Like when you’ve got a shit job to do, and don’t do it. Maybe it’s painting the fence, or calling for a doctor’s appointment when there’s a spot of blood in the toilet bowl.
You don’t want to do it, but you’ve got to. So it plays on your mind, you put it off. You think of ways to avoid that shit little job, but it’s there, niggling. Blood in the water, tainting it, so it’s neither one thing nor the other.
I know it’s not over.
I want it to be. In my head, the estate is separate from our lives. She a mistress I’ve finished with. She’s coming between me and my wife. It’s a choice people make, one or the other. You can’t have both.
But I can’t walk away because the girl is there, somewhere.
I can’t leave her there. She’s my responsibility. I saw her. I’m not crazy, not even a little bit. She was there. She was in my dream. She’s mine, and I’ve got to save her.
Sure, she’s dead, but that doesn’t mean it’s too late. I know that know.
I just wish I’d thought a little more about why Helen saw her. I didn’t. Not then. Not until later, when it was too late.
*
39.
I go at midday. It’s one of those spring days that could just as easily be summer. Maybe it is. Time slips by, and you don’t even notice.
Bob’s there.
I’m in no mood for my surly neighbour but he’s standing by his front wall and I’ve got to go past him to get to the alley.
I think about ignoring him, but he catches me.
‘Sam.’
A simple greeting.
He’s looking at me.
‘Afternoon,’ I say. I want to leave it at that. I don’t want to talk to him. I’m firmly in the Bob’s-a-dick camp.
‘Going over the estate?’
None of your fucking business, I think.
‘Just out for a stroll.’
He nods.
‘It’s not for you.’
I stop. I’d been walking while I was talking, making steady progress toward the alley.
‘What?’
He nods, again. He’s not going to say anything.
‘You take care.’
I feel like he’s threatening me. He doesn’t look threatening. In fact, I don’t think anyone could look like they cared less one way or the other about me.
I’m confused as hell and he’s pissing me off. The anger’s there, flooding back. I can well imagine just walking up to him and slamming my cane into his smug fucking face.
I take a deep breath.
‘Goodbye, Bob,’ I say through gritted teeth. I don’t know why he makes me so angry. I’ve met plenty of wind up merchants in my time. At work, in pubs, round people’s houses for boring dinners. Bob rubs me up the wrong way so hard I could catch fire.
But he’s not smart enough to see the anger in my face, in the set of my body, in the way I’m gripping my cane like it’s his neck I’m squeezing. I can feel the blood pounding in my head. But I don’t give in to it. Anger’s not the way.
It’s doesn’t matter, Sam, I tell myself. Let it go or have a heart attack. You pick.
I pick and turn away but Bob’s not done.
‘You know, people come and go here. Nobody stays for long.’
I’ve had enough but I bite it back. Swallow it down like malted cod liver oil.
‘Do you have some problem with me, Bob? Because if you do, Bob, I’d appreciate it if you’d come right out and say it, Bob. I’ve just about…’
He shaking his head, with this sad smile on his face.
‘It don’t matter what I want. Don’t matter a damn.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Don’t matter a damn,’ he says. He turns to go. ‘Nobody stays for long.’
I’m about five seconds shy of hopping right over his stupid fucking wavy wall and caning him to death.
He turns and goes into his house. I think it’s the set of his shoulders that stops me. Slumped, like whatever fight he had went out of him a long, long time ago.
The fight goes out of me, too. The blood cools in my head. My body and my blood both feel dirty, though. Like when I was down, the day after a coke bender. Filthy on the inside.
I hate him for making me feel that way. I do that for a while. Staring at his front door.
What the hell am I so angry about? Some Norfolk yokel type being an arse to an outsider? He’s probably been here all his life, a Norfolk boy, born and bred. A sad old man, full of bile. Probably got no family. And what had he said, really?
Nothing in particular that should make any difference to me.
I’m suddenly tired and want to go home. I want to abort, but what am I? Some teenager being bullied, wants to go home to his mummy, cry off school?
Suck it up, Sam.
I resolve to have nothing to do with Bob ever again. For the good of both of us.
It plays on my mind, though. Then I dismiss it as best I can. Cryptic old bastard.
Fuck him.
I square my shoulders and shrug it off. Turn down the alley and off on my jaunt.
