He looked up at her and wanted to tell her how much he hated coming, how even though he was almost eleven and more than old enough to know better, he was still scared. As much as he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t. The expression on his mother’s face told him that she was already frustrated with him. She was clutching her bag to her skinny body, brow furrowed as she stared at him.
"Oh, suit yourself," she said as she pushed past him, the echo of her shoes taking on a different tone as she disappeared into the house. "And don't forget to shut that door behind you," she called over her shoulder as she made a right at the end of the hall and went into the kitchen.
Arnie stood for a moment, breath held. He imagined he could almost hear the house breathing. It dawned on him then that there was absolute silence. No children played in the street, no birds sang. He wondered if perhaps they too were wary of this big old place. Keen to avoid another telling off from his mother, he went inside and closed the door.
***
The silence felt even heavier with the door closed. Arnie stood there, watching dust drift in lazy waves in the diffused light coming from the upper landing window. For a house that was so large, the hall was narrow and filled with a lifetime's worth of clutter. There were black and white photographs of people he didn’t know and cared nothing to find out about. He glanced at the staircase which angled out of sight into the gloom. He definitely didn’t want to be up there. Not where she was. He hurried along to the kitchen, ignoring the thick taste in the air.
His mother was making tea. He stood by the door, watching her as she placed a cup on a tray and added a splash of milk. She glanced at him, and for a moment, she looked like a stranger. She had worn too much makeup to go with the excess of perfume. She was trying too hard to make a good impression which was having the opposite effect.
“Do you want to take it up for her?” she asked as she turned back towards the tray and spooned sugar into the cup.
"I don't want to," he mumbled. He leaned on the wall, then stood straight. He didn't like the horrible greasy sheen of the sick yellow wallpaper against his skin.
“She’s not a monster, she’s your grandmother.”
“I don’t like going up there."
She turned to face him, her expression a mix of frustration and understanding. “Look, I understand it’s not the nicest situation. The fact is, she’s bed ridden and needs our help.”
“I don’t like this house. It smells.”
“It’s a big old house Arnie. There are mice. Even with the traps and the poison, they still get in.”
“In where?” he said, making sure to lock eyes with her so she couldn’t lie.
“I don’t know, in the floor, in the walls. That’s not the point. The point is she’s family.”
“She scares me,” he muttered.
“She’s old,” his mother countered. “Believe me, as you grow up, you’ll start appreciating those around you more. She’s not a monster, she’s family. My mother, your grandmother.”
“Do I have to go up there?” he asked, hoping his mother would spare him.
“She’ll want to see you, Arnold.”
There it was. Usually, it was just Arnie. By giving him the full name treatment, he knew he was slipping into the bad books. He looked at his feet, then at the garish lino on the floor. He let his eyes trace patterns around the floral shapes of the design.
"Fine, I don't have time for this," she said as she picked up the tray of tea and walked towards him. “Wait down here if you want to. I’m disappointed in you Arnold.”
The use of his full name didn’t go unnoticed, but he said nothing. Guilt gnawed at him as she passed, but not as much of the fear of that old woman who lived in her bed in the attic like some kind of ancient witch. He listened to his mother’s shoes echo their way upstairs, then he sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the feeling of relief. He thought that perhaps it might not be such a bad day after all.
***
“It will only be for half an hour.”
For once, Arnie was too stunned to say anything. He blinked and replayed what she had said, hoping he had made a mistake. “You want me to stay here by myself?”
“It’s only for a little while. Grandma is sick, I need to go get her some medicine, then make her some soup when I get back. I could use your help.”
“There are a ton of pills there," Arnie whined, pointing to the chemist's worth of bottles on top of the fridge.
“Not the ones she needs. She’s sick, Arnie.”
He grunted. How roles had reversed. Now that she needed something from him, it was Arnie again. "I don't know how to look after her. I'm just a kid."
“She can’t get out of bed, plus she’s sleeping now. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“What if she wakes up and you’re not here?” he asked.
“She won’t.”
“But what if she does?” He wasn’t usually so insistent, but in this instance refused to let it go.
“Just poke your head into her room and check if she's alright. I promise you, you won’t need to do that. I’ll be back before you know it.”
"This isn't fair," he muttered.
“Life isn’t fair. You’ll learn that as you grow up. Sit there at the table and wait for me to get back. She’s had her tea, and I’ve put her on the toilet and changed her bedding. She should be fine for a while.”
"Looks like I don't have a choice, do I?"
She kissed him on the head. A quick peck heralded by another whiff of eye-watering perfume. "Thanks, Arnie, I owe you one. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
He didn’t answer her, hoping to let her know that he wasn’t at all happy about this latest development. He watched as she disappeared out of the kitchen and down the hall, displacing the lazy, swirling dust. He wanted to call out, maybe tell her to hurry back, but she was already gone, the door opened and closed again.
This is where it will come.
He knew it to be true. She would have been pretending to be asleep and call out to him; the shrill whine from her toothless mouth would sound awful. He knew that without question. He stood at the door, holding his breath, head tilted towards the ceiling as if it might help him hear something.
