The Magic Cottage

by James Herbert

  I was rambling, inventing, plucking notions out of the air. Or so I imagined. It could have been my tiredness and the emotional condition I'd worked myself up into, driving me toward one of those rare states when the subconscious mind takes over and throws out thoughts that are normally vague or even inconceivable.

  And maybe, just maybe, my subconscious was being prompted by something deeper and even more mysterious, something completely outside of me.

  And when I'd finished, said it all, it was me who became uninterested. I was the one who could hardly keep his eyes open any longer, who had to drag off his clothes and crawl into bed, totally and utterly exhausted, drained of any more considerations.

  Like I said, she was interested, but she didn't try to rouse me. My last glimpse of Midge before slipping into sleep was of her sitting on the corner of the bed studying me with a peculiar glimmer in her eyes. After that I zonked out, and was glad to.

  But later woke to find Midge bolt upright and staring toward the foot of the bed.

  Now I wondered about that. Obviously everything that had gone before that evening had caused her nightmare, and I'd pulled her back down beneath the sheets and endeavored to convince her of that. Although she hadn't verbally rebuffed my contentions, I sure as hell knew she hadn't accepted them. She lay there still and quiet, and when I touched her cheek I found it wet with tears.

  I tried my best to comfort her but unfortunately it wasn't long before I did a three-apostles on her—you know, mind willing, flesh weak—and fell asleep again. I just hoped tiredness had soon overcome her own vigil and she'd done the same as me; the thought of her lying there in the dark, believing she'd seen the ghosts of her dead parents, possibly thinking they might return that night, made me shudder. And feel guilty.

  I pulled back the covers and swung my legs off the bed, checking the clock on the move. Nearly ten. I tongue-tutted, wishing she'd woken me earlier.

  First I noticed, sitting there naked on the edge of the bed and scratching my ribs, that the musty smell from last night still lingered, an odor of damp and old plaster; then I realized I was gaping at something across the room, my addled brain not quite able to comprehend what I was looking at. The long crack in the wall, running from floor to ceiling, somehow didn't register.

  "Shit," I said when finally it did.

  I rose quickly and my stride across the room was broken when something small and soft squelched beneath my bare foot. I hopped and swore more loudly when the sting hit me half a second later, collapsing back onto the bed and grabbing for my foot. I found the tiny, thornlike projection and, using my fingernails (fortunately finger-picking guitar length on my right hand) as tweezers, plucked out the barb.

  The area around the minute puncture was already swelling a bright red and I searched the floor for the culprit. The squashed bee lay a couple of feet away and I imagined its death rattle had been more of a vengeful chuckle.

  Leaning forward, I peeled up the flattened furry mound and took it, together with its last-resort weapon, through to the bathroom, limping all the way, to flush them down the john (not before peeing on the floating carcase first, though, my own petty revenge). Back in the bedroom, I examined the crack in the wall, the new plaster that had been used to seal and cement split into two jagged, serrated edges. It was a minuscule divide, but a crack is a crack.

  So much for O'Malley's craftsmanship.

  I found my robe and left the bedroom in search of Midge. She was downstairs, sitting on the kitchen doorstep, chin on her knees as she looked out at the flowers in the garden. Again I didn't notice at first what was out of place—or in this case, what wasn't in place at all.

  I bent over and kissed her neck. There was little response. She moved over slightly as I shuffled down next to her.

  Although we were on the shaded side of the cottage I could tell the sun was out in full force by the way it played on the brilliant colors of the garden. And above, the sky was the color of faded denim, a washed-out blue, the vaguest wisps of clouds a long way off in the distance. But the air was cool in that shadowed part where we sat.

  "How are you feeling today, Pixie?" I asked, deliberately keeping my voice light, testing. I laid a hand on her upper arm.

  Her response was minimal. "Very confused," was all she said.

  "Yeah, me too. But not so confused I can't see Mycroft and his creepy little sect for what they are."

