to the stained glass. It couldn’t be. It was impossible!
Distant light somehow illuminated a shard of pale blue glass representing moonlight.
She leaned closer, blinking, trying to clear the illusion. But it was no illusion. Somehow a light flickered through the window.
But there couldn’t be light through the window, for beyond it should be a solid wall.
Eliza reached for the window latch and tried to unlock it, feeling a surge of relief as she realized it was jammed shut. Because, somehow, she knew she didn’t want to see what lay beyond. That this was the place monsters came from. Monsters like the one she’d seen all those years ago.
She turned to the desk below the window. It was empty but for an old book and pen. She picked up the brass cased pen and dropped it as a jolt, like a shock of static, ran through her fingers. “Ouch!” Eliza examined the pen where it now lay upon the desk. She placed a cautious finger upon it, waiting for another shock, but there was none. So she picked it up.
The pen was quite plain except for a tiny engraving of the door within two circles. As Eliza unscrewed the tip, peering at the nib, a drop of blue ink fell upon the desk.
She put the pen down and picked up the book.
It looked like a handmade journal with a thick black cover and the now-familiar symbol. Soft gold lettering spelled The Book of Kindly Deaths across its cover, and below the title, the name Edward Drabe.
“Drabe,” Eliza whispered. Drabe was her mother’s maiden name. And her grandfather’s name.
Just as she was about to open the book, her mother’s voice cut through the air. “Eliza?”
She jumped, her head spinning as she stuffed the book under her sweater and ran from the room, pulling the hidden door shut. Bolting through the adjoining study, she slipped the door closed and managed to make it halfway down the hall before her mother appeared on the landing. “Didn’t you hear me?”
The Book of Kindly Deaths Page 2