The farmer had lived with dogs all his life, farm dogs and family dogs. Now and then you got one who snapped; one minute they were your best friend, but the next minute nature stepped in, or evolution, and the animal turned unpredictable and dangerous. He never expected it to happen to Ace. Softening his voice, he talked quietly to the dog. Eight years they’d been together, a long time for any friendship, and although it was too dark to see Ace’s eyes, he could hear the threat in the dog’s growls. All over a doll? The dog could have it if he wanted. He didn't want the damn dog to injure himself again, that was his only concern.
“You want this then?” he asked, laying the doll on the frozen ground. The growling stopped, and the dog nuzzled the doll, licking at the delicate china hands. A howling down by the pond startled them both. There were no other dogs in this area, not close enough for them to hear, anyway. The farmer slapped his thigh, distracting Ace from the of sound of the other animal.
The dog considered him before picking up the doll in his mouth and limping towards the old man. The farmer reached out, as if to pat his friend, but there was something about the way the dog held his head which made him pull back with confusion. Now wasn’t the time to think about the strangeness of the dog. This place made everyone a little mad, always had, always would. The sooner they got home, the better.
“Come on then Ace,” he said. Off they walked, both man and dog limping. Behind them the howling started up again. The dog turned to look back, the doll hanging obscenely from his jaws. “Come on, boy.” Reluctantly the dog followed behind the longer-limbed man, towards the shrouded house.
The farmer strode towards Kubin’s house. In the distance he could see the outlines of the barren trees lining the driveway, leaning away from the house, pushed that way by the strong sea breezes. To him they’d always looked like they were trying to escape the pull of the house. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the place either, so understood their reluctance to be any closer than necessary.
Unease caressed his shoulders. It wasn’t just the thing with the dog and the shoes by the pond. Individually those things were curious but were probably nothing. A feeling of indecipherable dread descended, stemming more from when he’d walked away from the girl. Leaving her to the other man. He shouldn’t have. There was something about how her colleague had looked at her; he’d looked at her the way a cat looks at a sparrow it has caught in the garden, toying with it at leisure, allowing it to hop away before pouncing again, enjoying the sport more than the meal. That was how the other man had looked at her.
Mounting the steps he hammered at the door, tapping clods of earth from his boots. This time he meant to go inside. Silence greeted his knocking. At least five people were in that house, someone should have come to the door.
The dog sat on its haunches watching, before lowering the doll to the front stoop — an offering.
Chapter 48
Callaghan wandered the halls, his ears leading the way. The dripping sound shifted around, teasing him with its invisibility. Head fuzzy from alcohol, he wanted nothing more than to go back to Anita, her vulnerability so appealing. But the dripping sounded like insects in his brain and he couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
He fancied the closer he got to the kitchen, the louder the dripping was. Straightening he barged into the room, an unbreakable force, making a beeline for the taps. Without hesitating he twisted both taps, the metal like ice under his hands. They didn’t budge. They were already off. Puzzled, he stared at the taps, as if expecting them to be the source of the sound. The dripping came from behind him.
He turned.
Scott’s ruined portrait lay on the table, the slashed canvas as Callaghan had left it. Scott’s beloved watch lay underneath the shattered paint. Callaghan took a step forward. He hadn’t seen that there before. He took another step and reached for the wristwatch. His foot skidded in a dark patch blossoming on the floor.
He stepped back, the print on the ground a facsimile of his own shoe, cast in red… paint?
The sound of another drop of liquid joining the pool echoed round the kitchen. Callaghan peered at the puddle, his foot now rooted to the floor. Looking upwards, he could find no source for the sound. He looked again at the table, at the distasteful portrait he’d abandoned there. He blinked. Another drip. This time, in the fraction of the second he opened his eyes, he saw a red droplet form on the edge of the frame. It wobbled, like a raindrop on a leaf, before quivering once more and plummeting to the floor.
