The House on Widows Hill

by Simon R. Green

  ‘What kind of tech does he use?’ I said.

  Penny got to the end of the clippings and shook her head. ‘Doesn’t say. Probably motion detectors, instruments to measure changes in room temperature or electromagnetic anomalies.’ She shot me a quick grin. ‘I have also been known to read the occasional book on the subject.’

  Tom Shaw didn’t bother with promotional photos, but images from the local press showed a stocky middle-aged man, frowning purposefully as he pointed some unfamiliar device at a likely shadow.

  ‘I thought you’d approve of someone who put his faith in science,’ said Penny.

  ‘I don’t think I’d call what he does science,’ I said.

  ‘Snob,’ said Penny.

  Arthur Welles was a reporter for a local newspaper, the Bath Herald. The only photo looked as if it came from his driving licence, and showed a young man with a serious face, scowling at a world that was always going to disappoint him by never being what he wanted it to be. Just starting out in his chosen career, and more than ready to tackle the kind of stories his more experienced colleagues couldn’t be bothered with. According to the file, he’d insisted on being involved in Team Ghost because his family owned Harrow House.

  And, finally, there was Winifred Stratton. No press clippings, no photo, just basic biographical data and a list of self-published books she’d written.

  ‘It says here that she’s a local historian and a white witch,’ said Penny. ‘Two for the price of one. Author of such volumes as The History They Don’t Tell You About, Making Friends With Ghosts and Your Hidden Powers.’

  I shook my head slowly. ‘Oh, this can only go well.’

  TWO

  It Isn’t Just a House

  That evening, a taxi from the Organization appeared outside the hotel, to take us to Harrow House. I opened the door for Penny, and she arranged herself grandly on the back seat like a film star on her way to a premiere. I got in beside her, and the driver turned all the way round in his seat to give us his best welcoming smile. A large middle-aged man in a crumpled jacket, he addressed us with a broad local accent and seemed genuinely pleased to have us in his cab.

  ‘Welcome, sir and madam! My name is Dennis, and I will be your chauffeur for tonight. My dad always said drive like a chauffeur, which I always took to mean drive like you’re sleeping with the boss’s wife. For the amount of money that’s already been paid in advance, including your extremely generous tip, I am more than happy to take you anywhere you might want to go in our wonderful city.

  ‘So, what’s your pleasure, madam and sir? The theatre, the opera … I know all the best restaurants and clubs … Or perhaps you’d prefer somewhere exotic, like Spearmint Rhino or Burlesque Babes? And, of course, if your tastes run to the more extreme diversions, I can always recommend some very discreet establishments where everyone is guaranteed not to remember your name …’

  ‘Take us to Harrow House, on Widows Hill,’ I said.

  Dennis’s smile didn’t so much disappear as die by inches. He looked from me to Penny and then back again, as though giving us a chance to change our minds; when he saw that wasn’t going to happen, he just nodded curtly and turned away.

  ‘I should have known the money was too good,’ he said, the professional cheer completely gone from his voice. ‘If I’d known that was where you wanted to go, I would have phoned in sick this morning and hidden under the bed till it was over.’

  ‘You know about Harrow House?’ said Penny.

  ‘Everyone in this city does,’ said Dennis. ‘Though most of them have enough sense not to talk about it to outsiders. An American film director came here a few years back, looking to make some kind of documentary, and he couldn’t even find anyone who’d admit to having heard of the place. Trust me, it’s not somewhere anyone should want to go.’

  ‘We do,’ I said. ‘We have business there.’

  Dennis revved his engine and sent the taxi roaring out into the flow of traffic. He didn’t bother to check his satnav; he knew where Harrow House was. After driving for a while in silence, he glowered at Penny and me in his rear-view mirror.

  ‘Why would you want to go to that awful place?’ he said roughly, as though he felt compelled to ask. ‘What reason could possibly be good enough to take you to that little piece of hell on earth?’

