Chillingworth Mews: A supernatural horror novel

by Anton Palmer

  As the entrance door sprang slowly back into place behind them, the sales rep continued her patter, her voice echoing gently.

  “The floorboards, both here in the hallway and throughout the apartments are the original boards from the previous building – sanded down and re-varnished of course. In fact, about seventy percent of the bricks and over fifty percent of the roof tiles are also from the original building.”

  The young couple pulled faces at each other, uncertain if they were supposed to be impressed by these facts or annoyed that their new home seemed to be made of recycled parts.

  “Well…I suppose it’s nice that the developer has such… green credentials…” the young man eventually volunteered.

  “I wish that was the case. “ The saleswoman gave a derisory laugh. “No - the townspeople (myself included) protested to the council. We said ‘Chillingworth House was a gift to the town and, if it couldn’t be developed without being demolished, then the new building should be designed in a similar style with as much of the original materials as possible being re-used – to preserve at least some degree of its history.’” She gestured back to the glass and steel entrance behind them, “It would have been nice if the original entrance doors could have been kept as well but apparently they weren’t compatible with the security system. I believe they were acquired by the pub around the corner – turned into tables, I think…”

  The couple nodded approvingly, their gestures masking the plain and simple truth that in reality neither could give a toss about the town’s history or the fate of the old wooden doors – they just wanted to get into their brand new home.

  “So,” the woman continued, “we have the two ground-floor apartments on the right and the staircase in front of us leads to the first floor where your apartment plus two others are located. The door on the left here leads to a communal store-room – for keeping bikes and things like that which you might not want in your apartment…the key with the… red tab.”

  The couple nodded in acknowledgment, Steve quickly glancing at the red key to prove he was paying attention.

  “Has anyone else moved in yet?” The young woman’s face stretched wide with a perfect-toothed smile as she awaited a response.

  “Yes. The apartment next to yours is occupied. An older lady…Mrs Brown – she moved in two days ago, I think. My colleague was on duty that day so I can’t tell you much about her except that I believe she is widowed and a retired librarian – so I doubt she’ll be throwing many wild parties to keep you up at night.”

  “Steve doesn’t need much help in being up all night…do you, babe?” Sam winked at her husband, her left hand gently brushing the crotch of his jeans.

  “Oh…do you have trouble sleeping?” The sales rep's face lit up at the sudden opportunity to converse with the young man about something more personal than doors and floorboards, her hand gently touching his arm as she attempted to engage him. “I’m the same, you know - tossing and turning all night. I’ve tried all sorts to…”

  The couple giggled at each other, the sales rep suddenly blushing as she cottoned on to the younger woman’s double entendre, making a deliberate show of straightening her navy blazer in an attempt to distract the pair from her obvious embarrassment.

  “Well…if you’d both care to follow me…” Self-consciously, she led the way up the staircase, the antics of the newlyweds and the obvious disinterest the handsome Steve had shown suddenly making her acutely aware of the way her hips stretched the material of her skirt, the puffy ankles that her fake tan and expensive high-heels did nothing to camouflage and the layers of make-up that fooled no-one.

  Apartment three was at the top of the stairs.

  “Your turn, babe.” Steve stepped back to allow his wife to be the first to enter.

  She picked out the key with the blue tag and slid it into the lock. As the door opened she screamed with delight, throwing herself at her husband as if he had read her dreams and rendered it a reality with his own bare hands.

  “Oh…my…god! It’s amazing! Our own home!”

  The three stood in the entrance hall. To the right were two doors: one leading into a store cupboard, the other to a cloakroom. In front of them was a third door, already wide open.

  The sales agent led the couple through. “This is your living room.” She spread her arms wide with a dramatic flourish to emphasise the size of the room, which was the largest in their apartment, the polished floorboards running lengthways adding to the overall impression. “You’ve got your TV and telephone sockets over there. Two big double-radiators to keep you warm on those long winter evenings…”

  She let her sentence trail off, realising that the young couple would have no problem finding ways to keep each other warm on even the coldest of winter nights. She watched the pair as they gazed out of the window in awe as if it afforded a view of the hanging gardens of Babylon or the great pyramids of Egypt. They had their arms wrapped around each other’s waists, Steve’s hand buried in his wife’s back pocket, gently squeezing her backside.

  The woman’s practised smile dropped, weighted down by a pang of envy - it had been a long time since any man had been that enamoured with her.

  It wasn’t fair!

  She was older, true, but almost certainly far more experienced between the sheets than the slip of a girl, with her flawless skin and perfect teeth that Steve had taken for his wife. The older woman could undoubtedly show Steve a few new tricks in the bedroom given half a chance.

  The merest hint of lusty growl escaped her lips as her inner cougar came to the fore, a dampness tingling between her thighs as she thought about the pleasures a liaison with the handsome young man could bring. She watched as the couple kissed, the sight of their locked lips chasing the cougar away into the darkness of self-pity, its tail firmly between its legs.

  The saleswoman gave a small but deliberate cough and restored her smile to its expected state as the couple broke apart and faced her.

  “This door leads through to the dining room…”

  Sam and Steve grinned at each other and followed into the next room - a windowless square box with a door to the left and right.

