Dark Places

by Dawson, H A

  ‘I doubt Jim Cooper would have deposited so much junk there if he’d lived here,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t understand why he didn’t live here.’

  ‘It must have something to do with the note he left you.’

  Michaela stiffened.

  ‘Are you sure your mother didn’t say anything?’

  Averting her gaze, she clenched her jaw. She was considering responding when Sam suggested they should have spent longer making the decision to move. Disappointed, she questioned his comment.

  His gaze wandered, wild and anxious.

  ‘You think we should sell!’

  He folded his arms and steadied his focus. ‘Jim was adamant . . . and it was more of a warning than a suggestion.’

  ‘Why haven’t you said this before now?’

  Silence.

  ‘He was nuts, obviously. I never knew anything about him. He was never at family gatherings, and according to Mum lived life as a recluse. He abandoned this place years before. No one sane would do that. It must have been worth a fortune in a good state.’

  ‘He must have had his reasons, Michaela.’

  You really believe that?’

  He averted his attention to the roof of the house.

  ‘As I said, he was nuts.’ She grabbed his hand. ‘Come on, I don’t want today spoiled. Let’s take a walk . . . explore.’

  They headed down the weed-laden drive, weaving around the rubbish and passing the crumbling outbuildings before arriving at a grassy track. A little further on, they approached the north end of the plot, passing a well and a grandiose willow tree and arrived at an old bramble bush that smothered everything in its path. Hesitating, they took a moment to determine the best trail before stepping to a small orchard in bloom. The white flowers with a hint of pink were delicate and aromatic and covered every branch of the trees. Once she had taken a moment to absorb the scene, she looked at a dirt track at the other side of a decaying fence. It meandered past gorse bushes and heathers, up a slight incline, and disappeared over a peak.

  ‘We’ll have to take a walk up there one day,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘From what I can work out from the deeds the land belonging to this house extended some distance in the north and the west.’ He scanned the vista. ‘That boulder you can see over there would have been ours.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter - we have plenty here.’

  ‘I agree.’

  They walked along the western perimeter, treading on the early spring growth, making a path with their footsteps, and absorbing the peace and tranquillity of the open aspect. Pausing midway along their stretch of land, she scanned the vista, and to the rabbits munching the tender spring shoots.

  She caught his eye and smiled. ‘It’s a bit different to our flat in the city.’

  ‘Just a bit,’ he replied, ‘I might get to see a bit more of you now.’

  ‘You’ll be sick of me in a few days.’

  Never.’ He stepped over a boulder. ‘I just hope you can cope without your hectic social life.’

  ‘I can make new friends.’ She caught his eye. ‘I needed to do this. I had a strong sense it was meant to be. You do understand, don’t you?’

  Of course. Just make sure you don’t get too lonely.’

  She smiled. His concern was endearing.

  ‘Our neighbour is outside,’ Sam said.

  Michaela caught sight of the woman’s face before she averted her eyes and busied herself with her gardening chores, hiding a sour expression. She had a long neck with scraggy skin, and a frail looking gaunt body. Her skin was coarse and her complexion patchy. Disregarding her standoffish manner and relenting to an innate need to be friendly, she approached the adjoining hedge.

  ‘Hello. I’m Michaela and this is my husband, Sam. We’ve just moved in.’

  The woman stood upright, gave her a blank stare, and headed towards the border. ‘Grace.’

  ‘You have a beautiful garden. I should imagine it takes a lot of work.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘I think we have a lot to live up to,’ Michaela said, glimpsing at Sam. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  A long time.’

  ‘We’ve been fortunate. We’ve just inherited this place.’

  Grace glared at Michaela then Sam. ‘I heard how you acquired it.’

  ‘Did you know Mr Cooper?’

  ‘I knew him all right.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  She pressed her lips together and hesitated to reply. An antagonistic sod.’

