The House at the End of the World

by Madeleine Marsh

  THE HOUSE AT THE END OF THE WORLD

  By Madeleine Marsh

  Copyright 2013 Madeleine Jane Marsh

  SMASHWORDS Edition First Published March 2013

  The right of Madeleine Marsh to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  This is a work of pure fiction. All characters portrayed here are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Thank you

  Without my beloved husband, Simon Marsh, I never would have done this. He's a constant source of inspiration and encouragement, endless patience and boundless enthusiasm. Thank you, Simon, for supporting me in this crazy endeavour.

  I owe my two proof readers a huge debt. Sue Wadsworth-Ladkin and Linda Wilson were wonderfully frank, honest and saved me from making some terrible and embarrassing mistakes! Any errors that remain are my own.

  Thank you too to my oldest and best friend, Toria Nelson, for her advice, her in-depth knowledge of the English language and her knitting skills.

  My incredible cover illustration artist is Vongue, who is a joy to collaborate with and made everything seem suddenly very real. Her work can be found here at http://www.vongue.daportfolio.com

  Finally a mention for my Mum, Rosamond, because she’s my Mum, she’s hugely excited about this and I hope I don’t let her down.

  No one does something like this alone. It's those who take the trip with you who make it all possible and worthwhile.

  Further information about me, the author, as well as free short stories featuring the characters in this book, can be found at http://www.madeleine-marsh.com

  Acknowledgements

  The following films, shows, novels and songs are mentioned in the book.

  Coma written by Robin Cook

  Ghostbusters written by Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis

  Inspector Gadget created by Andy Heyward, Jean Chalopin and Bruno Bianchi

  What Hurts the Most written by Jeffrey Steele and Steve Robson

  Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, Diary of the Dead written by George A. Romero

  Scooby Doo copyright Hanna-Barbera Productions

  Avengers copyright Stan Lee and Marvel Entertainment

  James Bond created by Ian Fleming

  Contents

  Book One ~ The Usual Suspects

  Book Two ~ Matt and Luke

  Book Three ~ Till Death Do Us Part

  ~ Six Months Later ~

  Book One ~ The Unusual Suspects

  An electrical storm rages overhead; bright and loud and violent. It tears the night apart, ripping across the inky sky, leaving white trails on the black canvas. It's as beautiful as it is terrifying. Nature’s fierce malevolence on display, as if all of Heaven is showing off. Perhaps they are. They might have reason to.

  ‘That’s some celebration.’ Rick’s East Coast accent is coloured by sarcasm. He sounds tired; 'seen it, done it' kind of tired. His bottom lip's bleeding and he wants a cigarette. The sleeves of his grey shirt are torn at the cuffs and red blood stains streak the front of it in sticky red and dry brown. He lets the heavy tyre iron he's been clutching like a lifeline fall from his aching fingers and it vanishes before it hits the ground. He doesn't notice. He's too busy scowling up at the sky, at the storm that might as well be hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of fireworks the way the other three are staring, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at the spectacle.

  He glances at Gabe standing next to him and watches as he takes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from an inside pocket of his long black winter coat. He, his coat and his expensive blue Italian suit are covered in dirt and blood but he either hasn’t realised or no longer cares. Rick watches as he taps out a cigarette from one of the many packets he stowed about his person before they left the diner. He's seen Gabe squirrel away more packets into more pockets in more liquor stores than he can recall. He really wants a cigarette.

  ‘Did you steal that coat from Inspector Gadget?’

  ‘Nope.’ Gabe holds up his index finger, unlit cigarette hanging from sticky lips, and fumbles for something in an outside pocket, eventually holding up a black leather wallet and opening it. ‘From... Detective John Hammond, Second Grade, LAPD.’ Grinning, he goes to sling the gold shield before thinking better of it and slipping it away again. Rick has no idea why. It’s not as if anyone they've run into recently has had even the slightest respect for authority.

  Rick nudges him and, reluctant as always, Gabe offers the pack and holds the flame of the disposable lighter steady. Rick closes his eyes as he sucks the smoke deep into his lungs, nicotine seeping into his blood stream. He doesn't smoke as a rule, although he's developed something dangerously close to a habit over the last few weeks. He's surprised the others haven't too. It’s comforting somehow, the illusion it gives him of some measure of control over his own mortality. As he lifts the cigarette from his lips he opens his eyes and peers at the scorched tip. It's burning red, not orange, which is curious, and turning his hand to bring it closer he sees something moving in the glowing ashes, something he can’t quite make out. He lifts the cigarette to eye level, certain he can see things shifting in the smouldering embers. He’s right. It’s impossible, but there are little people dancing... no, not dancing. Writhing. He looks deeper, picking out details: the fire on their skin, the pain in their tiny faces—

  ‘Jesus!’ He drops the cigarette, belatedly searching for it against the dark spread of dead leaves under his feet to stamp it out.

  ‘Hey!’

