by Amy Cross
“No, Dad,” I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen as Gogglebox continues.
“They didn't!” he continues. “They just shrugged, like none of it mattered!”
“Mmm,” I murmur.
“We'll see what they think when they get a letter from the local enforcement team,” he adds. “That'll put a rocket up 'em.”
“Mmm.”
“Your father's serious, you know,” Mum says. “He knows the rules about these things. He's not stupid.”
“I never said he was.”
We sit watching for a few more minutes, although my attention slowly switches to Larry. He's napping on the floor, but all I can think about is that I want to get out of here and go for a walk home. Tonight has been pretty weird, what with the failed date with Matthew and then this impromptu visit to see the parental units. Still, it's good to get Mum and Dad out of the way for another week.
I've got better things to do with my evenings.
***
“So I'll see you next week,” I say to Mum as I slip my arms into my coat and then lean down to attach the lead to Larry's collar. “I might be busy on Thursday, so can we make it Friday?”
I take Larry to the door and step out onto the porch, and then – realizing that Mum hasn't replied – I turn to see that she's staring at me with a strange, slightly blank expression.
“Mum?” I continue. “Is that okay?”
“If you like, dear,” she replies, “but please, don't strain yourself.”
“I'm sorry?”
She steps closer, as if she's worried about Dad overhearing us.
“Your father looks forward to your visits so much,” she says, lowering her voice a little. “So do I. But lately you've made it very clear that you see these visits as a chore.”
“No,” I reply, “I've never -”
“You were growling at your dog all evening,” she adds.
“I absolutely wasn't,” I say, as I realize with shock that perhaps I wasn't as subtle as I'd thought. “He was asleep half the time!”
“And the rest of the time,” she replies, “you were grumbling at the dog, and laughing when he grumbled back at you. Your father and I both noticed. It was embarrassing, Paula, and slightly worrying.” She hesitates. “Are you alright?”
“I'm fine!”
“You just seem so different. What's all this giggling about?”
“Am I not allowed to laugh?” I ask, although I immediately realize that I sound a little too defensive. “Sorry, Mum, I was just trying to stay sane through another TV night.”
Wait, that wasn't a very nice thing to say, was it? I'm getting lost here.
“You're not yourself,” Mum says firmly. “How did your date go with that Matthew chap, anyway? You barely mentioned it.”
“It was fine.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
“I need the toilet,” Larry grumbles.
“We'll see,” I tell Mum, fully aware that I can't afford to reply to Larry properly right now.
“I really need the toilet,” Larry says. “I can go right here, but I know your mother hates it when I pee on her flower beds. I don't want to get into trouble again.”
He starts pulling toward the gate. I know I could let him off his lead and trust him to not run off, but at the same time I want to seem completely normal and I've never allowed my dogs off their leads before.
“I can see it in your eyes right now,” Mum continues. “You're off in your own little world and -”
Suddenly she looks past me, and I see a look of horror in her eyes.
“Stop!” she yells, rushing past me. “Get away from there!”
Turning, I see that Larry has his leg cocked against Mum's prize fuchsias.
Mum grabs his lead and yanks him away hard.
“I warned you!” Larry gasps.
“Leave him alone!” I shout, hurrying over and scooping Larry up into my arms. “It's okay,” I growl in dog language, “it's not your fault. I should have taken you out sooner.”
“It's only pee,” he replies. “It'll probably make them grow better. Next time I'll do a poo, and we'll see how she likes that.”
“Calm down,” I tell him.
“Can we go now?” he asks.
“I promise,” I reply, before turning to Mum and seeing that she's staring at me as if I'm insane.
I pause, as I try to work out how to explain myself.
“We'll see you next week,” she says finally, clearly flustered as she turns and heads back inside. “And I hope you manage to pull yourself together, Paula, because tonight you've been something else entirely.” Once she's back in her hallway, she turns to me. “Your father and I look forward to your visits,” she adds, “but we don't want to be a burden. We can make them fortnightly, if you prefer. Or monthly. Whatever you want. Just don't feel that you're forced to come.”
With that, she shuts the door before I can say a word in response. I'm left standing on the garden path, feeling as if I'm a terrible daughter.
“Sorry,” Larry says finally.
“It's not your fault,” I tell him. “It's mine. Come on, let's walk home the long way. I think I need to clear my head.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
By the time we get close to the apartment building, it's almost midnight and I feel exhausted. I have work in the morning, and I've already taken too many sick days recently. I guess I just have to pull myself together and get on with things, and figure out tomorrow how I'm going to apologize to Mum and Dad.
And then, as we reach the turn-off for home, I realize there are flashing blue lights outside the building's front entrance.
“What's going on?” Larry asks.
“It's an ambulance,” I reply cautiously.
We make our way along the path, and as we get closer I see that two paramedics are carrying a stretcher out from the front door. To my shock, I realize that the figure on the stretcher is completely covered by a sheet.