  Her tone was flat. "Let's drop it, Mike."

  Mine was reasonable. "I don't think we can do that. You've become too enamored with them and it scares me."

  She shrugged, a small movement, almost a flinch.

  "Midge, have you thought about what I said last night?"

  Still not looking at me, she replied, "You said so many things. Do you even remember?" Now she did turn her head my way.

  Right then, I couldn't. I'd said such a lot it had become something of a jumble in my own head, not so much scrambled as mashed. Only later were those notions (perceptions?) to become clear again. My head ached and you could have done a litmus test on my tongue; I wondered how I could be hungover from one glass of wine last night. Then I realized what was missing from the garden.

  "What's happened to our friends today? There's usually one or two still hanging around for food at this time of the morning."

  "There were no birds outside earlier," Midge replied without expression.

  I frowned. "Maybe they've found a better menu elsewhere," I said lamely, refusing to believe there was any significance in the sudden lack of custom, but having a hard time of it. "I guess Rumbo's been around, though, huh?" I said hopefully.

  She shook her head. "Not yet he hasn't."

  That bothered me. There had to be something wrong if that greedy tyke hadn't shown. Bob's words over the phone came to me: "Bad vibes."

  Midge stood, my hand dropping away from her arm like a discarded accessory. "I have to get dressed and go into the village for some shopping," she said stiffly, and was already turning before I could scramble to my feet.

  "Hey, hold on a minute." I grabbed her arm again, pulling her to me. "We're buddies, remember? Not just lovers, but good friends, the best either one of us will ever have. Don't keep your feelings locked away, Midge, no matter how badly you think of me. Okay, I upset you with my views on a coupla things last night, but that shouldn't prevent us talking, should it? Whatever I do concerning you, I mean it for the best. Christ, I love you more than I can say . . ."

  At another time she might have added, "Love you every single day . . ." and I'd come in with, "Love you twice as much tomorrow . . ." and we'd have sung the rest as a duet. Not that morning, though. Not even a smile. All I got was a troubled silence.

  Then the tenseness seemed to leave her body for a moment. She looked down at the ground, avoiding my eyes.

  "I love you just as much, Mike, nothing can ever change that. But I have to find out—"

  I gripped her hard. "You've done nothing to be ashamed of."

  "You won't listen, will you?"

  I controlled myself. "I'm only trying to make you see sense, don't you understand? You know what I think? I think you feel guilty about your own happiness. You've got it so good now—we've got it so good now—you figure in some crazy way that your mother had to die so you could achieve it. That's what's bugging you, Midge."

  She shook her head vehemently. "That's stupid."

  "Is it? You got your freedom when she died—"

  "Committed suicide," she insisted.

  "Okay, committed suicide. You were young, you had a great talent, so maybe you did wonder how things would be with no ties, no liabilities. Who the hell wouldn't in your position? But I said wondered, Midge. You never wished it. Ever. That's something you're just not sure of right now; it's been so long you can't be sure of how strong that wondering was. And I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't this creep Mycroft who instilled that little doubt in your mind."

  "He's not—"

  "What d'you wanna do? Beg their forgive
ness? When we first arrived here, you told me you wished there was some way of letting your parents know how happy you were. Remember that? Somehow that notion's become warped so that you want their forgiveness for being so goddamn happy! How did your feelings suddenly go off in that direction? Did it happen the day you went to the Temple on your own? When I was up in London?"

  She tried to twist away from me, but I held her firm.

  "He made me understand!" she shouted at me. "You don't know him—"

  "I don't bloody need to. What I do want to know is why he's doing this to you."

  This time she managed to tear herself free. She blazed at me, her body slightly bent at the waist like a recalcitrant child's.

  "You said last night that there was something extraordinary about Gramarye." It was almost an accusation. "Those weren't your words, but it's what you implied. You also suggested that I was involved, I was a part of it."

  I vaguely remembered saying something to that effect, but right then I couldn't focus on the exact proposition.