  ‘We represent someone who’s thinking of buying it,’ said Penny.

  Dennis looked as though he wanted to laugh, but his heart wasn’t in it. ‘Lots of people have thought about buying Harrow House. I’m told the price is very tempting. But all it takes is one good look and then they all decide they’d be better off looking somewhere else. I’ve driven people to the top of Widows Hill before, and not one of them ever thanked me for it.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘We don’t scare easily.’

  ‘You’ve never been to Harrow House,’ said Dennis. ‘Whoever you represent, tell them the only good reason to buy that place would be to burn it down and then piss on the ashes.’

  ‘You sound scared,’ said Penny.

  ‘That’s probably because I am.’

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘Because it isn’t just a house. It’s supposed to be empty, but it isn’t. There’s something in it.’

  ‘What kind of something?’ said Penny.

  ‘No one knows,’ said Dennis. ‘And no one wants to know.’

  He drove on, staring straight ahead and saying nothing. The traffic gradually thinned out, and by the time we reached the outskirts of the city, we had the road almost entirely to ourselves. The last of the light was dropping out of the day, and the street lamps glowed bravely, holding back the dark. Out on the edge of the city, the whole area had an empty, abandoned feel, as though most people had the good sense to be somewhere else. Dennis suddenly started talking again.

  ‘It’s always a bad idea to go poking around Harrow House. Nothing good ever comes of it.’

  ‘You still haven’t explained why,’ said Penny, in her most winning voice. ‘Ishmael and I have investigated more than our fair share of houses with bad reputations. We know how to look after ourselves.’

  ‘You’ve never seen anything like Harrow House,’ said Dennis. ‘No one has. It’s not a spooky story for tourists; that house destroys people. The locals won’t go anywhere near it.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ I said, trying not to sound too pointed.

  ‘Because they know better,’ said Dennis. ‘There’s nothing like living close to a predator to sharpen your survival instincts.’

  His gaze met mine in the rear-view mirror, checking me out to see whether I was ready to take him seriously. I did my best to appear receptive and trustworthy. Dennis sighed heavily. He sounded more resigned than reassured, but finally he took a deep breath and launched into his story. Wherever there’s a haunted house, there’s always someone with a story.

  ‘I’ve heard of people who went into Harrow House and never came out again. When friends or neighbours went in to look for them, keeping close together for their own protection, they couldn’t find a trace of the missing people anywhere. There are other stories, about strange lights that come and go in the house’s windows, and doors that aren’t always there. People have heard voices crying out in the night, while local pets are always being found dead outside the house gates, without a mark on them. And birds just drop dead out of the sky.’

  Penny and I exchanged a glance. A lot of this was almost word for word what we’d read in Mr Whisper’s file.

  ‘These voices,’ said Penny. ‘What do they say?’

  ‘Everyone hears something different,’ said Dennis. ‘Half the time it’s not even a language anyone recognizes. Which is strange, given that there are all kinds living in the area around Widows Hill. Not because they want to; it’s just all they can afford. Harrow House poisons that whole area, just by being there. And once …’

  He broke off and had to swallow hard before he could continue. When he did start speaking again, somethin
g in his voice made me lean forward in my seat so I wouldn’t miss anything.

  ‘Back when I was just a kid,’ Dennis said slowly, ‘twelve years old and ready to take on the whole world, I used to be part of this gang. Just a bunch of kids from school, but at that age who doesn’t want to be in a gang? Our leader was Kevin – the oldest of us, and the bravest. Always ready to lead us into anything that looked like it might be fun. And if it was something we weren’t supposed to be doing, all the better. We got into a lot of trouble, but that was just part of the fun.

  ‘It was the Fifth of November, Guy Fawkes’ Night. We’d all told our parents we were going to one of the big organized fireworks displays, but we had something far more exciting in mind. We were going to pay a visit to the haunted house on Widows Hill. It was a rite of passage for all the local children back then: to go to the house and look through the locked gates. Prove that you were so brave that not even its reputation could keep you away. Of course, no one ever tried to open the gates and go inside. It was enough to prove your courage by looking at the house, and then running away.

