The House of Canted Steps

by Gary Fry

  “I never thought Mark and his dad were even vaguely alike,” his ex-wife went on after another gulp of tea or coffee. “I’m not referring just to their appearance, even though there was little similarity there. I’m talking about the whole deal: personality, turn of mind, general outlook on life. You know what I mean—all that psychological stuff.”

  “So what you’re saying,” her lover replied, following a similar slurp from his own cup, “is that you think the man he thought was his dad…wasn’t his biological father.”

  “Remember, I’m speculating a bit. But I’ve always been sure about that, yes. Even when Mark and I suffered the worst of our rows, I never said anything to him, but I don’t think this was because I thought I might be wrong. It just didn’t seem fair, I guess—telling someone something like that.”

  “What, that his mother’s a tart?”

  “Oh, please. You’re not behaving with much of your usual decorum today, I must say.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. But you do think that Mark’s good old mom had had…an affair, don’t you?”

  “Whether it was an affair or just a brief fling, I don’t know. All I do know is that Mark never got along well with his dad, and for a long time, I could never work out why that should be. Okay, the old guy was far from perfect, but he was likeable enough: pretty compassionate about people, really. It was a shame when he died. It was a work-related illness. Didn’t get a penny out of the company he grafted for over forty years, you know. That was tragic and, at the time, quite maddening.”

  “I know. It happens a lot. Shitty, isn’t it? But this stuff about his wife is worse. I wonder whether he ever suspected what she’d done.”

  “In what way?”

  “It’s simple. I can accept her never telling him that the kid—that Mark—wasn’t his, but even so, at the back of his mind he might have suspected that something wasn’t…right about the whole business.”

  “And because of that, you mean, he might have treated Mark a bit differently from how he would if he’d been certain of his paternity?”

  “That happens, too. I used to employ a guy in a similar situation.”

  “Well, it would certainly account for the way Mark always found it difficult to knuckle down with Lewis, how he’d often spend hours at the office, as if he was avoiding normal family life or…oh, I don’t know…scared of getting sucked in to us for some reason.”

  “Ah, but you possibly now know why that was so.”

  “Indeed I might, yes. Thank you, Doctor Freud.”

  “You ist velcome, meine Frau. Anyway, come on, we’d better make a move. Our appointment’s in half an hour.”

  “Sure, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  They finished their drinks with audible slurps that momentarily overruled a similar one advancing gradually towards Mark. He thought this noise must be a multisensory hallucination engendered by tears in his eyes and shock in his mind. The blackness in the stairwell, lit only by that sliver of light falling beyond the cellar door, was reluctant to yield its surely unsightly denizen, but what difference would it make if it did? Mark had just witnessed one unspeakable demon in his life emerge. Why not bring on the rest?

  As Gayle and Justin set their mugs on the draining board and made their way towards the exit, Mark heard his ex-wife say, “At least we can be sure of one thing.”

  “What’s that?” asked her new partner.

  “We know exactly whose blood is in our imminent treasure.”

  “And now he or she has such a wonderful house in which to grow up.”

  Following the sound of a contented kiss, the front door opened and then quickly shut. Keys secured the lock, and a minute later, a car charged away with a powerful roar.

  Then Mark was free to leave the cellar’s stairwell.

  He was about to wrap his fingers around the door handle and make his way out when those damp sounds from below grew impossibly close. Something dripped alongside this newcomer, and when Mark pushed open the door, daylight flooded the stone flight up which the creature had laboriously trudged and he saw it in all its hideous glory.

  It was The Blood Boy. This temporary tenant of the cellar was about waist-high to Mark and smothered in uncongealed gore. But such a glutinous substance didn’t come from inside this child-parody; it was being drawn out of the nearby walls, the ceiling, and all those tipsy stairs. The figure’s face was a red travesty: the pinch of a nose separated eyes that were little more than sodden orbits. The dark slit of a mouth functioned sporadically and its forehead flexed with wet rage. Arms and legs were soaking appendages hanging around a torso bearing no less liquid than a tormented sea. But it was blood that tore around its frame, pumping into and sucked out of its source of life: this house. The House of Blood. The House of Canted Steps.

  Mark looked away and then fled across the property, out through the front entrance. Even after reaching the country lane to the rear, he was uncertain how he’d unlocked and then resecured the property behind him. But now he had an even more demanding task to tackle.

  After climbing inside his car and starting the engine, he began heading for his mother’s house on the other side of the deceptively peaceful town of Hantley.

  PART THREE: MOVING ON

  “Nobody has ever before asked the nuclear family to live all by itself in a box the way we do. With no relatives, no support, we’ve put it in an impossible situation.”

  —Margaret Mead

  “We all grow up with the weight of history on us. Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiralling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies.”

  —Shirley Abbott

  18

  Mark had already beaten three traffic lights when another turned its fierce red face his way. That prompted a memory of the terrible thing he’d seen in his ex-wife’s new home, and despite trying to suppress this recollection, the attempt was a failure. The demon filled his brain with stark terror. Worse, the image proved less disturbing than the accusation Gayle had made. Tugging on his handbrake as if it were a bone he wanted to snap, Mark couldn’t help thinking about what he’d say after reaching his mother’s home.