  "Do you imagine I'm a complete fool, Mike? Do you think I haven't noticed everything that's been happening around us?"

  "Then why haven't—"

  "Because it's too fragile to question! All right, I admit I've put up a barrier against it to some extent, but that was because I was frightened to lose . . . to lose . . ."

  She shook her head in frustration, unable to find the words. Unable, I suspected, to clarify her own thoughts. I took a step toward her, but she backed away.

  Her hands were clenched into small fists. "Mycroft is the only one who can help."

  "No!" It was my turn to shout.

  "He understands." Her hands unclenched and dropped to her sides. As was becoming her habit, she didn't want to argue any more.

  She slipped past me and I heard her bare feet mounting the stairs inside the cottage, a stairboard cracking noisily as she went. I thought of going after her, but the truth is, I didn't want to argue either. My head was too sore for that.

  "Mr. O'Malley?"

  "Speaking."

  "Mike Stringer here."

  "Mr, er, Stringer?"

  "You worked on our cottage. Gramarye."

  "Ah, Mr. Stringer." Then more slowly. "Yes . . . Gramarye. By the forest. What can I do for you, now?"

  "I'm afraid a few problems have come back."

  The lilt of his accent hardened slightly. "I can't imagine what they could be, Mr. Stringer. We did a thorough job there."

  "Yeah, well, the wall in the main bedroom is cracked again. And some of the doors aren't shutting properly . . ."

  "Hold on a sec, Mr. Stringer. Let me find the worksheet on your property."

  A clunk as the receiver was put down at the other end. I stood in the small hallway at the top of the stairs, free hand tucked into my jeans pocket, and wished the three aspirins I'd taken twenty minutes earlier would get to work on my headache. The mustiness in the atmosphere wasn't helping to clear my head, either.

  "Right then, let's have a looksee . . ." came the Irishman's voice again. Static on the line made me hold the phone away from my ear for a moment or two. "Ah well now, we did a splendid job on that bedroom wall. I'm surprised to hear it's opened again. I take it y'haven't had any other structural work done on the place since, Mr. Stringer?"

  "Not a thing."

  "I see. Well, that's queer. What was the other item you mentioned?"

  "The doors. They must have warped again."

  "There's no mention of doors on my list."

  "You had to plane them before painting."

  "No, no, it's not down here at all. We'd have smoothed them, of course, rubbed them down as needs be, just for the painting. I remember now, yes, I remember you mentioned them when we quoted for the job. Wasn't there a few cupboard doors and all?"

  "That's right."

  "Ah well, my foreman told me the doors were fine. Nothing needed doing to them apart from smoothing the surfaces. Some of your window casements were terrible rotted, and we replaced them. It was all on my invoice to yourself, Mr. Stringer."

  There was a noise from over my head.

  "Uh, can doors warp with warm weather, Mr. O'Malley?"

  "Now that depends. In direct sunlight maybe, or sometimes in very damp weather. Sure that's a very old house you're living in, and the timber's not so young any more."

  "I've noticed some of the pointing on the outside doesn't look too good. It seems to be crumbling away."

  I heard him draw in a long breath, an indication of weariness rather than surprise. "Now that's a different matter entirely. I can send someone over to take a look at that for you, but I'm afraid I can't spare anybody for at least a week or so. It's a busy time of year for us, with the weather so good."

  "There's something else that needs urgent attention, I'm afraid."

  "And what would that be?"

  "The stone lintel over the range in the kitchen. There's a crack in that, too, and I've noticed the stone is beginning to sag in the middle. Only a fraction, but the whole thing looks pretty dangerous to me."

  "So it's a new bit of work you'll be wanting. As I say, we're very busy right at the moment . . ."

  "The lintel was on my original list for repair. We noticed the break before we moved in."

  "I don't recall . . . ah, wait a moment. That's right, I remember more details now. You had a whole list of repair jobs, Mr. Stringer, that required no attention at all. That's why our price was below the quotation figure; my men couldn't locate half the faults you mentioned."

