Rottenhouse

by Ian Dyer

  Outside of the house the rain had stopped and the wind had dropped. Whatever the storm threatened seemed to have dissipated though Simon was sure he could hear far off rumbles of thunder. Getting to his feet the fresh movements brought with them another assault to the senses as the stink lifted and hung around him like an awkward girlfriend. He had given up trying to find his phone and decided that coming back in the cold light of day would be the best outcome. Besides, he was wet, aching, and no doubt as smelly as a dead horse.

  Feeling along the wall Simon reached the doorway where he had earlier received the epiphany of what may be hanging from the ceiling. A little birdie told him to look around have a look and see it said but there was no way on earth he was doing that. Besides, what was the point? In all that gloom there was nothing to see. Although Simon knew, like he knew that the girl in his dreams was Bobbie and that if he asked about for her he would get blank faces and awkward looks that said don’t ask questions, foreigner, don’t get involved in stuff that aint your business or you will find yourself in a gurney being butt fucked by the Chairman! that if he did turn around and look into the blackness the hanging body of old man Johnson would be lit up, his face full of smiles, swinging in the silent air.

  No, little birdie Simon thought, I aint gonna turn around.

  His phone vibrating changed that.

  With eyes focused purely on the light that was rising from his screen he quickly stepped in, picked up the phone and walked back out into the hallway whilst his eyes refocused on the differing light. The phone number on the screen wasn’t recognised by its internal brainwork so was just a series of numbers. Simon edged it to his ear unsure whether to answer. If this was a telemarketer he was apt to go bat shit crazy.

  Just before the last vibration Simon pressed the green ANSWER button.

  ‘Hello.’ He said.

  There was no reply, just silent fuzz.

  ‘Who is this?

  Nothing, though Simon was sure he could hear footsteps.

  ‘Lucy, is that you? Lucy?’

  Silence. More of those muffled footsteps which could just be interference.

  ‘Last chance. Coz I’m gonna hang up in three seconds…’

  Nothing. Perhaps a door opening.

  ‘Two.’

  More footsteps?

  ‘W-on…’

  ‘Tick-tock, Simon. Tick-tock goes my Daddies big clock.’ The voice was gravely, distorted, as if the phone was being held to close to his mouth. He was sure it was a man’s voice, but the distortion and the northern accent made it hard to tell.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Nobody. Everybody. It doesn’t matter who I am, Simon. What matters is you.’

  ‘Kyle, if this is you then go fuck yourself, alright. This isn’t a good time.’

  ‘Who’s Kyle?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Simon asked scared of what the answer might be and then before the voice could answer and always thinking of the one he loved he added, ‘How dya get this number? Is Lucy okay? Please tell me she’s okay?’

  ‘Aye. She’s fine. Although she’s picked up some nasty habits, Simon. Southern habits which we don’t care for up here.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What do you want?’

  ‘I want you and that bitch to leave. Youint welcome here. Take your stupid camera and yer flashy car and go.’

  ‘Listen, whoever this you don’t frighten me.’ A bit of a lie as he was terrified.

  The distorted voice laughed. ‘Not frightened. You stupid prick. Old man Johnson said he weren’t frightened and looks what we did to that nonce. Go on, turn around and have another look if yadare.’

  He knows where I am. He’s here

  Simon didn’t turn around but instead held the phone away from his ear and turned his senses up to 11. There was no sound apart from his own breath, his heartbeat, and the laugh coming from the speaker on his phone. His eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness but it did little to dissipate the black fog. Instinctively, much like the feeling you get when the TV is on in another room, Simon knew that apart from the hanging charred corpse and the rats, he was alone in this house.

  Lifting the phone back up he said, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friendly neighbourhood hero, Simon. But I won’t stay friendly for too long.’

  And then the phone went quiet. Simon stood for a moment or two; the phone attached to his ear like a gaudy earring whilst the house eased into the night with creaks and groans. Gathering his thoughts, minding not what he stepped in or crashed through he once again used his phone as a flashlight and got out of there. As he raced through what remained of the house blood swam in his head and the groans and creaks and moans and cracks became a rotten crescendo in his ears. Simon imagined the house demolishing itself behind him, the splintered pieces of wood and neck choking electric cord getting closer and closer and running faster only made the house fall quicker. He knew it wasn’t, but he could feel it wanting too. He knocked a painting off the wall as he bundled down the stairs and in the main hallway his boot went through the burnt out floorboards almost tripping him. He pulled his foot free remembering his dream from the night before

  I’m going to wait here for you

  and was sure it took extra effort to release it from the splintered hole.

  Finally he was free of the hole and within a few more steps he was out into the humid air, free from whatever it was he had felt in that burnt out shell and pleased that in his hand he still had his phone and around his body he still carried his camera bag.

  Not wanting to hang around, either from whoever it was that had been on the end of the phone or if there were any passers-by wanting to know what he was doing running out of that old burnt out house, Simon checked the car park, saw that Mr Rowling’s car was still there and headed back to the house at the edge of the village.