“Is everything okay?” I ask as we reach the doors, although I immediately realize that this was a dumb question.
“Are you a relative or a friend of Mrs. Morgan?” one of the other paramedics asks, as his colleagues load the stretcher into the back of the vehicle.
“I know her,” I say cautiously. “I mean, a little. Why? What's wrong?”
“Do you live here?”
I nod.
“So you must be... Paula Good?”
I nod again.
“I'm sorry to have to tell you that one of your neighbors, a Mrs. Deborah Morgan, called for assistance this evening. When we arrived, she was in respiratory distress, and despite our best efforts we were unable to revive her.”
“You mean... she's dead?”
“I'm afraid so.”
I turn and look at the back of the ambulance, and I catch sight of the stretcher for a moment before the rear doors are swung shut with a loud thud.
“I'm going to contact the council in the morning,” the paramedic continues, “and get them to send someone out here. I have no idea of the rules and regulations, but this entire building seems unsafe to me. The amount of mold all over the interior is terrible.”
I turn to him.
“I'd suggest keeping your windows open,” he adds.
“I will,” I stammer.
“No wonder there are only two occupied flats now,” he says. “Stay safe.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, as he turns away.
“We had some difficulty gaining access,” he replies, “so we had to try all the buttons on the door. Turns out, only you and one other person live here. There's a gentleman up on the fifth floor by the name of Mr. Seymour. We eventually got a call back from the company that owns the place, confirming the details of the occupancy.” He turns and looks back toward the building's front door. “It seems kinda creepy to me,” he adds, “having this big old place, with only two of the flats occupied. If you ask me, the whole place is begging to be torn down.”
<
br /> I don't know what to say, so I remain quiet as he climbs into the ambulance. By the time I think to ask him whether it's safe for me to still be here, the ambulance is already driving away.
“She was dead,” Larry says after a moment. “I could smell it.”
“No kidding,” I reply.
I turn and look up toward the top of the building, and I'm momentarily shocked to see that almost all the windows are dark. The only exceptions are my kitchen window, which I always leave on when I go out late, and a window at the very top, which I guess must look into Mr. Seymour's flat. I feel a shudder run up my spine as I realize that the rest of the place is apparently empty.
I guess everyone else either moved away or found somewhere else to stay.
Or, like Mrs. Morgan, they died.
Chapter Thirty
The flat seems so quiet as I push the door open. Even the door's usual creak seems somehow to accentuate the complete silence that follows, as I look through into the flat and feel a slow sense of dread running through my chest, spreading like the legs of some slowly uncurling spider.
“Are you okay?” Larry asks. “You're scared.”
“No, I'm not.”
“Yes, you are. I can smell it, and I can see it on your face. You can't hide things like that from me.”
“I'm not scared,” I tell him, before leading him into the flat and then shutting the door. Reaching down, I slip his lead off and force a smile. “See? Do I look scared?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you're a puppy, what do you know?”
I pause for a moment, and suddenly I find myself thinking about the bog on the other side of the road. The air here in my flat feels stuffier than normal, so I head to the front room and open a window, and then I look toward the road and think once more about the bog. I can't see it from here, of course, and I haven't been to take a look since the morning after the fire. That was months ago.
“Larry,” I say finally, turning to him, “I'm just going to nip out for a few minutes.”
“Why?”
“I just need to check something.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Can I come?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it might not be...” I pause for a moment. “Because I just want to take a look. It's nothing, really. I'll put some food down for you, and I'll be five minutes, tops. There's nothing to worry about.”
“You're lying.”
“No, you're just really bad at reading body language.” I force another smile. “Come on, stop worrying,” I add. “It's late. We should be getting to bed soon.”
***
A few minutes later, once I've put some food down for my clearly unconvinced dog, I make my way out into the dark night and head across the road. I keep telling myself that there's no reason to feel nervous, that I'm overreacting, but at the same time I feel an ever-tightening knot of fear in my chest as I make my way down into the forest.
As I follow the loop toward the site of the bog, I take my phone from my pocket and switch on the flashlight app, which I use to guide my way.
And when I finally reach the right spot, I cast a beam of light out and I let out a gasp of shock as I see that the bog isn't only back.
It's larger than ever.
Suddenly realizing that I've inadvertently stepped into the muddy mix, I take a step back. The bog must be twice as large as before, and the smell is terrible. I slowly turn the phone around, to get a look at the entire area, and I wince as I see that thick, mucus-like bubbles have formed on the bog's surface. All the ash from the fire seems to have been pushed to the edges. It's hard to tell the color of the bog in this light, but it's definitely dark. And every few seconds, I hear a faint gurgling sound that seems to come from somewhere deep.
“This is not okay,” I whisper under my breath. “This is definitely not right.”
