House of Spines

by Michael J Malone

  ‘I’m on holiday. You?’

  ‘Just moved into the area,’ he replied. ‘Taking time out to meet the natives.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ she grimaced. ‘A house full of boxes?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he replied. ‘But it is a tad overwhelming.’

  With a nod of understanding, she opened her book and began reading again. Ranald took another sip at his coffee. The feeling of foreboding he had experienced earlier seemed to have been dispelled by the heat of the sun, the coffee and the pretty young woman sitting only an arm’s length from him. But the question remained: Why didn’t he want to investigate the house? Most people who came into something like this wouldn’t stop until they’d seen everything.

  He took a breath, and recognised this reluctance for what it was. He struggled when something good happened to him, always certain that he didn’t deserve it.

  He looked up and down the street, trying to get out of his own head, and at the same time wondering how he could engage the young woman in conversation again. But before he’d come up with some suitable comment, the woman was packing her book away, sipping the last of her drink and sending a non-committal smile in his direction. Unable to help but feel he had a hand to play in her swift departure, he sat back in his chair, crossed his arms and gave a small grunt of disappointment.

  Her seat was almost instantly taken, this time by a middle-aged woman, slim with long blonde hair, who eyed him with barely disguised curiosity.

  He gave her a nod as she sat down. ‘Lovely day,’ he said.

  She smiled in response, placed her large handbag on the table and rummaged around inside.

  A second glance up at him, accompanied by another small smile prompted Ranald to say something more. ‘I wonder how anyone can find anything in those.’

  The woman blew her fringe out of her eyes, smiled more broadly and said, ‘Don’t I know it. I put my phone in the little pocket on the side and it always finds its way down into the bottom of my bag.’

  The waitress appeared with her drink and Ranald heard the music of the teaspoon on china, as the cup and saucer came to rest on the table top. He cursed her timing. Unusually for him he was feeling chatty and he couldn’t help but feel her sudden presence had put a halt to their conversation.

  ‘Do you have the time?’ Ranald asked once the waitress had gone back inside. The words were out before he could stop them.

  The woman raised her eyebrows as if he’d just come out with the worst chat-up line ever. ‘It’s one-thirty.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Where’s the day gone?’ Feeling encouraged by her open expression, he decided to try and push it. ‘Come here often?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s what you’re going with?’ The woman chuckled. She lifted her cup, examining him over the rim.

  ‘Sorry, I’m just recently divorced. I’ve forgotten how I should speak to attractive women,’ he said.

  ‘Good comeback,’ she laughed. Perfect teeth, light tan, hair that looked as if it had been straightened to within an inch of its life reaching her shoulders. Just a touch of cleavage. ‘Just moved into the area?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Just finding my feet.’ He paused. Held his cup up in a kind of cheers motion. ‘Is this it, then? The height of excitement in Bearsden?’

  ‘Just wait till you have one of their fruit scones. That’s when you know you’ve really lived,’ she chuckled. ‘So the ex got the marital home? Where are you living?’

  Ranald smiled. ‘I’ve just moved into Newton Hall.’

  She sat forward, a note of what do we have here? clear in her face. ‘I didn’t realise it had gone on the market,’ she said.

  ‘It didn’t,’ replied Ranald. ‘I inherited it.’

  ‘You did?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You a Fitzpatrick then?’

  ‘On my mother’s side.’

  ‘Right,’ she said with a hint of excitement, as if pleased to touch on some old gossip. ‘She was the one that got away. Helena, wasn’t it?’

  Ranald blinked, taken aback by the direction the conversation had moved in. But then again, he should have known. While Bearsden was part of the urban sprawl of Greater Glasgow, it did have a distinctly village feel about it.

  ‘You knew my mum?’ he asked.

  ‘Knew of her.’ The woman smiled. ‘Is it true that the house is haunted?’

  ‘News to me if it is,’ answered Ranald. ‘Don’t all old houses have that reputation?’