  Michaela turned to Sam. ‘I said he must have had a screw loose.’ She turned back to Grace. ‘He warned us we should sell.’

  ‘He’s not the only one, from what I hear.’

  ‘What?’ She gawped at her husband. He averted his eyes and looked at his feet.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry,’ Grace said, ‘have I put my foot in it?’

  ‘There were messages daubed onto the windows,’ he said sheepishly, ‘I had them removed.’

  ‘What kind of messages?’

  ‘It’s not important. It was probably kids.’

  Grace smirked.

  Michaela forced a smile. ‘Yes, you’re right. It would have been kids for sure.’

  ‘I doubt it was,’ she said, ‘that house of yours has a reputation. A few of us in the village expected the place to be knocked down.’

  ‘It does look like we should bring the bulldozers in,’ came a chirpy reply.

  ‘Best thing for it, if you ask me.’

  ‘Do you know who wrote the messages?’ Sam asked.

  No, of course not. But that place has a history. Not a lot of good has happened there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There have been a lot of unfortunate accidents – people have died.’

  ‘But they were accidents . . . right?’ Michaela asked.

  Grace held a concentrated stare. Of course . . . accidents.’

  She bit her lip and folded her arms. She wanted to find out more, but her vocal cords dried and sickness swirled.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Grace for tips with the garden,’ he said.

  ‘What? Oh, yes.’ She turned to her neighbour. ‘I love the combination of shrubs you have used. The variety of textures is so eye-catching.’

  ‘I didn’t plan it. It just happened.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest. I only hope I can do half as well as you.’

  A car horn sounded from Grace’s driveway and a slick looking man wearing a tailored suit and with bristled hair exited the car. Beaming, he waved at Grace and her eyes lit up. ‘I have to go,’ she said.

  Pensive, she watched her leave. When she turned to Sam, he had already started back to the house and was striding along the track in a hurry.

  She trotted after him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the messages?’

  ‘I didn’t want you worrying. You agreed it was kids.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have to find out from a neighbour. How do you think that makes me feel?’

  Silence.

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes Sam, it does.’

  He puffed out and hurried his steps.

  ‘Sam?’

  He stopped so abruptly that she almost stepped into him. ‘It was a warning, that’s all. It didn’t make much sense . . . something about death lurking. It’s nonsense. We shouldn’t even be discussing it.’

  Death lurking?’

  ‘It was a prank.’ He studied her fearful gaze. ‘I knew you’d act this way. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.’

  ‘I have a right to know.’

  He strode towards the house. ‘And worry unnecessarily?’

  ‘Yes, if that’s what happens.’ Their eyes locked. He looked guilty. ‘Did it say anything else?’

  ‘Do we have to do this?’

  ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘It said we should watch our backs . . . and especially those of our children.’
r />   ‘Oh Lord!’

  ‘It’s not personal. Like we agreed, it was kids.’

  ‘Grace didn’t seem to think so.’

  ‘She was likely to be winding us up. It was a prank. Forget it.’

  He entered the house and climbed the stairs. Irritated, she hovered next to the rubbish near the entrance and closed her arms across her body. A shiver crossed her body. It was just an old abandoned house, nothing more, so why did she feel so afraid? Death could not linger . . . could it?

  Chapter 3

  The conversation regarding the warning had been swift to end, and to Sam’s pleasure, Michaela had not re-ignited what he felt could be a contentious subject. Regardless of what had caused the person to make such comments, they had decided to move into Primrose Cottage, and work had already started and time and money had been invested. The last thing he wanted to do was to abandon his plans and head back to city life. To his gratitude, Michaela seemed to be thinking along similar lines.

  Whilst waiting for a hired hand, Terry Uxley, to give him his next order, Sam watched Michaela fill the skip with the junk that had been scattered outside of the house. Dressed in tatty jeans, an old waterproof jacket, and wearing heavy boots, she looked workman-like and utterly different to the girly image she so often projected. Nevertheless, he thought she looked as sexy as ever. Her shoulder-length walnut-coloured hair was pinned messily to the rear of her head, her cheeks glistened red with perspiration, and her curves pressed against the fabric. She oozed femininity, and it triggered a yearning inside his loins, reminiscent of the day they met.