  He felt as if his foundations, the rootedness in the world he’d always relied on, had been shaken so hard that the binding agent of everything in his life had crumbled, and the whole edifice had begun tumbling. He was like a house, one susceptible to storms and other inclement events. He was being torn apart.

  Striking his horn only drew others’ attention, but he no longer cared. He’d tried so hard to be a considerate son, a hardworking husband and an able father that this momentary lapse of reason sent dissonance rippling through his mind. He’d realized that so many people had betrayed him: Gayle, Justin, the man he’d taken to be his dad, and now his mom…

  Pedestrians and motorists alike observed as he raced from the junction, putting distance between himself and the place of revelation he’d just fled with such troubled abandon. Reflection on what that house had planned for him would have to be reserved for later. The Blood Boy, squirming up through that doorway, had caused Mark to question his sanity, but he must keep his thoughts under control and focus on the one issue that mattered at the moment: his heritage, his family, who had fathered him.

  After reaching the street in which his mother’s bungalow squatted out of view of the neighborhood, he slammed on his brakes and then climbed out, not caring who came to watch. He’d already been exposed; the way he’d always tried to maintain his privacy had been violated in The House of Canted Steps. He thought he’d be willing to confront his mom on her driveway or in the garden. But in the event, he hurried up the path and let himself inside the building, sensing his face swell with more color than he dared inspect in a hallway mirror.

  He found her in the conservatory at the back of the bungalow. She was sitting in an armchair and reading a magazine that dealt with issues relating to far younger women: fashion, sexual problems, diet and other frivolous material. Before
she could glance his way (she mustn’t have heard him enter; the conservatory was nigh on soundproofed), Mark had a moment to examine her. Although age had added grey to her hair and encouraged her to wear spectacles and baggy clothing, he could see what his ex-wife had meant: his mom almost certainly had once been attractive. And when she finally steered her gaze his way, he experienced intense discomfort, as if he’d been admiring her in an inappropriate way.

  That thought brought back speculation about what The House of Blood wanted, but he pushed this aside in his mind.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, letting the words linger between them. He didn’t feel like sitting opposite her, on a couch that, along with the extension in which he and his mom now glowered at each other, his dad had paid for with a meagre wage from a demanding job that had killed him.

  His mom looked puzzled, but then seemed to concede mutual knowledge. “Ah, she’s told you, has she?” she said in a breezy voice that was surely incongruous in such a grave situation; she sounded carefree—cheerful, even.

  All Mark could say in response was, “In a…manner of speaking, yes.”

  “Then why so glum?” She set aside the magazine, sitting forward in her chair. “Now we all know. We can make plans.”

  “I…don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “You mean…you’re not pleased?” She hesitated, looked him quickly up and down. “Hey, why do you look so tense? I think it’s marvellous news. We were both hoping you would, too. That’s why Nina phoned me, I guess—to see how I thought you’d react.”

  Mark felt his already shaky foundations shift anew. “Nina? What do you mean? What’s she got to do with it?”

  His mom’s bright expression withered. The greenhouse visible through the window behind her appeared to writhe with motion, but this was only an effect of fickle sunlight dancing on its panes. Finally she asked, “Then…who do you mean?”

  “Gayle, of course! I’m talking about what she knew about you and I never did. About…him. Him.”

  “Mark, you’re not making any sense.” But her tone had now grown edgy. “What has that bitch said this time? And who’s him?”

  Mark experienced a sudden, powerful concern about his girlfriend, but he was unable to focus on that. The only thing he could say was, “Simon Hughes.”

  At that moment, the room’s atmosphere mimicked his mother’s face: they were both full of ghosts. These invisible yet insidious presences cavorted between her and Mark, prancing, laughing, screaming…Then a breeze every bit as chilly as the passage of the dead was reputed to be swept in from an open window, followed by a silence so alive it forced the woman to speak with confessional directness. “We never wanted you to know. Your dad—”

  “Except he wasn’t my dad, was he?”

  “—your dad severed all links with that family when he retired early. This was nearly eight years ago. It doesn’t…” She stopped herself, appeared to think again, and then added, “Surely it doesn’t matter now.”

  Mark found it difficult to believe what he’d just heard, and decided not to believe it. It was now apparent that he’d been lied to so many times during his thirty years of life.

  “Doesn’t matter?” he said, his voice little more than a savage snarl. “You’re saying it doesn’t matter that you…had an affair with the son of the owner of the company for which Da—…for which he worked?”

  His mom’s face grew even more aghast. She looked as if she was about to stand and confront him, but his next comments prevented her.

  “Simon Hughes was my biological father, wasn’t he? That’s why my…why your husband could never fully open up to me, isn’t it? That’s why our relationship was always strained. That’s why I’ve found it hard to adapt to family life, why Gayle sought another man, and why I only ever see Lewis at weekends. All of these things are true, aren’t they? And they’re your fault.” He paused, tears distorting his vision. His surroundings had become smeared, including the person he’d poured all this scorn upon. Finally he added with a flat tone, “I can’t even bring myself to call you my mother now.”