Drip
Callaghan bucked as if he’d been shot in the back, and bolted from the room, Scott’s watch clasped in his hand, pulse racing. He gave no logical thought to what he’d seen, there was no explanation. Behind him red footprints marked his flight, each one more faded than its predecessor, like his sanity — diminishing faster than his footfalls.
“Get up, get up,” he yelled at Anita, not even registering that she was up, his wild eyes caught by the red mess on the hearth. He stopped, his body freezing in mid-motion. It can’t be in here too. He backed out of the lounge, thrusting the watch into his pocket, where it clunked against the forgotten jade netsuke. His eyes focused on the tomato, focused but his brain disengaged, translating the tomato as bloodied paint.
Reaching the foyer, he spun round, portrait after portrait stacked against the walls, mocking him, teasing him. Most facing inwards, stacked that way to avoid damage. Were they laughing at him, those unseen faces? He tripped over his own feet, the sudden jolt reengaging rational thought. There was no dripping blood out here, only frames, wooden frames. A trick, a stupid trick.
He seized the nearest frame, and hurled it across the foyer, followed by another and another. The wooden frames shattering upon impact. The sound drowning out that of the dripping paint. He wasn’t a fool.
The shadow of the girl stood in the doorway. Rage fuelled him. He spent so much energy controlling his dark rage, that when he released it, he felt at peace. Free to be himself. Years ago, when it first happened, it had frightened him. Now he savoured the moments when they came, enjoying the fruits they delivered. He’d tamed himself over the years, refusing to give in to his desires, knowing he had to be careful, although sometimes in moments of weakness, he caved.
The darkness was building, he should stop it. They might catch him. But no, no they wouldn’t. Scott was gone, Yvonne too. The lawyer a figment of the girl’s imagination, unless he’d gone the same way as the others. No, now was a perfect time. The location wasn’t perfect but he had all night with her.
He let the feelings overcome him, and like a wave, they washed away his humanity. He turned towards Anita. It had been a long time since he’d had such an opportunity and he would not waste it. The best thing was, he could see in her eyes that she knew. She knew who he was and what was about to happen.
The darkness within him so all-consuming, the real terrors in the house faded away.
Chapter 49
The little girl was angry now. That watch was part of her collection. It was hers now. That bad man had no right to take it from the frame. It was hers.
She stomped upstairs and shook the artist awake.
“Make him go now,” she said.
“Before the girl?” the artist asked, unfurling his fingers and gesturing towards the piece of unfinished art on the easel.
The girl stomped again, indecision rifling through her mind. She wanted the girl gone but the man had taken her watch. She hated anyone touching her special things. When Mother found her wearing her special brooch she’d got such a smack, and sent to bed with no supper. What a wicked woman. It hadn’t been hard to steal the brooch back, especially after Mother had gone away. And now she’d never, ever, be coming back. She giggled.
“Well?” asked the painter, dipping a brush into a fresh coil of paint.
“The girl! Yes, the girl first, finish her. But let me run to her room first, before you finish. I have nothing of hers yet for my collection.”
“You’ll need some
thing of the man’s too,” the artist suggested, the words coming barely formed, as if he had no energy left to talk.
The girl hesitated. Something didn’t feel right. She watched his eyes, the way they flicked from her to the art and away again. She hated it when adults kept secrets. She really did. Decision made, she fled from the turret, leaving the artist in peace.
His brush heavy, weighed down by souls of so many. He’d thought this had all come to an end but Ruth was insatiable. Leonard had stopped it, his own brush as talented as his father’s. But now it had begun again, his old hand forced to capture the souls of those in the house. It’d been fun all those years ago, fun and games. It’s always fun until someone gets hurt.
Leonard wasn’t his only talented child. Ruth had proven herself more than adept with a pencil. Those hours of lessons unwasted. It’d been too late for him to stop what happened next, but he had no will power against her. He couldn’t say no but he could stretch out the time he took to complete the portrait. Surely the visitors in the house had to leave soon?