  ‘I used to work with one of the Fitzpatricks,’ she replied. ‘She said none of the extended family wanted to inherit the place. It gave them the creeps.’

  Thinking he understood that after only spending a short time inside, Ranald disguised his uncertainty behind the action of taking a sip of his hot drink.

  The woman’s focus returned to her coffee, and silence fell on them, the only sounds the chime of cup on saucer and the passing traffic. While Ranald wondered what to say next he tried to study the woman without being too obvious. She was beautiful; he was flattered she was even giving him the time of day.

  Before long, she took what appeared to be the last sip of her drink and got to her feet. ‘Was nice talking to you…?’ She left a space for him to reply with his name.

  ‘Ranald. And likewise,’ he replied. ‘Hopefully I’ll see you again soon.’

  She smiled and walked away, and was at the end of the street before Ranald realised she hadn’t given him her name.

  Once the woman had left, Ranald felt the fun had gone out of his visit to the village, so he drank what remained of his coffee quickly and made his way to the small supermarket where he filled a basket with some essentials, and something for his evening meal.

  He’d paid and was walking out of the shop door, when he heard his name being called. It was the blonde woman from the café again.

  ‘I never told you my name,’ she said and held out her hand. ‘It’s Liz.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said taking her hand in his. Her skin was warm and soft.

  ‘How about you show me this haunted house, then?’

  5

  It had been a day full of surprises. And the latest was that they’d been back at Newton Hall only minutes before they were having sex. Ranald wasn’t exactly sure how it had even started. All he knew was that Liz was the one in charge, seeming to find the main bedroom in the blink of an eye, and hauling him over to the massive four-poster they found there.

  Afterwards, she rolled onto her back, propped her head up on the pillow and looked over at him. She seemed pleased with herself.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to do that,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Ranald asked, trying to get his breathing under control.

  ‘You know, do it with a stranger; and a younger man at that…’

  Ranald turned away from her, locating his boxer shorts on the edge of the vast bed and slipping them on.

  ‘What’s that about?’ she asked. ‘I don’t mind you being naked.’

  He made a face. ‘I’ve never been that comfortable with nudity.’ A flash of memory and his father’s angry red face was in his head. Where had that come from? he wondered. He forced his thoughts back into the moment and as if it might help, he reached over and down with his right hand to trace a lazy circle round Liz’s belly button. He spotted a small tattoo on the inside of her upper thigh. It was a small, pink heart. He leaned over and touched it.

  ‘I’ve got another one,’ Liz said and held up her leg. ‘On my ankle.’ It was a blue butterfly. Small, about the size of penny.

  ‘Another thing you always wanted to do – get tattoos?’ he asked.

  ‘Kinda,’ she chuckled.

  Ran lay down next to her, placed his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes. All this talking, all this moving, all of this was momentarily too much. He craved the balm of sleep with an intensity that was, most likely, unhealthy.

  ‘You’re not going to do that thing where you fall asleep, are you?’ she asked.


  ‘Nah,’ said Ranald. ‘Just resting my eyes.’

  ‘Sure you are,’ she said, reaching up and patting him on the head. ‘I might just join you,’ she added.

  Ranald woke to a panicked yelp. He felt the rush of movement as someone leaped away from him. Opening his eyes in fright he saw Liz pressed up against the headboard, the quilt held up to her breasts and her eyes as large as plates.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered.

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘Oh my God. I’ve got to get out of here.’ She jumped off the bed and rushed to put her clothes on.

  Ranald climbed over to her side and stood up. Mystified, he asked, ‘What happened?’ As he spoke he noticed the room was decidedly colder. His skin prickled.

  ‘Walk me out, please. Walk me out.’ She didn’t bother with her underwear, simply slipped her dress over her head and held her underwear and shoes to her bosom and marched swiftly out of the room.

  Ranald jumped into his shorts and followed her down to the front door.

  She only slowed down once she was outside. Grimacing from the pain of the pebbles on her bare feet, she hopped into her shoes.