  Michaela had been socialising with her friends in a local pub, and whilst Sam knew nothing about her, he concluded that she was the woman of his dreams: beautiful, intelligent, fun loving, and with a great sense of humour. Everyone loved her; she was always the centre of attention, always the sparkle in the group.

  Pushing aside his fears of rejection and clutching a moment of assertiveness, he had edged closer to the group, using the bar as an excuse. Glancing covertly, he focused upon her beautiful smile, twinkling eyes and gleaming white teeth, and tried to think of a witty remark or an intelligent comment, but his mind was fog. After a few minutes, she caught his eye, smiled, and walked towards him. They hit it off immediately, making easy conversation. One date had led to another, and within months, they had married.

  Terry guided Sam through his next tasks, removing him from his daydream. His first job was to retrieve the clay tiles from the ground and place them in rows on the scaffolding board. Huffing and puffing, and urging his tired leg muscles to find more energy, he climbed the ladder with a few slotted under his arm and placed them onto the wooden planks. Perspiration trickled down his face and his t-shirt stuck to his skin; it was an arduous and repetitive task.

  His next task was to treat the roof joists with a wood treatment substance using a sprayer. Having completed the lower sections accessible from the outside, he stepped inside the loft, bending and twisting to edge his way through a tight gap. The loft had accumulated several centimetres of dirt, grit, and cobwebs, so he moved cautiously, careful to place his feet on the ceiling joists and trying hard not to disturb the particles. In spite of his best efforts, a fine layer of muck lifted into the air, creeping onto his skin and clothing, and catching between wisps of hair. It was grimy and unpleasant, something he would have to grow used to.

  Taking a break from the noxious fumes as well as the dust, he poked his head through a gap in the roof and inhaled the salubrious air. Sam had been surprised to discover that the structure of the roof was sound, especially considering the age of the building, but even so, minor repairs had been necessary. They had replaced sections of wood and rendered some of the inside brick. The work had been running smoothly, and so far, the weather had been kind.

  However, wind and rain were forecast for the following day, and it caused Sam consternation. The house did not have a roof on and the loft was exposed. Would they feel the cold and damp? Would Michaela complain? He glanced down to the ground. His fun-loving and gorgeous wife shared a joke with Terry. She was a bundle of happiness and as light-hearted as always. He prayed it would last.

  In spite of the wind and bursts of rain, Michaela continued to fill the skip, deciding to work a twelve-hour shift system to remove the junk that had been scattered outside of the house. It was a laborious task and one she would be glad to be rid of, partly because of its dullness and partly to improve the view from the house. She walked towards the skip with the remains of an old cupboard, flung it inside, and looked up to the roof. A fine mist coated her skin and the breeze blew her hair to one side. If the men could continue to work in these appalling conditions so could she.

  The wind was causing havoc for Terry and Sam, yet they still found calm moments to pin the roofing underlay and insulation sheets to the timber. Using lathing, and wherever possible their body weight, they stopped the sheets from flying away, but the cold penetrated their fingertips and it made the work more challenging. Michaela had told Sam to wear gloves, but he claimed he needed to be tactile. She thought he was just being macho.

  Michaela leaned against the skip and tilted her head back, anxious that Sam, once again, was in a precarious position. Slipping and sliding on the damp floor joists had become a regular occurrence, and more than once he had snatched at the wood inside the loft just in time to prevent an accident. She held her breath. Terry yelled out a command and Sam cautiously adjusted his position, reached to his feet, and passed something across. The moment he relaxed and looked safe, she returned to her task.