Dabbing at the canvas, a creamy scar across a jawline. Changing brushes, rubbing the fibres between his rusty fingers to loosen the bristles, every movement like wading through water. He couldn’t understand why and rotated his neck to move the weariness settling there. He wanted to say no to Ruth, truly he did, but she was his special treasure and he couldn’t say no.
Chapter 50
Ruth moved wraith-like through the house, shaking with anticipation. Soon she’d add to her collection, a collection she was immensely proud of. Other girls her age collected shells and inky black raven feathers, or tiny china animals or pieces for their doll houses, she collected far more valuable things, treasures belonging to other people.
Slipping into Anita’s room, she blanched at the sight of the bare space on the walls, the space where she and her siblings had so recently hung. The lady with the sore foot had taken them down, that was obvious given she was now standing in her old room instead of hanging on the wall, but the wall looked so different without the others up there. Mother and Father thought it might cheer her up, having them hanging there. But instead she hated the sight of them; sad, sappy eyes begging for release.
She crept into the hollow in the wardrobe, absorbing the scents of her childhood, of her sister, long gone now. Only a tiny piece of Tabby, Tabitha, remained. Her scent woven into the cotton fibres of the dresses left hanging. Tabby should’ve let her play with the china-faced doll. Tabby got all the good presents. She only got the hand-me-downs. Last birthday they’d given Tabby a new dress, the doll and a silver locket. She’d never been given any jewellery. Daddy had been so cross when Tabby told him the locket was lost after only one day. The look of sadness on Daddy’s face was worth it. She was still so very cross at Tabby; they could have played with the doll together. If only Tabby hadn’t been so selfish, then maybe Tabby wouldn’t be in a painting.
Ruth wondered if Tabitha’s locket was still where she’d left it. The lady could’ve found it after she’d taken the pictures off the walls but she hadn’t said anything. The artist had helped her hide the locket in the back; he was better at hiding things than she was.
There were no arguments in the wardrobe, closing the door felt like being inside a muffled world, safe and silent. Reaching into the back of the wardrobe, her fingers curled around a felt bag tucked into a depression in the base. Tipping the contents out in the semi darkness, she picked over the treasures she’d never got to use. Things belonging to people who’d left before she’d given the treasures to the artist — an onyx tie pin, a diamond stud, a jumble of keys, a tarnished lipstick holder. She couldn’t remember now who they’d all belonged to, or why she’d collected them, but she still liked holding them, counting them. The pearls would’ve looked perfect among these treasures. It was wrong that she wasn’t allowed to have them. The lady didn’t need them anymore.
Poking the assortment back into the drawstring bag, she was dismayed to see the bag peppered with tiny holes, there shouldn’t be moths in her wardrobe. Confusion fluttered across her face the way a moth flutters around a flame at night. Indignation overcame her, the staff should have seen to this. She’d have to talk to Father about this, it wouldn’t do.
Her childish mind couldn’t twist itself around the fact that the house was empty of staff; long gone now, many of them by Ruth’s own hand.
Pushing her way from the wardrobe, she remembered her task. Something belonging to the lady. What should it be? It needed to be something special for her collection. Rifling through the dressing table, she couldn’t find anything small enough. This lady must be very poor, there was no jewellery or pretty perfume bottles, or silver hair slides. Frustration built, there had to be something.
Pirouetting, she spied Anita’s cellphone on the bedside table. The girl didn’t know what it was, but it was shiny and small. Stroking the sleek lines, square like a book but with no pages, a paperweight? It felt right in her hand, and it was the perfect size, so now it was hers. Now she just needed something belonging to the man. Men were easy - cufflinks, tie pins, cigarette lighters.
She skipped down the hall, forgetting she was trying to avoid her father.
“Hello Ruth,” a voice said, from the doorway to Callaghan’s room.