  “The door on the left leads to the kitchen…” The woman opened the door and gestured the couple to go through.

  Sam ran her fingers over the black granite worktops, pulled open cupboard and drawers and examined the steel oven and hob.

  “Oh wow! Look at this kitchen! It’s beautiful…oh, I am going to cook you some amazing meals in here, babe!”

  “Of course,” the sales rep jumped in quickly, desperate to interrupt the younger woman’s flow before she got all lovey-dovey with her husband again, “your kitchen is superior to the other apartments because you opted to keep the floorboards throughout the other rooms instead of having carpet fitted – although, obviously, the kitchen floor is tiled for ease of cleaning.”

  The pair nodded approvingly at the thought of having the best kitchen in the apartment block and at the black shiny tiles that adorned the floor.

  “If you’d care to follow me back into the dining room…”

  The newlyweds trailed after her into the windowless box, Steve having to grab Sam’s hand to drag her away from the kitchen that she had fallen in love with.

  “And this door leads to your bedroom...” The woman pushed open the door and stood aside for the couple to walk through, her teeth grinding a little at the thought of what they would soon be doing in there.

  “Again, the floorboards are from the original building. You have TV and telephone sockets in here too…and, of course… your built-in wardrobes and ensuite shower room.”

  Once again Sam raced to the window.

  “Uh-oh!” She turned to Steve, the merest hint of a smile on her lips. “I don’t think you’re going to like this view at all, babe.”

  “Why, what is it?”

  “The school field. There’s a couple of dozen nubile schoolgirls playing hockey.”

  “Sounds horribl
e. I’d better take a look.”

  As he stepped up behind his wife, a floorboard creaked loudly under his feet. Steve turned and stared at the wooden board, the dark knots glaring back at him as he pressed his foot up and down, causing it to squeak over and over.

  “Hmm…we could do without that,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Steve,” the agent blushed slightly at her unintended and unprofessional use of his first name, “in your Welcome Pack are a couple of snagging lists. Fill in the first one with any issues you find over the next few days, drop it into the office and we’ll send someone round to fix them. There’s a second sheet for you to detail any further problems in a few months’ time – new builds have a tendency to settle over the first few months so you might see minor cracks appearing in the walls or doors dropping on their hinges, for example. You can put that creaky floorboard on the first list – I would hate to think of anything keeping you up all night…”

  11

  The past few minutes had been a blur.

  Roger had sprinted from Lisa’s flat until breathlessness and pain had forced him to stop. The intense tearing in his gut had now shifted to his lower back, a pounding, stabbing at the base of his spine that was turning his legs to jelly and threatened to loosen his sphincter. As he gasped for air, leaning against a brick wall with one hand, synapses fired deep in his subconscious mind - an unheard voice, its syllables owing more to concept than to sound, sowing a seed - telling him to turn around.

  Without being truly conscious of his actions he obeyed, the pain immediately returning to his belly, a fiery wrenching at his bowels that refused to quit. Crouching on his haunches, fighting to get his breath back, it felt as though his innards were attached by a hook to some invisible rope that was pulling at his insides, attempting to drag him forwards or disembowel him in the process.

  Roger stood up straight and stumbled back the way he had just come. The instant he started walking the agonising ache eased a little – as if he was being rewarded for his actions. As his energy levels recovered from his earlier sprint he began to walk faster, the pain in his gut subsiding further. He upped his pace to a light jog, the discomfort waning a little more until it suddenly dawned on him – the faster he moved in the direction of the tugging, the less pain he felt.

  He started to run, the hurt easing even more. Running faster, almost sprinting, in the direction he felt compelled to go, the pain was now little more than a niggling reminder to keep up the pace.

  He suddenly felt good. Sweat was dripping from every pore, each wheezing breath was harsh in his throat and his leg muscles burned, but it was a paradise compared to the agonies he knew he would be forced to endure if he slowed down. As if to remind him of that fact, the pain suddenly struck once more – a stabbing in his right side that twisted him around, almost throwing him to the ground.

  He was way out of town now, the road flanked by summer-green fields on both sides, the meadows separated from the tarmac by a snaking rank of crew-cut hedgerows. The pain hit him again, much stronger this time and Roger knew he had no choice but to turn and run in the direction that the wrenching in his guts was excruciatingly suggesting. He left the road and clambered clumsily over the hedge, briars tearing at his skin. Stumbling as he landed, a jolt of pain shooting through his weaker knee he trampled off through the long, waving grass – the turmoil in his belly immediately subsiding.

  Eventually, he was forced to rest. The threat of the agony he knew he would have to suffer had become secondary to overwhelming exhaustion. His legs were like lead and his ribcage throbbed. He lay down in the grass, breathing deeply, the warm breeze licking at the slick sheen of sweat that saturated his skin, cooling him a little.

  He had braced himself for the return of the pain in his guts the second he stopped running but, so far, it hadn’t materialised.

  He closed his eyes…

  *

  A piercing tugging at his bowels woke him sharply from his sleep. The sun had dropped below the horizon, the sky in front of him burning with an angry red hue.