I have no idea what I should do next, but I'm certain that this bog is becoming a genuine danger. I turn the phone again, so that I can see the concrete pipe, and to my horror I quickly spot the thick root that runs out of the bog and through the pipe, heading into the dirt on its way toward the apartment block. This time, however, the root looks much larger than before, much thicker, as if it's grown back twice as strong. I can't get too close, since the bog is so large now, but it's very clear that something's wrong.
And then, suddenly, the root twitches slightly, as if something's moving inside.
I instinctively take a step back.
“Gross,” I stammer, and for a moment the stench in the air seems even stronger.
I pause, before turning and starting to hurry back through the forest.
“I have to get out of here,” I mutter under my breath. “I have to get Larry out of here as well.”
I make my way back to the building, while trying to work out what I should do next. I don't have any friends, but I guess I can pack a few things and go back to Mum and Dad's house, at least until someone has been to the building and worked out what's actually happening. Now that Mrs. Morgan has actually died, I figure the authorities can no longer ignore the fact that something's very wrong.
Suddenly, as I reach the front door, I break into a series of thick, heavy coughs. I have to lean against the wall, and a moment later I'm startled to see specks of blood on my hand. I start coughing again, and I feel as if there's something in my lungs.
Turning, I lean back against the wall and cough some more, while trying to get my breath back.
Finally I head inside, and I'm panicking so much that my hands fumble with the key as I try to get my own door open. I eventually manage to get inside, but I'm feeling breathless again and I have to take a moment to lean back against my door.
And that's when I realize that I can hear Larry growling.
“Get back!” he's saying. “Don't move! Don't come any closer!”
“Larry?” I say cautiously, as I listen to the sound of his voice coming from the front room.
“Get back!” he yells suddenly, his voice rising to a loud bark. “You're not allowed here! Go away!”
“What is it?” I ask, before stepping toward the open door and heading into the room.
I immediately see Larry over at the far end, with his back against the wall. The hair's standing up on the back of his neck and he looks angrier than I've ever seen before. I watch him for a moment, but it's clear that he's seen something at the other end of the room, so I turn and take a look.
“What the...”
Horrified, I take a step forward, before realizing that maybe I should keep my distance.
The wall at the far end of my front room has split right down the middle, exposing a dark space beneath the plaster. And in that dark space, a section of the thick, knotted root – the same root from the bog – is throbbing with a slow, rhythmic pulse.
“Okay, Larry,” I say cautiously, “I think maybe we're gonna need some help here.”
Part Seven
THE BOG
Chapter Thirty-One
“Paula! Get up! You have to wake up!”
Startled, I open my eyes. The first thing I see is dust drifting through the morning light that's shining through my bedroom window.
“Paula!”
“Ow!” I gasp, as I feel something sharp against my arm.
Turning, I find that Larry is on the bed next to me, and he immediately paws at me again.
“Why are you sleeping so much?” he barks. “I thought you said we were getting out of here?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, before sitting up. I can feel the dust against my face, and I immediately have to clear my throat.
“I can hardly breathe in here,” Larry continues, sounding worried. “Last night, you said we had to get out of here. You said we had to get help. Then you came in to pack, and you fell asleep. It's taken me hours to wake you!”
“What?”
I pause, trying to work out exactl
y what he means, but then I remember that maybe he has a point. I got back late last night. My memory's kind of hazy, but I remember seeing Mrs. Morgan's body being taken away in an ambulance, and then...
And then?
I blink.
For a moment, I remember looking at the bog.
I blink again.
And at the root.
I blink a third time.
Wait, was the root in the front room?
“Paula, please!”
Larry jumps off the bed and hurries to the door, and then he turns to me. For a dog, he sure looks terrified.
“You said it yourself!” he barks. “We have to get out of here!”
I hesitate for a moment longer, before getting to my feet. Larry's right, and I take a couple of shuffling steps forward before suddenly feeling light-headed. I manage to lean against the wall, in order to keep from collapsing, but my head hurts and after a moment I realize that I fell asleep with my clothes on. I turn and look around, and then I hold a hand up and wave my fingers through the dust.
Except, this isn't dust.
It's more like tiny little spores.
For a few seconds, I'm utterly mesmerized by the cloud of spores that's drifting all around me. I can't look at anything else, I can't even think of anything else. I can hear Larry barking at me, but even that noise doesn't really penetrate my thoughts as I start smiling at he sheer beauty of the tiny little spores. I even open my mouth and start taking deep breaths, trying to draw them deeper into my body, until suddenly I feel a scratching sensation at the back of my throat.
I lunge forward violently and drop to my knees, and then I lean against the side of the bed just as I start coughing up more flecks of blood.
“Paula!” Larry shouts.
“I'm fine,” I gasp, as I wipe blood from my lips. There's a flickering pain in my belly, but other than that I don't feel too bad. “Just give me a moment.”
“You're bleeding,” Larry points out.
“It's nothing.”
“I can smell it on you,” he continues. “It's all over.”