Ruth stumbled, panic filling her eyes and turning her surly. Her good mood evaporating as quickly as she’d been skipping. Looking anywhere other than towards the black-coated man, she fidgeted with the hem of her dress.
“What have you done?” he asked, his face shadowed in the doorway.
She’d been so close and now he’d ruin it. She cast sly glances up at him, and past him, into the room.
“Nothing,” she said, still avoiding eye contact. He wasn’t even her father so she didn’t have to answer. Her real father was upstairs finishing, so she needed to hurry or it would be too late — the paint would dry, and she couldn’t let that happen.
“I’m just looking,” she managed, looking up at the man from under her eyelashes, all sweetness and light now. She knew how to get what she wanted — sugar and spice and all things nice, that’s what little girls were made of.
“Come now Ruth, we find ourselves here in this house, in a time not of our own? Are you being naughty? I think maybe yes?” Abraham said, his sad eyes probing her face.
Ruth shook her head, mouthing the word ‘no’. She couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud. Picking at the embroidery of her dress, she tried not to look towards the turret door, worrying about time in a way only a child can, with frantic panic.
The man held out his arms, inviting her into an embrace. Every part of Ruth yearned to fall into his arms. To be hugged as if she were the only person in the world who mattered. That was all she’d ever wanted, and which she’d never had. Joy infused her face as she took a hesitant step forward.
“What’s that in your hand?” he asked instead, plucking Anita’s cellphone from Ruth’s outstretched arms.
The girl’s face twisted as she tried to snatch the treasure back.
“It’s mine, give it back,” Ruth shrieked. She remembered the whispers, the giggles, the rumours. Remembering he wasn’t her father, he was nobody, and now he’d taken her treasure away. He’d done that once before, and things hadn’t ended well for him then either.
“Give it back,” Ruth screamed, stomping her foot. “You can’t have my treasure, you’re not even my father.”
The verbal slap had no effect. Abraham examined the treasure before slipping the silver cube into his pocket.
“No!” Ruth cried, beating at the man.
He tried grappling with her but Ruth slid from his grasp like a feral cat. Darting down the stairs, leading him away from the artist. He couldn’t know the artist was painting again. Checking behind to see if he’d followed, she flew through the house, the fairy ferns withering in her wake.
Chapter 51
“Hello Anita,” Callaghan said, his mouth breaking into a rare smile. He straightened hi
s collar, as he put himself back together, smoothing his trousers, tucking in his shirt. Taking a step closer, his body squared with a confidence Anita hadn’t seen in him before.
Gripping the doorframe for security and stability, Anita remained rooted to the spot. Naked terror touched every nerve in her body. Looking at him with fresh eyes, she didn’t see the reserved but congenial coworker. In his place she saw a monster in a pair of chinos. His ordinariness sloughed off, replaced by oil and grime and a hot summer night. By a strong thigh, and a tomato eaten like an apple in a doorway, a doorway so like the one she was leaning into.
She jumped back as if scalded by the wooden frame. It wasn’t the doorway of that summer night but Callaghan was the monster from that night. A deluge of pennies dropped within her memory.
Wobbling in the dining room, her bare feet sinking into the thick rug, surrounded by the detritus of her work, she frantically considered the options as Callaghan advanced. She had to run but she couldn’t get the signal from her head to her feet. Tree-like she stood there. Callaghan was so close she could smell him — stale sweat and old aftershave. Madness too, if madness had a scent.
Callaghan put his hands in his pockets as if he didn’t expect any fight from her. As if he expected her to roll over and play. It wasn’t until he pulled them out that she realised he was emptying his pockets in readiness for what was coming next.
He tossed the things from his pockets onto the table where they clattered against her laptop. Unbuckling his belt, he pulled it through the loops of his trousers, teasing out the drama, enjoying the terror on Anita’s face.
“We’ve been here once before, haven’t we? Remember how delicious it was? Such a warm night too, not like here. We should move into the warmer room, you’d like that wouldn’t you?”
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