  It started to rain heavier. Having cleared the vast majority of rubbish from outside, Michaela withdrew from the elements, deciding to work indoors. Taking a bolster and chisel, she levered free the loose plaster and grimy skirting boards from the walls in one of the rooms. The plaster dropped to the ground amidst a cloud of dust. To say it was filthy work was an understatement.

  She continued until she ached all over and struggled to stand upright. With her legs sinking and her body slumping, she staggered up the stairs, removed her clothes, and washed. The water turned a filthy grey colour. She scrubbed and scrubbed until the fine particles were replaced with a fresh-smelling odour and her skin returned to its beautiful soft state, but when she gazed in the mirror, she saw that her nose remained dirty. It was repulsive; her nostrils had turned black. She scooped up the water and threw it towards her nose. It was a wasted effort and did nothing to remove the black debris from the fine hairs. Reluctantly, she placed her nose into the water and inhaled. It was far from pleasurable, but at least she was clean.

  Michaela warmed herself with a towel and strode to the bedroom. Her throat was parched and sore and her breathing gritty. She concluded that her lungs would be covered in the same dirt that coated her nose, yet there was no way to release it. Even if she could swallow great breaths of air and spit them out, it would be pointless, as tomorrow she would be dirty again.

  After a few days, having removed as much of the plaster from the wall as she was physically able, Michaela transferred her attention to the brick outbuildings. The barn was the largest building, and it sat at a ninety-degree angle to the others, which she surmised had once been stables. None were in good condition, but the barn at least had solid walls and a tiled roof.

  She prised open the heavy wooden door and looked into the darkness. Junk occupied the floor space, there was a pile of broken bricks against a far wall, and there was a hayloft at the far end. Dust lingered in the air and dirt gathered on the floor. Willing herself to relinquish her desire to be clean, Michaela once again passed into a world of dirt and grime.

  Driven by a dream to create an art and craft studio, she erased her distress and scanned the rubbish heap, noticing horse tack, farm equipment, chemicals, and pots and pans. The task was monumental, and for a moment, she hesitated, pondering where to start. Part of her wanted to abandon the chore, but given that she had a skip to fill, she knew it made sense to do the clearing. Michaela g
rabbed the objects at her feet and dumped them into a wheelbarrow before wheeling them away. The work had no positives; it was a mindless act of labour. She gained no pleasure from making space, and no pleasure from the physical hardship.

  Curiosity rarely prompted Michaela to study the objects. However, when she discovered a dirty kettle, and absently rubbed part of the surface with a rag, she uncovered an exquisite copper surface. A quick scan of the surrounding area revealed other copper products, so she put them to one side and continued with her clearing.

  It wasn’t long before a swallow swooping into the barn disrupted her efforts. Michaela jolted, but it appeared the bird was also afraid, and turned and rushed back to skies. She followed it outside. It flew in circles, high above the barn, weaving through an invisible maze at high speeds. For a while, Michaela was in awe, watching as it moved effortlessly, riding the gentle breeze. She thought of the difficult journey it had just undertaken, travelling from South Africa crossing two continents, an inspiring effort, and she thought of its desire to nest in the same barn each year.

  She stepped back inside the brick building and scanned the beams, and after a few seconds spotted last years nest. It was easy to imagine the featherless creatures squawking for food in their tiny home, and easy to visualise their parents dropping small insects into their vast, open beaks. Wanting to share her find, she darted outside in search of Sam. He was studying a section of the window on the house.

  Hey, Sammy.’

  He turned his head. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You have to come and see this.’

  He turned his attention back to the window and poked a piece of rotten wood with the end of a screwdriver. ‘Okay.’

  ‘No, now,’ Michaela said. ‘Come on.’

  She grabbed his arm, encouraging him away from the window. Sam sighed and followed Michaela to the barn.

  She stopped at the doorway; he bumped into her.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Shush . . . look up there.’

  The swallow was perching, motionless, on a high beam. It had claimed its nesting ground.