  Guiltily he glances at Gabe, shrugging apologetically. ‘Sorry.’ He doesn't offer an explanation. He doesn't have one to offer because despite everything they've seen this is his first hallucination. He shrugs and Gabe scowls but they've been through too much to fight over a paper stick of nicotine, no matter how rare they're quickly becoming.

  As Gabe smokes he thrusts his free hand into the pocket of his coat and pulls it closer around him, shivering. It worries Rick because he isn’t cold at all, quite warm and toasty in fact despite the wind and spots of rain that are starting to fall. On his left, Emilie tugs her ratty grey cardigan around her narrow shoulders so that it pulls tight over her small, denim-clad bottom. He can't remember what happened to the last in the long line of jackets she's stolen. Each one seems to have met a different fate.

  ‘It’s not as if they don’t have anything to celebrate,’ she points out.

  ‘If we won,’ Rick qualifies. The idea of Heaven celebrating irks him.

  Joe too, apparently, because he hunches forward, shoves his hands into the shallow pockets of his heavy brown biker's jacket, the one he's managed to hold on to no matter what, and grumbles, ‘Yeah. So where’s our champagne?’

  Gabe takes the cigarette from his mouth (Rick purposely doesn't look at the glowing tip) and casually blows out smoke as if this is the end of just another brawl. He points back over his shoulder.
‘There could be some in the house.’

  It's then that Rick realises they're no longer in the park. They're somewhere else; somewhere new. He turns to look, Emilie shuffling round in a tight circle next to him, and sees that they’re standing in the yard of a once proud, Georgian-style, two-storey house. The walls are white-washed, specked with spots of black mildew and mould. The grey drain pipes are broken and there's water dripping from the slate roof where every other tile is missing. Steep, stone steps lead up to the splintering front door. The windows on either side are broken, leaving the ground floor of the house exposed to the elements. There’s a turret room, with a steeply slanted roof, above the entrance.

  The large front yard is lined with the skeletons of trees holding the remains of long-abandoned birds' nests up to the sky like sacrificial offerings. Two paths vanish around either side of the building and Rick's seen enough houses like this to imagine the rusted wreck of an old car in the gloom out back, with holes in the floor, the guts of the engine ripped out and rats living in the chewed up seats. He knows the type of people who live like this; hoarders who cling to the past and worry about the future. He grew up around them. Until not too long ago, he made his living preying on them.

  The weather, which hasn't been kind to the outside, will have wrought the same havoc inside and he can imagine how bad the interior's going to look, feel and smell. But it’s starting to rain and many things are better than standing out getting drenched. Of course, many things aren’t.

  They’ve stayed in worse places, making the best out of very, very bad situations. It amuses him that the others are all looking around as if something better is about to miraculously appear, momentarily resembling a small family of meerkats. But there’s nothing else for miles, even in the dark he can see that, and a cold, damp, derelict house is better than no house at all in the storm that’s gathering strength and pace.

  It looks like it's been empty for far longer than most places they've sought shelter in but they know from experience that it pays to be sure. It’s Joe who makes the first move, but then it usually is while the rest stand rooted to the spot. Joe isn’t scared of death; he’s made that perfectly clear. So he’s the first into any new place, the first to see the damage, while the rest of them wait, tensing for whatever new horror could be about to confront them. They watch him climb the steps to the front door, nimble for a man in his late fifties and the strongest of them in every respect. Rick guesses they might have to jemmy the door open but Joe applies pressure to the handle and it swings inwards without so much as a squeak. He glances back at them before stepping cautiously into the dark. Rick has a brief flashback to the house in Morgan Hill, the one that looked so welcoming until Joe took that first step inside and vanished straight through the floor, the boards having been eaten away by the slow leak of bodily fluids from the dead stock-piled in the hallway. So Rick's holding his breath until light floods the doorway and he sees Joe standing there safely, waving them all inside.

  He's not about to wait. Only a few of the places they’ve taken refuge in over recent weeks have revealed such gruesome surprises as Morgan Hill. More often than not they've just been homes abandoned in the midst of life. Often that’s been more harrowing to see than a pile of dead bodies or an overfed thing lying bloated in the hall. So if there are a couple of corpses in the bedroom or a plate of severed limbs in the kitchen, a bathroom painted in blood or dead animals in the pantry, he’s okay with that. He doesn’t think he should be, but he is.

  Gabe and Emilie are hot on his heels, more than happy to be inside and out of the cold. The moment they’re all in it starts to rain in biblical style. Rick expects to hear dripping water, to feel and smell the damp in the house, but he doesn't and when he looks around he’s pleasantly surprised. They're standing in a large, hexagonal hall with a staircase to their left, winding up around the walls in three staggered dog-legs to a mezzanine-style first floor that’s surrounded by a bronze rail and overlooks the hall. Hanging directly above them from the first floor ceiling there’s a stunning crystal chandelier. The walls are split by a dado rail, dark wainscoting on the bottom half, ornate paper on top; a bold, gold fleur-de-lis pattern on a background of blues. The hall seems to be the heart of the house, everything else branching off or away from it. There's a huge, creepy fireplace at the back, big enough that if the mood took them they could all stand in it with only a slight bend in their backs, and Emilie could stand up straight. There’s an overstuffed brown leather couch squatting in front of the grate, again in better shape than he would have expected in a leaky old house. A bookcase leans against the wall to the right of the fireplace, tall and narrow with glass doors, and an antique grandfather clock stands beside the front door, hands stopped at five minutes to one. There’s a closed door to their right, which Joe tries but it’s locked, and an open one to their left through which Rick can see a large kitchen.