  ‘But that night … we didn’t stop at the gates.’

  He broke off again. I studied Dennis’s face in the rear-view mirror. He looked honestly troubled by what he was remembering, despite all the years that had passed. He stayed quiet for so long that I began to wonder if he’d said all he was going to, or at least all he could bring himself to talk about, but suddenly he started up again. As though he couldn’t help but tell it all, now that he’d started.

  ‘It was a quiet night. The odd explosion of colour lit up the skies, but the fireworks were so far off we couldn’t hear them. The streets were empty. No one about. No one to challenge us as to where we were going. We walked all the way up Widows Hill, and though we were joking and laughing when we started, there wasn’t a word out of any of us by the time we got to the top and stood outside the gates to Harrow House. We crowded in together and peered curiously through the spiked iron bars.

  ‘The grounds were heavily overgrown, with trees and hedges and all kinds of things that had been left to their own devices for far too long. All of it packed so close together they were fighting each other for room to breathe. I’m told it used to be a very elegant and formal garden, laid out in pleasant patterns, once upon a time … but it had been left to run riot for so long that now it was just a great green mess. The old pathways were choked with hanging branches and thorny vines. But one path was still open, leading straight to the house’s front door.

  ‘There were no lights showing in any of the windows that night, no strange sounds or voices. Nothing out of the ordinary – just an old house standing alone, surrounded by a garden no one cared about any more. Nothing to scare us, but we were scared, all the same. Just the sight of Harrow House was enough to put a chill in our hearts.

  ‘But having come this far, and got this close, none of us were prepared to admit what we were feeling. We were Kevin’s gang, the bravest of the brave and the boldest of the bold, always ready to do what no other kid would. So we pressed up against the black iron bars, to see as much as we could. So we could boast about it afterwards, to our admiring peers.

  ‘I don’t know what got into us, but suddenly we were daring each other to open the gates and go in. None of us thought the gates would actually open, of course; everyone knew they were kept locked. It was all about daring each other to try. And, of course, in the end, Kevin did. I thought he’d just rattle the bars a little and that would be that, honour satisfied. But the gates opened immediately at his touch. Swinging slowly back, without a single creak from the hinges, as though opening was something they did every day.

  ‘No one was ever sure whether the gates were locked to keep people out or something else in. No one ever visited Harrow House without special permission. Caretakers were supposed to go in every six months, to make sure everything was as it should be, but even they had to be hired from firms outside the city, because no one local would do it for any amount of money. Harrow House was a sleeping beast that no one wanted to awaken.

  ‘We looked at the gates that should never have opened, and then at each other. None of us wanted to go in. But when Kevin finally stepped forward, we all had to follow him, of course. Because he was our leader.

  ‘The grounds seemed awfully still, as though everything in the garden had stopped what it was doing to watch us. The light from the street lamps couldn’t get past the high stone walls surrounding the property, but moonlight shimmered the whole length of the gravel path that led to the front door of Harrow House. Slumping hedges and swaying branches pressed right up against the edges of the path, but they never once crossed its borders, as though something wanted that path left open, for poor damned fools like us.

  ‘Kevin strode along the path with his head held high, making straight for the house. He never hesitated once. And we were all so proud of him; we were right behind him, backing him up. Our shoes crunched loudly on the gravel, as though announcing we were on our way. We stuck close together, shoulders bumping against shoulders, our eyes fixed on the front door. I kept expecting someone to say we’d done enough, that we’d already dared far more than any other kid ever had, so it would be all right for us to just turn around and leave. But none of us even suggested it. At that age you’re more afraid of what your friends might say than any haunted house.