  Before he left the village Simon took one more look over his shoulder. A mist was rising and it obscured the club in the far corner. Though from his position it looked as if the mist was coming from the club; a sleeping dragon’s breath. Simon couldn’t even see the Johnson’s house anymore, and that made him feel easier.

  He followed the main road home and it was an uneventful journey. He had much to think about. So much had happened in such a small amount of time. The last two days Christ it’s only been two days felt more like two years.

  ‘This place is off the scale.’ he said to a tree stump sticking out of the ground like a zombie’s hand reaching out of its grave. And he was right, wasn’t he? He supposed that Lucy changing her name was fair enough and was something done by hundreds of people to escape a troubled past. But then his mind’s eye flicked to how she looked before he left the club. She was different. The same, but different, as if he had been looking at her for all these years through an epic set of beer goggles, and now that he was sober, the drunk fugue had worn off, and Lucy had been revealed for what she truly was.

  Should he even marry this woman?

  ‘Don’t be a dick. She’s the best thing to have ever happened to me.’

  But the other things that he had been through. They were troubling.

  ‘Screwed up, more like.’ He’d been through some truly hair raising experiences. Stuff only seen in movies or read about it books. But here he was, living it. But not for much longer. He was sure, that given a clear mind and a good deal of thought he could persuade Lucy to either go home with him, or if she stayed that he would go on alone and she would follow after. Either way his intent was clear; blessing to marry or not. It was a shame he hadn’t befriended her dad, but he was just a little too much for Simon to deal with.

  8

  Ahead the road disappeared into the darkness; there was just enough moonlight now to see that he could cut through a field at an angle. He crossed the field, walking over lumps and bumps of freshly tilled earth. He guessed it would be a shortcut and was pleased with himself when he reached the road leading to Rowling’s house and had shortened the journ
ey by a good 20 minutes.

  To his right Simon could hear the stream. He hated that stream now. Before the incident he had been fond of it but now he couldn’t care less if the thing dried up and turned to dust. That stream had reminded him of being a child, paddling in the Meon with his family, picnics and ice cream and everything summer should be. Now it just reminded him of the axe, the body, and Billies open legs and the gore that oozed from between her legs.

  9

  It was as Simon reached the cobbled driveway leading to the Rowling residence that it dawned upon him, like a scientist making a cruel discovery, that he didn’t have any keys.

  ‘Typical.’ Simon said to himself and he sat on the low brick wall. ‘Fuck my luck.’

  Half pulling out his phone so that just the right part was visible, Simon clicked the side button on it and was a little put out when he saw that it was only 10:45. If he was lucky then he would only be out here for about 30 minutes. But knowing that his luck would match the situation Simon knew he was going to be out here for a little longer than that.

  And then something came to him. A hope. Just a little bit, but hope none the less.

  He walked to the front of the house. A low powered security light came on over the front door and it gave him enough light to see by. At the side of the door were a few plant pots which Simon hoped his salvation was hiding under.

  Lifting the first there was nothing there.

  Lifting the second and holding his breath…there was nothing.

  Simon let out a gentle sigh, ‘Fuck it, come on number three.’ Lifting the third plant pot he wasn’t surprised when beneath it there was nothing but a wiggly worm.

  All that was left were two old rocks upon which some greenish blue weed grew. He moved one slightly and the light coming from above the door shone its glory down upon the salvation Simon had been hoping for.

  ‘Bingo.’

  Simon used it to unlock the front door and made sure to put the key back, he wanted no more trouble. After that he walked into the dark house, though the upstairs hallway light was on which was enough to see by, closed the door and went into the kitchen, relaxing with every step.

  Wanting to get out if his wet, stinking clothes, Simon ran upstairs and had himself a quick shower, making sure to throw his soiled clothes into a plastic bag before stuffing them into his suitcase and headed downstairs. Whilst he showered, the black goo from the house dripping from him like crude oil, he had a sudden urge to investigate this old house. He was alone for the first time in what felt like days. Usually being alone meant a quick knuckle shuffle for Simon, but not tonight, tonight he would have a little look about. With that thought he showered a little quicker, put on clothes over his wet skin and rushed downstairs.

  The Study

  1

  Locked doors are a fascinating thing, aren’t they? Not much in this ruined world we live in can both hinder and help such as a locked door. They can hold back or they can protect against. Another one of their charms is the magic they keep locked away. The secrets that they protect. Mr Rowling had such a locked door, it was at the far end of the downstairs hallway. The door wasn’t any different from any of the others, just your basic rectangle hunk of wood with some fancy beading and all coated in natural oil. For Simon, it wasn’t how the door looked that held him in wonder, oh no, it was what was behind the door that had him stood there, a key in his hand that he had found at the back of the cutlery drawer in the kitchen, reading the small tag attached to the key with a bit of brown sisal.