  At least there are no immediate nasty surprises, although it is strange that the house bears no resemblance on the inside to how the outside suggests it should look. There are cobwebs in the corners but no dust, no sign of damp, and the strangest thing of all is that the windows aren’t broken in here. It’s the best place Rick’s set foot in since he left Friendly Hills six weeks ago and that includes the diner at the gas station where they've been laying low for the last five days.

  They all stand in the hall and look at one another until Emilie breaks the silence.

  ‘Where are we?’ No one answers and chances are she isn't expecting anyone to. ‘Okay. How about, how did we get here?’ They exchange glances. ‘What do you think happened to Luke and Matt?’

  Joe responds to that one. ‘They were alive at the end. I saw them at the top of the hill. They were together.’ He squeezes her shoulder, reassuring her, something Rick’s never been good at doing with any kind of genuine feeling. ‘Could be they just didn’t come with us... wherever we are.’

  Rick doesn’t think she’s the crying type but he doesn’t want to be around if she does shed a few tears. He’s rubbish with emotional women. Rubbish with emotions full stop. He moves away from the group, approaching the fireplace and crouching down in front of the hearth for a better look. There’s an etching in the soot-black stone at the back, two angels with horns held high in exultation, their wings spread. It’s supposedly meant to be a comforting sight but it isn’t. He becomes gradually aware of vague sounds right at the edge of his hearing, sounds he can’t quite place, but as he turns around to look back into the room they fade to nothing and he isn’t sure they were ever there. There is the possibility that there are more people here, upstairs or in the other rooms, alive or dead or somewhere in between.

  ‘Is everyone okay?’

  Rick looks up at Joe and confirms that he is. He sees the others check themselves for wounds. He can’t feel any injuries other than his split lips. They all sound off, they're all fine. There isn’t anything worse than a couple of cuts and bruises amongst them and that's a miracle because they were all in quite a desperate state at the end.

  He hears Gabe ask, ‘What’s with the windows? Weren’t they broken when we were outside?’

  At the same time as the unlikely words, ‘I'll take a look upstairs,’ fall from his own mouth. All three turn to look at him. He’s surprised himself. It’s unusual for him to volunteer to do anything even a little bit risky.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Rick nods at Joe. ‘I’m sure.’ It even sounds convincing as he lifts an iron poker from the fireplace. They’re used to having access to a wide range of weapons, thanks to Matt and Luke, but it's the only thing to hand unless he wants to go back outside to look for the tyre iron he dropped, which he doesn’t. He's usually the one who will wait for others to act first but he's got a genuinely uncomfortable feeling and he wants to look around.

  He cautiously starts up the stairs. There are five steps to the first dog-leg, eight to the next and six to the top, to the first floor. Up here the walls are decorated with similar
paper to downstairs but in greens rather than blues and there are the same dark floorboards on to which the chandelier is casting glittering sparkles of coloured light. Close to the top of the main stairs there’s a second staircase, this one a tight spiral leading up, presumably to the turret room they saw from the yard. It’s a strange-looking construction. The steps are narrow with empty space between them and there’s a flat iron banister that follows the twist on the left hand side. All he can see when he peers up into the darkness is a door at the top, set back from the stairs.

  There are five rooms off the mezzanine, all with their doors standing open. Four are bedrooms, each one looking as welcoming as a five-star hotel, with four poster beds and neat, clean sheets. He checks and finds that two are en-suite. The fifth room, the farthest from the top of the stairs, is a large opulent bathroom with a free-standing claw-footed bath and a showerhead the size of a dinner plate. The bronze fixtures and fittings are polished to a high shine. The floor is tiled. This is nothing like the places they've been camping out in or the dumps he was bedding down in before he met up with the others. This is luxury and that raises his suspicions.

  Four bedrooms, one for each of them if Matt and Luke don’t show. That’s some coincidence. He considers whether or not it would be safe for them all to sleep at the same time, without a look-out. He lingers in a bedroom doorway and stares longingly at the bed. But tempting as it is to lie down and close his eyes for a couple of minutes, he is hungry. He's hopeful there's food somewhere, even if it’s just in tins. There’s only one more room to check so he climbs the narrow spiral steps carefully, the poker held at the ready. He puts his left hand on the iron banister, feels a texture to it, and when he looks closer he sees there’s a snake-skin pattern etched into the surface of the metal. He follows it up and when he reaches the top his fingers slide over a bulge on the stair post. The end of the banister is shaped like the head of a snake, with its mouth open and forked tongue flicking out, captured and frozen. It looks so incredibly real that he snatches his hand away.