  ‘We left the gates behind, following the path through the shapeless masses of greenery, whatever form or function they might have had long since lost and forgotten. I remember there weren’t any flowers, not a touch of colour anywhere, and the shadows were all so dark and so deep. Harrow House loomed up before us, growing steadily larger and more imposing. And the dark windows stared at us like so many empty eyes.

  ‘We finally stopped before the front door. It was shut, just as it was supposed to be, and we stood there for a long moment like carol singers who’d forgotten all their songs. The door was huge, at least twice our height, a massive slab of dark wood. Smooth and blank and very solid, more like a barrier than an entrance. There was no electric bell, no iron knocker on the door – just an old-fashioned bell-chain, hanging down. None of us wanted to touch it, not even Kevin, for fear of what it might summon. But we didn’t need to. The door opened on its own.

  ‘There was no sound of a lock turning, no creak or groan from the hinges. The door just fell slowly back before us, as though inviting us in. Beyond it, there was nothing to see but the dark. A darkness so complete anything could have been hiding inside it, anything at all.

  ‘I don’t remember which of us broke first, but suddenly we were all sprinting back down the path. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might leap out of my chest at any moment. I kept my gaze fixed on the gates, convinced they were going to swing shut at the last moment, and we’d end up pressed helplessly against the black iron bars, struggling desperately to get out … while something from inside the house slouched unhurriedly down the path to get us. And I thought that if something so much as placed a hand on my shoulder, I would die from sheer horror. But the gates didn’t close, and we ran through them and straight on down the hill.

  ‘I was the only one who hesitated and looked back, to see the front door of Harrow House slowly close. As though it was disappointed. And then I was off and running down Widows Hill with the rest of them, and none of us stopped running until we were safely home.’

  Dennis stopped talking, and silence filled the cab. All the time he’d been telling us about this terrible thing from his childhood, he’d been driving his taxi through the streets quite calmly and professionally, but his voice had grown steadily quieter, as though just talking about what had happened had taken all the strength out of him. Penny and I said nothing, giving him the time he needed to compose himself.

  ‘We never told anybody what we’d done,’ he said finally. ‘Our parents would have given us a good hiding for being so stupid, and we couldn’t admit to anyone at school that we’d run away. We never even
discussed it among ourselves, preferring to pretend it never happened. That was the end of Kevin and his gang. We didn’t want to be around each other any more, after that.’

  ‘If you never told anyone before,’ I said carefully, ‘why are you telling us now?’

  ‘Because you need to know,’ said Dennis. ‘That house is a bad place. Bad things happen there.’

  His face in the rear-view mirror was unhealthily pale and beaded with sweat. His mouth had set in a grim line, as though to make sure he couldn’t tell us anything else. Penny and I looked at each other. The first few stories he’d told us had sounded pretty generic, just traditional friend-of-a-friend stuff, but his personal account had sounded much more like the real thing.

  Dennis swung the taxi round in a sudden sharp turn, and, just like that, we were roaring up a steep hill. I didn’t need to glimpse the battered sign on an old stone wall to know we’d reached Widows Hill. We passed several old houses along the way, all set some distance apart and standing well back from the road. None of them had any lights showing. The street lamps grew further apart, and their light took on a sickly, unwholesome look.

  ‘It’s not too late,’ said Dennis, staring straight ahead. ‘I can always turn around at the top and drive you back to your hotel.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We can’t do that. We’re here to do a job.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dennis,’ said Penny. ‘We’ll be careful.’

  ‘We know what we’re doing,’ I said.

  Dennis had nothing more to say, all the way up the hill. He finally brought his taxi to a halt some distance short of the high stone walls surrounding Harrow House, and even after he’d stopped, he kept his engine running. He wouldn’t glance at us in his rear-view mirror; it was as though he’d already written us off. He just sat there, refusing even to look in the house’s direction, waiting for us to get out of his cab. We stepped out into the cool air of the evening, and Dennis immediately turned his taxi around in a tight arc and shot off down the hill, accelerating all the way, back to the safety of the streets he trusted.