  "That doesn't make sense."

  "Neither to me does it. My foreman remarked at the time that mebbe you'd confused your list with another property you had on your mind to buy. Any other firm that was a bit Tom Mix—"

  "What?"

  "—cowboy—would have charged you for the lot and not said a word about it. Still and well, I can send someone to take a look, but not in a hurry, I'm afraid. How about Tuesday week? Does that suit you?"

  "That lintel's dangerous . . ."

  "D'you use that range at all? I thought not. Prop up the stone and keep away from it, that's all y'have to do, Mr. Stringer. Now I'll send my man over first thing Tuesday week and we'll see what we can do. There, I've written it in the book. He'll have a look at anything else that needs doing and we'll soon have you right as rain again. Good day to you, Mr. Stringer, hope you're enjoying y'self down in that lovely part of the forest."

  The phone clicked and that was that. Problems solved as far as O'Malley was concerned.

  And again that funny noise from upstairs.

  Two steps and I craned my head around the stairway. I knew what that sound was.

  But now there were other noises. From below.

  I listened intently, undecided as to which I should investigate first and feeling disinclined to investigate either.

  More from downstairs. Scraping sounds, then rustling paper.

  "Midge?" Maybe she was already back from the village. No reply, but then she could still be annoyed at me.

  "Midge, you there?"

  Someone certainly was, but they weren't saying who. I stood at the top of the stairway and leaned precariously around the bend, looking down toward the kitchen. My favorite place.

  A teacup rattled on the sideboard (I hadn't left any on the table).

  I refused to allow myself time to ponder, sick of my own funk by now, and marched down there bold as brass (limped down really; my bee sting was still throbbing).

  I stood at the kitchen door and sagged with relief.

  "Rumbo, you silly beggar."

  From his perch on a sideboard shelf he scolded me for giving him a scare too. A biscuit packet lay torn on the table, contents scattered, most of the biscuits gnawed into.

  "At least you haven't deserted us," I said. I picked up a broken biscuit and held it up to him and he snatched it from my hand, still complaining noisily.

  "So where is everyone today?" I interrupted. "Can they sense bad vibes in Gramary
e too? Is that why the birds have missed out on breakfast?"

  He was probably as puzzled as me.

  "Takes more than that to frighten you off, though, right? But I oughta warn you—things aren't the same around here any more, and I'm a little scared myself. It's in the atmosphere—d'you feel it? Like something's creeping up, but ducks outa sight every time you turn around to see. Know what I mean?"

  I don't think he did. He just nibbled away, cocking his head at me every so often in that doglike way of his, but paying no particular mind to what I was saying. What did I expect from a squirrel anyway?

  The door to the attic rooms was stiff in its frame (although the thought that someone was leaning against the other side crossed my mind).

  I was on the step below, twisting the handle and pushing with my other hand at the same time. Rumbo had kept me company on my cautious journey up the winding stairway, as curious about the odd sounds drifting down as was I.

  Each time the noise came—there were long, long pauses in between—his head had shot up as if on a pole, and he'd looked this way and that in fast, jerky movements. The sounds had a musical thrum to them, and that's why they were familiar to me.

  They were sounds of a thumb playing across open guitar strings.

  Yet softer even than that, a resonance only, the vibrations dying slowly, leaving what seemed a deep and brooding silence before the strings were disturbed once more.

  Fortunately—having used up my bravado when I'd marched boldly down to the kitchen—an explanation had already occurred to me. A bird, or possibly even an insomniac bat, had somehow found its way into my music room and the creature's wings were brushing against the guitar every time it did a fly-past. Other than that, a mouse family could have nested inside one of the acoustics, members scraping past strings when they left or entered the soundhole. Both explanations felt reasonable to me, and I was still prepared to believe in reason (even after all that had happened).

  I pushed harder and the door gave a fraction. There'd been silence inside for well over a minute now.