  ‘Liz, what’s going on? What did I do?’ Ranald asked, checking to see that Danny wasn’t somewhere near.

  It was still bright and warm. And now she was outside, Liz appeared to have relaxed a little. She gave a little laugh. ‘Oh my God, that was weird.’ She placed a hand on Ranald’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry. It must have been a dream.’ She exhaled. ‘But Christ, it was so real, you know?’

  ‘What did you see? Or what did you dream?’

  Liz pressed a hand against her lips as if holding back the answer. ‘Och, you’ll think I’m just a daft woman.’

  ‘What was it, Liz?’ Ranald reached out and took her arm.

  ‘There was this face. A woman’s face. Oh my God, it was horrible. One half of it was kind of in shadow, you know? She shouted at me; I could even feel the heat of her breath on my face as she did it.’

  Ranald released his hold on her and crossed his arms. He felt cold despite the hot day.

  ‘What did she say?’

  Liz laughed. ‘I’m being silly. It was just a weird dream,’ she replied. She brushed her hair away from her face with her fingertips. Then she leaned forwards and kissed him on the lips. ‘Thanks for a lovely afternoon.’ She made a face. ‘Not sure I want to repeat it after that horrible dream, mind.’ She turned and started walking towards the road where she’d left her car.

  Ranald followed her. ‘Liz, what did this woman say?’ He had no idea why it might be important, but for some reason – the look of genuine fright he’d seen in Liz’s eyes; the chill of the bedroom – he had to know.

  Liz stopped walking and turned to stare at him. ‘You’re taking this seriously, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m a writer,’ he shrugged. ‘I pay attention to what people dream.’

  ‘It was a dream. I’m sure of it now.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The voice I heard – in my dream, or whatever – it shouted at me. Really loudly. I can still hear it.’ She paused. ‘She said: “Get out, he’s mine.”’

  6

  On his own again, confused at the speed at which everything was happening Ranald headed straight for the library, seeking the solace of its books. He needed to be surrounded by the muffle and hush of the bound word. There, his body cushioned by soft leather, he breathed in the smell of hundreds of years of literary works and allowed his heartbeat to settle. It felt as if the rows of spines around him formed a sanctuary, protecting him from the burden of the unknown, unexplored rooms that surrounded him.

  His breathing almost back to normal, he pushed all thoughts of Liz and what she thought she’d heard from his head and sat at the desk.

  What a load of crap, he told himself. She heard something. Yeah right. She’d just wanted to get away from him and that was the best thing she could think of; that’s what had happened.

  He felt the heat from the sun through the window at his back, rose from his chair and opened it.

  Sitting again, he tried to enjoy the warm breeze that curled its way inside, and turn away from the harsh, self-deprecating thoughts his condition never failed to produce. Thoughts that at times he felt powerless to stop.

  Distract yourself, he heard his therapist saying in his head. So he pushed back the chair and pulled open the middle drawer under the desktop. Inside, to his surprise he spotted the shine of a chrome-coloured laptop. Old Uncle Alex was more modern than this house first suggested, then. He pulled the laptop out of the drawer, set it on the desk, opened it and pressed the on button.

  A box appeared asking for a password.

  Just guess, he thought, and typed in his mother’s name. Nothing.

  He tried the name of the house. Same result.

  He closed the lid and replaced the laptop in the drawer.

  Next he pulled open the top drawer on the left side of the desk. Inside were a black fountain pen and four black moleskin notebooks.

  His interest was roused. Might he meet his great-uncle somewhere in the pages of these books?

  He picked out the top one and placed it on the desk with some reverence. But as he did so, part of his mind acknowledged that this was an act of avoidance. Any other young man in this situation wouldn’t rest until he’d examined every room in the house. At this thought, a knot of anxiety tightened in his chest. It was too much. Much too much. A little at a time, Ranald. That’s what your doctors would say, he told himself.