He strained, listening to the house, trying to make his senses stretch into the dark where he didn’t want to physically go.
Silence.
He exhaled, and went back to the kitchen. He sat at the table and waited for his mother, hoping she would be back soon.
Fifteen minutes had passed, and Arnie could put it off no longer. He needed to use the toilet. He looked outside into the back garden but dismissed that idea. The garden was overlooked, and anyone could see him. He would have to go upstairs.
The hallway seemed darker somehow, the shadows heavier. He stood at the entrance to the kitchen and gripped the grubby doorframe. As before, he held his breath and listened. No sound came from upstairs. He half expected to hear the steady rhythm of his grandmother’s breathing, but could hear only the heavy silence which in itself was deafening.
Stop it. You’re being stupid. Grow up.
He often told himself to grow up. He knew there was no reason at all for him to be afraid. It was nothing more than an ugly old house and an even uglier old woman. He was old enough to know better, and yet, he had seen horror films, ones he was by rights too young to watch, but thanks to Netflix and the internet were easy to find. He knew all about haunted houses and demonic old hags who transformed into awful things as dumb, horny teenagers stumbled around in the dark. He always laughed at them, at their stupidity, telling himself he would never get himself into those situations, and yet here he was. Replicating in real life the celluloid horrors he had watched without his mother’s knowledge. He walked to the foot of the steps and paused again, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Fourteen steps, a small landing area where the sunlight struggled to penetrate the grimy white net curtain, then a right angle turn and more steps. He couldn't see them to count, b
ut knew it would be dark up there. Worse, he knew she was up there. In the dark, waiting for him.
No, she isn't. She’s just a sick old woman.
He hated that inner voice. Always so smug, always so reassured. Unlike the outer him who was frightened, his stomach a tight ball of irrational terror. He put a foot on the bottom step, the old wood creaking under his weight. In the silence of the house, it was incredibly loud, and he was sure she would hear it and wake up. He held his breath and listened. Straining every sense. Satisfied there was no noise coming from the other rooms, he made his way upstairs, trying to keep his feet to the outer edge of the steps where the wood was less worn and so made less noise. He counted each step as he ascended, trying to ignore the cold terror which was filling him, radiating out from his gut. He reached the small landing area, and like a mountaineer assessed his next move. Another ten steps awaited him, but the hallway above was incredibly dark. All the doors were closed, meaning that after he had left the warmth of the light at his back from the small window, he was going to be in the gloom. He looked back the way he had come. The hallway and carpet seemed incredibly far away, a vertigo-inducing drop into oblivion. The temptation to go back was high, but he knew his bladder would never allow that to happen. Unlike him, it had no fear or feelings, just a need to be emptied no matter how old and creaking the house or as frightening its inhabitant. Against every screaming instinct inside him, he ascended to the upper hallway. Leaving the light behind. He stood there at the top of the steps, trying not to breathe too loudly or react to the overwhelming desire to run out of the house and wait in the sun on the pavement for his mother to return, even if it meant he would get into trouble. As before, he held his breath and assessed. The hall was gloomy and long. Brownish yellow wallpaper, faded with age was intercut with four doors down the length of the hall, each one stained dark and solid. At the end of the hall would be another window, but the heavy curtains were closed, blocking out any light which may have spilled though and made the whole place a lot less intimidating. To the right of the window was another staircase which led into the upper reaches of the house. He knew that there was nothing up there. The house was too big for one person as is, and because of that, much of the third floor was reserved for storage. He imagined mouldy boxes stacked floor to ceiling, filled with forgotten memories of a life long gone, a network of skyscrapers for spiders to make their webs and catch their prey, a self-contained ecosystem going on in the pitch black upper confines of the house. His mind played images of rats nesting and making warrens from the boxes of old clothes, perhaps outfits and gowns from the days when ladies dressed to impress. His bladder pinched and reminded him of the urgency of his situation. He knew which room was his grandmothers. It was the third on the right. The bathroom was on the other side of the hallway and a door further down. He would have to pass her room to get to the bathroom, then again on his way back. Even though he was alone, he had never felt so observed. He inched down the musty smelling hall, every step tentative should it make the floorboards creak. The dust was in his nose, in his throat as he came to his grandmother’s room on his right. He paused outside the door and listened. He expected to be able to hear her breathing, but even standing so close, there was silence.
Maybe she’s dead.