  Despite her injured hip, she bounded to her feet and came at him with clenched hands. “You stupid fool,” she said with venom and hit him with one hand, hard on the arm. “How many times have I told you not to succumb to that evil cow’s poison? You were married to her for ten years—didn’t you learn anything during that time?”

  Staring at her, almost face-to-face, Mark replied with unfaltering determination. “Is it true or not that Simon Hughes is my biological dad?”

  In the kitchen of her new home, Gayle had sounded sympathetic on Mark’s behalf and this had lent her revelation credibility. But given his mother’s vehement response to the accusation, Mark began wondering whether he’d been tricked, and if so, by whom.

  Or by what.

  Hadn’t Justin’s response to his new lover’s comments being vulgar, not like the charming person to whom Mark had chatted at the housewarming party? On that occasion, Justin might have presented a socially acceptable self—businessmen were often like that, all surface gloss and private ruthlessness—but it was certainly possible that what Mark had overheard earlier might have been prompted by the building. He’d experienced its ability to alter his own thoughts several times, and had since immunized himself against such interference. But perhaps others less aware of the property’s malignant power were more vulnerable to it…

  As his mom retook her seat and instructed him to do the same on the couch opposite, Mark realized he was about to discover how the two problems he’d yet to solve were connected. Listening to what she had to say, he felt his face run almost as red as The Blood Boy’s.

  “Your dad—and I do mean your dad; the man who worked hard to bring you up, no matter what you thought of him—was infertile.”

  Finally Mark knew. He shuffled on the seat, sensing his rage mutate into suspicion. Why had that house been feeding him lies? Now that he’d learned at least part of the truth—and it certainly struck him as believable, making sense of many facts—he could begin plotting his next move. He was glad that Lewis was staying at his flat over the weekend, but this reignited worrying thoughts about Nina and what she had to tell Mark later, something his mom already knew…But he should deal with only one issue at a time. Despite the trying circumstances, he said as calmly as possible, “Okay. Go on.”

  “I do mean to. And you’re going to understand.” His mom now had the upper hand in their debate; she sounded brusque and determined. “So just listen.”

  He was eager to. Then, staring at him as she spoke, the woman went on.

  “For a long while, it looked as if your dad and me weren’t going to have children. We’d been trying for years; we married when we were twenty and were in our mid-thirties when you were born. We’d almost given up by then. This was in the late seventies. But around that time, we heard about some experiments being conducted in Manchester of all places—experiments into artificial insemination.”

  “You mean, what’s now known as IVF treatment? Where a couple get…sperm from either an anonymous or…an un-anonymous donor?”

  “Yes.”

  At last everything fell into place. His mom had not had an affair at all. Mark’s ex-wife had run true to form, spreading vindictiveness without concern for others. Mark’s had been an assisted birth, and the man his dad had worked for had provided his sperm to induce the pregnancy.

  But why did Mark now feel even more nervous about The House of Canted Steps? And why did he still doubt that Gayle’s intentions had been callously motivated? Mark was, technically at least, a direct descendent of George Hughes. Did the property know that? Was it seeking to get him and his real family back together? Did it crave a pure bloodline that badly?

  But he must withhold these questions until his mom had finished. She continued promptly.

  “Your dad and Simon Hughes worked together at Kinder Carpets. The senior man was interested in reforming the whole enterprise, making it
more staff-friendly, and as your dad had been involved in Trade Unions for the better part of thirty years—maybe the one member of staff who’d stuck it out in shoddy conditions at that factory—it was natural for Hughes to seek his advice. And he certainly did.

  “They got along very well. I met Simon a few times at social functions, and found him pleasant if rather intense. I asked your dad why he seemed so…uppity, I guess you’d call it. And your dad told me his boss didn’t get along with his own father, who was apparently a tyrant in more than a business sense. I mean, he was completely opposed to what the Unions were trying to achieve and held out until the day he died. But there were other rumors, too—stuff about his role as a dad.”

  “What do you mean?” Mark asked, and despite believing it was unwise to do so, he couldn’t prevent himself from thinking about the younger Hughes son, the boy whose residual spirit or impossibly surviving corporeal form he’d witnessed at the head of that cellar staircase…At that moment, Mark’s mind was all redness, Blood Boy and horror.

  His mom responded with merciful speed. “I don’t know, really. It was all just hearsay.” She paused, smiling patiently, and added, “Anyway, we don’t want to lapse into Gayle-like nastiness by speculating beyond the facts, do we? Let’s just leave it at that.” Then she straightened her lips and continued. “By this time, your dad and Simon Hughes had grown close enough to share many personal details. And you’ve probably guessed what these were. In your dad’s case, it was the inability to father children. And in his boss’s case…”

  His mom’s hesitation caused Mark’s heart to race faster. What was he about to be told, and what significance would it have for all his inquiries?

  “…and in his boss’s case,” she finished only after an agonizing few seconds, “it was an unshakeable conviction that he never wanted any children of his own, ever.”

  This also made a lot of sense, and Mark was about to ask the question that had now arisen to his startled mind when his mom asked it of herself.