  Study (SPARE)

  But with any locked door, with any secret, comes the trepidation before the leap. Do I tell? Do I investigate? What if I’m caught? What if I don’t like what I find? What if the holder finds out of my betrayal? These questions kept going round and around in his head like words from an annoying song you heard on the radio.

  In preparation Simon had sent an investigative text to Lucy

  When you due home? Do you want me to wait up? Xxx

  but as of yet he’d had no reply. He guessed that he had probably 30 minutes tops before she and Mr Rowling got back. Plenty of time for a snoop. There would be plenty of warning from the roar of the car’s engine.

  ‘Plenty of time.’ Simon whispered to the door. It didn’t reply.

  2

  Simon’s father had a locked door. It was a room that neither his mother nor sister were welcome in. To Simons knowledge no one, apart from his father and maybe one other (a guy his father called The Juicer), had been in that room since the day they moved in up through to the day the house burnt to the ground, taking his father and the secrets it and he held with it.

  One day however, when Simon had just turned thirteen and those adolescent hormones had been in full flow, he had sneaked in there, braking one of the seemingly endless rules his father ordained upon the household. Maybe it was just teenage rebellion that encouraged Simon to venture into that forbidden world, he remembered that he had been curious much like he was now, had been for a few months, but never had the opportunity, or the guts to go for it. Simon could remember how his little hands had shaken when putting the key in the lock, and the heart stopping silence that filled the house broken like a rumble of thunder rolling on a silent plain when the key turned and the lock clicked open. The door had been hard to open as it scraped on the rough carpet, resisting the weight that Simon had thrown against it. He had thought to close it again, that whatever had been in there was best left unknown, but curiosity got the better of him and when there was enough of a gap he squeezed through, scrapping his belly on the door latch for good measure.

  His father’s secret room was dark and heavy. It stunk of stale cigarette smoke, his father being a 40 a day man and proud of it, and beneath that there was a sweet, sickly stink that Simon, at that point in his life, didn’t know was the tell-tale sign of a heroin addict.

  3

  Simon scratched at his belly where the latch had grazed his skin all those years ago. The stairs creaked making him jump a little but at this point Simon was well versed in things that went bump in the night. He gave the front door one last cursory glance and then twisted the handle. The door opened inwards and the light from the hallway spilled in. Simons shadow was long and thin across the crimson carpet. He stood in the doorway, waiting for the door to finish opening like a cowboy in an old spaghetti western, batwing doors swinging and the dust encircling. His heart was beating a little faster, though he wasn’t scared of what he was doing. He had that nervous sensation that told you that you needed a shit but apart from that his curiosity had taken over.

  The tick-tock of the clock in the hallway reminded him that time was not on his side.

  He felt along the left wall, found what he was looking for and flicked the switch. The main study light came on. It wasn’t too bright and the soft light drifted over the study like a shroud. The room was what estate agents back home called a box room and though slightly larger, it looked to Simon as if the adjacent living room had been walled off at some point to make space for this study. There was an old wooden desk on the far side of the room below a window, to the left and right of the desk were two large shelving units all made of dark wood. There was a single chair under the desk and in the far corner an odd five legged chair made itself useful as a coat hanger. The carpet was crimson, but there were golden flowers sown into it in random places. The study walls weren’t wallpapered like the majority of the house was, there was no real need as the walls were covered with pictures, paintings and what looked like old pieces of parchment from ceiling to the rail that was half way up. One man’s life in many wooden frames.

  Simon started to feel a little uneasy about what he was about to do. Rooms are locked for a reason. Secrets are kept for a reason. He was now trespassing on those secrets He was disregarding a common courtesy shown when things are locked away. But what harm could a little peeking and poking do?

  ‘Not a jot.’ And with that he left the hallway and walked into the study.

&
nbsp; 4

  It smelt old in there. Used. Not dusty or musty or damp. It was the smell of old books and trinkets and aftershave. It wasn’t harsh; in fact it was a smell that Simon quite liked. His own study (if he could call a box room full of crap a study, but it sounded posh didn’t it?) had the same kind of smell. The study had its own atmosphere that was different from the rest of the house. The room felt heavy, intense, like great things had happened in here and greater things were yet to come. It was a hidden den, a secret place, one that saw not a drop of cleaning fluid or polish or air freshener. It cleaned itself, Simon thought, and as insane as that sounded, Simon believed that this room had the ability to keep the dust and the filth at bay. His body was toxic to this room, his scent fouling the pictures and the books and the paintings. But it was too late. He was in, and he couldn’t turn back even if he wanted too.

  There were papers and an open book on the desk but the pictures on the walls were what enticed him at first. There were a lot of pictures of the valley, some very old with dates going back to the 1850’s. Others were newer and dated as just after WWII. The newest was dated as 1979 and it showed the town square decorated with banners and flags and people surrounding tables of food. It reminded Simon of the Queens Jubilee back in ‘77 but this was dated two years after. In the back of the photo was the Working Man’s Club and it too had banners and flags adorning its red brick work.