The idea was both awful and glorious. He could imagine her lying there, a withered skeletal thing in her bed, toothless maw agape, unseeing eyes glaring at the ceiling. He wondered if she too would become a nest for the skittering things in the attic. An awful image of a thick, hairy rat climbing into her mouth and down into her gut came to him. It was incredibly sharp and vivid. He saw it moving around in her stomach, making her cold dead skin ripple as it settled in her carcass. It would certainly solve all his problems. At least then he wouldn’t have to come here with his mother every other week and suffer the fear of a stubborn old woman as she continued to cling on to life. Satisfied that she wasn’t able to hear him, he moved on to the bathroom. When he was finished, he flushed, wincing at the noise as the toilet purged. Walking back down the hallway, he paused again outside his grandmother’s bedroom. Surely now she was awake, and would call out demanding help from someone, from him in her cracked, wet, throaty voice. He didn’t think he could handle that. Not when he was already so close to the edge. He half imagined he heard something. Maybe bare feet padding across carpet from an old woman in better health than people understood. He imagined her on the other side of the door, ear pressed to the wood, belly moving as the rats inside were disturbed by the unexpected movements. He imagined her whispering to him, beckoning him in so that she could give him a hug, to touch him with her cold, leathery hands, her breath ripe with rat droppings.
It was that that caused him to run. He lurched away from the door, taking the steps two at a time and almost losing his balance. It was only when he was back in the kitchen, where it was light and breathing was easy, could he relax. He sat at the table, still shaking and hating his mother for putting him in such a position. He hated her for it, the rawness of that particular emotion excitingly unfamiliar. He wouldn’t go through this again. Coming to this house, with its awful living ghost existing in the shadows upstairs waiting to snatch him. He just hoped she would understand when he explained it to her.
***
“Sorry I’m late, the traffic was awful.”
Arnie’s mother kicked the front door closed behind her and struggled down the hallway with the carrier bags of groceries. She pushed the kitchen door open, preparing for the onslaught of complaining from her son. To her surprise, he was by the sink. He had just finished washing the few dishes that were on the side.
“What’s going on here?” she asked as she set her bags down on the table.
“You were right,” he said as he pulled the plug and the water started to drain away. “I should help more. I’m growing up now and it’s not fair of me to be selfish.”
"Thank you, Arnie, this means a lot. Did grandma wake up?"
He shook his head as the last of the water gurgled down the sink. He took the towel and dried his hands. “No. she didn't. I made her some soup, though."
She looked to the pan simmering on the hob, then crossed the room and kissed him on the head. “Thank you. Really. This is more than I expected. Why don’t you unpack the bags and I’ll take the soup upstairs?”
"I'll come with you," he replied as he walked over to the stove and stirred the chicken soup. "I have to get over my fear eventually, right?"
“Yes, yes that’s right," she said, unable to believe the change.
“You might have to carry the tray, though. I don't want to drop It,” he said as he poured the soup into a bowl.
“No problem. Team effort, right?”
"Right," he repeated. He put the bowl on the tray, grabbed a spoon out of the drawer and stepped back. "Alright, it's ready."
She kissed him on the head again and picked up the tray. Together, mother and son went upstairs side by side. Arnie no longer worried about creaking floorboards or making too much noise. He felt safe now, secure. Even as he went past the squared-off landing into the dark upper hall, there was no fear. He paused at the door and waited for his mother to catch up. She was still smiling, still happy. He hoped she would understand. He would have stayed downstairs, but curiosity had gotten the better of him. He was sure all the pills he had crushed up in the soup would be enough to do it. Even so, there was still one thing he was curious about. He wanted to see the old woman for himself, and how long the rat poison she was about to eat would take to kill the thing that he imagined living in her belly. Not long according to the packaging. Not long at all. He smiled as his mother came to a stop at the door. He returned the gesture, bright and happy, ghosts banished and horrors forgotten. He opened the door, and then together, mother and son entered the bedroom.
JASPER
Jasper Collins had been a patient at Leafields Hospital for almost five years, and today was his first real chance at getting out. He was nervous as he was l
ed into the room and sat in front of Dr. Ronson, not because he had the power to deny Jasper his freedom, but because of the window in his office. It ran the full length of the wall and looked onto the beautiful, lush gardens which appeared somehow even more magical under the rain, which probed and tapped at the glass.
Jasper forced himself not to look at it, otherwise, Ronson might see that there was something wrong, and the game would be up.
“Is everything okay Jasper?” Ronson asked, breaking his train of thought.
Jasper fidgeted, licked his lips, and ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair.
“I’m fine. Just… nervous. This is a big day for me.”
“It is.” The doctor agreed, offering a thin smile - a token gesture which bore little humour.
Ronson had been Jasper's doctor since he was first admitted. Although, Jasper knew well enough that committed was a better word for what had happened to him. People were admitted to places when they were ill, and still had the opportunity to leave whenever they wanted. For Jasper, however, there was no open front door, no option to leave. They thought he was mad, loopy, a few buns short of a dozen. And he supposed, as he sat there trying his best not to glance out of the window, that they might be right.
He at least felt comfortable enough with Ronson though. There was a familiarity to the salt and pepper haired old man, a kindness in his eyes that put people at ease, which was a world away from his feelings towards the bullying, asshole orderlies who worked out on the wards.
“We can close the blinds if you prefer,” Ronson said, following Jaspers' gaze to the window.
Although he was desperate to say yes, Jasper remained calm and shrugged, even managing to sound calm when he replied.
At The Edge of Night - 28 book horror box set - also contains a link to an additional FREE book Page 26