  He opened the notebook and began reading. The handwriting was difficult to decipher at first. Vowels were often placed too close together and the ‘–ing’ at the end of words was reduced to a shape that resembled an upside-down L. But within a couple of pages he got the hang of it and realised it hadn’t really been worth the effort.

  At the top of the very first page, underlined, were the words ‘A Commonplace Book’. He’d never come across that before. What on earth was a ‘commonplace book’? And leafing through the pages he came across aphorisms: ‘Do the right thing, it will gratify some and astonish the rest’; random facts: ‘Polar bears can eat as many as eighty-six penguins in a single sitting’; and even the odd recipe.

  If there was a message contained in these pages, it was passing him by. Nor was he gaining any insight into what his great-uncle was like. He brought out the other notebooks and, leafing through them, found they contained more of the same.

  He put them all back in the drawer and closed it.

  That was a waste of time.

  He now noticed a hollow ache in his stomach. Was it the return of his earlier anxiety? But then he realised he hadn’t eaten for hours. Making his way along to the kitchen he spotted the plastic bag full of provisions he’d bought at the supermarket just inside the door. At least he’d had the presence of mind to carry them in here before Liz and he got intimate.

  What a surprise that was. He was hardly a catch and yet on his first day at the house he’d met an amazing – but flighty – woman. Was that the kind of time he was in for?

  His head spun at the thought; he felt both thrilled and terrified at the prospect. After years of therapy, he had become aware that he was prone to wide leaps in mood and energy, and that he often didn’t realise what was happening until it was all over and he found himself lying in an exhausted slump, too tired to even sleep.

  He closed his eyes and performed the breathing exercise he’d been taught – feeling his feet on the floor and bringing his awareness to his diaphragm.

  Calm, he thought. And then food. Eggs and bacon. You couldn’t go wrong with an omelette.

  Once it was prepared and on a plate, he found himself eating it at the corner of the table nearest the window, his back to the expanse of kitchen. There was just too much space to be comfortable in this house. And it was too quiet. He needed to find a radio or a TV – a noise generator of some sort.

  And then he heard the echo of Mrs Hackett’s voice telling hi
m about the fitness suite. A swimming pool. He could give that a try. He tidied his dishes away, not wanting Mrs Hackett to think he was a slob and went in search of the pool.

  Turning right out of the kitchen, he walked past the lift. Remembering his strange reaction when he was first here, almost involuntarily, his hand reached out and touched the metal door. Ouch. He pulled his hand away as if he’d just received a jolt. It had been cold, like touching the fur of frost on the wall of a freezer.

  He touched it again, bracing himself for another chill, but second time around the door felt like it should: solid and merely cool. Where had the shock come from, then?

  Very strange.

  He reached out for the handle. Mrs Hackett had said the door was locked – so what was the point of trying it? He felt like the kid who’d been told a knife was too sharp but then tested it for himself and was cut.

  But before he had a chance to turn the handle, a cool breeze on his neck reminded him of his original destination: the pool. He was off, half walking, half running. Swimming had always held a special place in his heart. It was a real treat as a kid to be taken to the local swimming baths by his dad – away from the family home and all its uncomfortable oddness. The smell of chlorine and the high echo of children’s voices never failed to give his gut an excited lurch: normality; like being a part of other people’s more regular lives.

  He felt that excitement now as he approached a pine door ahead of him and pushed it open.

  ‘You beauty,’ he said as he entered the wide space.

  The surface of the water wore a lazy ripple and sparkled in the late-afternoon sunlight coming in through the wall of glass that looked out onto the garden. The other walls were stone clad. He slowly turned to the right and left, taking it all in. He noticed what looked like a small sauna tucked away in the corner.

  His attention went back to the pool and for a moment he was tempted to jump in fully dressed.

  A white plastic lounger sat to his right. Beside it a rack of towels. Placed on the top towel was a pair of swimming goggles. Did he have Mrs Hackett to thank for this? All he needed was a pair of trunks.