  His throat was desert-dry; he needed water but the pain in his gut forced him onto his feet, his legs stiff and unforgiving beneath him. Setting off at a weary walk the pain shifted to the left. Roger turned in that direction immediately, like a well-broken horse responding to a pull on the reins and within minutes his ears picked up the irresistible babbling of running water, trickling and splashing over rocks. He increased his pace, desperate for the taste and touch of the cool liquid, falling to his knees at the edge of the stream and thrusting his hands into the icy flow.

  He splashed his face with handfuls of the cold water, groaning with joy as the liquid hit his skin, before cupping his palms to bring the fluid to his parched lips, greedily slurping his fill.

  Only as he lay back in the grass, thirst quenched, did he ponder the wisdom of drinking from the stream. Such was his desire, his need, for the icy cold water that he hadn’t given any thought before now as to its cleanliness and purity. It could be contaminated by animal waste, a sewage outlet, toxic run-off from agricultural chemicals or industrial spillage further upstream. All he knew was that it had tasted better than the choicest of wines and even those fine beverages had been known to make him sick before now.

  The unseen forces guiding him had clearly decided he’d rested enough, his right flank suddenly exploding in agony as if some creature had burrowed deep inside him, chewing and tearing at his appendix with razor-sharp teeth. Roger leapt back to his feet, turning into the pain and set off at an obedient jog.

  He ran through the night, changing direction whenever the stabbing and rending in his abdomen bade him to do so, thankful that although the night air was warm he didn’t have the blazing heat of the sun to contend with. Several times he tripped over holes in the hard, dry dirt, sprawling in the dust. He was dimly aware of the stress in his damaged knee but the compulsion to keep running overrode any pain in his muscles and joints. Like the uncaring owner of an old car who was happy to run the vehicle into the ground, the unseen forces that drove him pressed him onwards.

  As the rays of dawn crawled over the horizon, Roger found himself on the outskirts of a town.

  He recognised the name, possibly he’d driven through at some point in the past but it was an unfamiliar landscape all the same.

  He was thirsty again, his throat dry and gritty. As he looked around he could see the milkman delivered early here – cartons of milk sat on numerous doorsteps waiting for householders who were either still fast asleep or dozing between blind stabs at the snooze button.

  Under normal circumstances, Roger would have no truck with stealing, but circumstances were far from normal and, after quickly scanning the street for signs of life, he darted up a shrub-lined garden path and swiped a pint, sprinting away from the scene of the crime before daring to stop and open the carton.

  He hadn’t drunk milk neat since his childhood, the creamy taste strangely alien to his tongue, but the liquid was cool and refreshing, the flavour irrelevant. He drained the carton quickly, wiped the remnants from his lips with the back of a hand and placed the empty container carefully on the pavement at his feet; as if discarding it neatly was somehow different from littering.

  The pains in his gut, which had subsided to a blunt niggle while he drank, returned with a vengeance, telling him it was time to be on his way again. He jogged along the deserted streets turning left and right as the twisting in his bowels dictated.

  As the minutes passed by, the town began to shake off its slumber. Bedroom curtains were thrown open, businessmen in smart suits kissed their dressing-gowned wives goodbye at front doorsteps. One or two nodded a greeting to Roger as he jogged past them, assuming he was just another fitness freak with an early morning routine.

  Eventually, with the sun well up over the distant grey hills and the dawn chorus supplanted by the noise of traffic, he reached a small cul-de-sac of half a dozen prim bungalows. Each property was a clone of its neighbours: red-brick drivew
ays adjoining neatly trimmed rectangles of lawn – rows of dwarfish shrubs and bushes serving as the only demarcation between the houses. The road appeared to be a dead-end, there was nowhere else to run.

  Why had he been brought here?

  As if in answer to his unspoken question his innards suddenly leapt towards the property ahead of him. So forceful was the tugging in his giblets that he jumped forward as if he had been given an electric shock.

  Number Six looked the same as all the other bungalows - with its white PVC front door, pristine block-paved driveway and immaculate lawn. There appeared to be nothing special about it, nothing unusual that would set it apart from its neighbours, but the pulling in his abdomen left him in no doubt that this was indeed his goal.

  He ran up to the door, desperate to get his ordeal over with and pressed the bell. He heard a faint ringing in response and, as he waited for someone to answer, he pressed his hot face against the cool brickwork.

  Laura.

  The name sounded clearly in his head. So clearly that he turned, thinking someone in the vicinity had spoken to him.

  There was not a soul in sight.

  The door opened. A woman who he assumed to be in her seventies stood before him; although, as he stared at her in silence he began to question his original guess at her age – her figure and style was that of a woman twenty years younger but the grey in her hair and the heavy lines etched into her face added years.

  “Can I help you?”

  The woman cast her eye over the visitor at her door, quickly looking him up and down, disdain clear on her face.

  Roger realised he must look a total mess and probably didn’t smell too fresh either.

  “Laura,” he said, his voice dry, barely above a whisper.

  “Pardon?”

  The woman looked as though she had seen a ghost, her pallor adopting a sickly hue.

  “I’ve come about Laura.” He repeated himself, his tongue more confident this time.