*
40.
I walk easier, now. My bum leg and my hand are stronger as the days go by. My cane’s more of a stabiliser. The strange encounter with Bob’s already fading. I can’t remember why I was so angry. It’s a beautiful day. Too sweet to spoil.
Until the estate. It’s beautiful on Cedars, on De Champs. Then the estate.
I don’t get it. The sun’s still there. The sun’s bright in both my eyes. Through my dead eye there are still shades of grey, but it’s not black anymore, and there are shadow things in it, shadow cars and lampposts and houses. I could pretty much walk with just my dead eye looking out for me now and not have to worry too much about breaking my nose.
Looking at the estate, it’s kind of like my dead eye leaks grey into the live one. That’s not exactly it, but it’s close. It’s close enough.
The estate’s quiet. The same as it was the time before, and before that. I walk fast because the light feels weird. I know it’s midday. The sun tells me so, my watch tells me so, as do the shadows and the warmth and the length of time it took me to get here. But it feels like dusk’s just round the corner, too.
I need to be here, but not for long. I want out while the sun is high.
I stop where I saw the lost girl. I look around. There’s no welcome sign on the house door. I’m glad.
I’m shaky, too. I could panic. I’m right in the centre of the estate. If someone comes for me, it’ll take a couple of minutes to get to safety. Back the way I came, or off Townshend and out to the main road.
I don’t know why I think that’s safe, but I think it’s true, just the same. I don’t think the estate has any power beyond its arbitrary borders.
The day’s bright and so it’s full of shadows. There’s nothing in the shadows. The burning men don’t live in the shadows.
(And the burning women, Sam. Women burn just a brightly as men…)
They burn in the twilight borders of day and night.
Are they afraid of the sun?
I have no idea. All I know is that I’ve only seen them at twilight.
Do they live in the dark?
I don’t know that, either. But I wouldn’t come here in the dark. I understand well enough to believe that this world I see is real. Real enough to me. Real enough so the things I don’t understand could hurt me. Maybe kill me.
I shudder, goose bumps popping up all over my bare arms, then shake my head. I’ve got a headache coming, just wasps buzzing for now, but there’s an option on an upgrade to hornets in the future.
Suddenly I’m aware of the sun reflected on the windows of the house to my left. I can’t see in, but something could see out, if it wanted to.
Something could be watching me right now, and I’m standing in the street, wasting time.
What am I looking for? A scrap of dress? A shoe, with the heel snapped off? Signs of a struggle, five and
some years old?
No. That’s stupid. I’m probably searching for something I’ll never find. Probably.
What the hell am I doing?
I laugh. In the light of day, I can do that.
The cat comes out of the bushes that surround the property the burning man came from. There’s no sound, but I know it’s purring. There are thick posts and a railing, a weird kind of fence. It’s rubbing itself against a post. Content, or scratching. I don’t know anything about cats.
I can almost see the ghost of a tail flicking.
It doesn’t look like it’s going to try to kill me.
(Look familiar, Sam?)
There are no people. Nobody in the windows, no cars going by, no sounds. Just my heart, the scratch of the cat’s paws, clawing at the ground under the bush, at the edge of the property. Digging, clearing away the woodchip, lain to keep weeds away.
There’s something there. The cat’s looking at me. It walks away. Sits on its haunches. I walk over, pull the unearthed treasure from the ground. It’s a phone. It’s switched on.
The cat’s looking at me. I flick the phone open, brush the dirt from the screen, clear the buttons. It’s a flip up, so the buttons aren’t locked. I go into the menu. Check the call log.
The last call is five years old. Six months. Eleven Days.
I want out.
My vision is going darker in both eyes. I think I’m going to faint.
I want out, but the stranger grabs hold of me (suck it up, Sam) yanks my head down between my knees, holds it there until the stars fade.
Finally I stand up.
‘What are you?’ I say.
The cat doesn’t say anything. It’s mute. It just gives a switch of its stumpy tail, turns and walks away. I’m waiting for it to fade, gradually turn to grey, then nothing.
It doesn’t. It reaches a fence, jumps, uses its claws and it’s gone, over the top, into someone, or something’s, back garden.
The phone rings. I don’t jump. I just press to pick up and put it to my ear.
‘Sarah?’
I say nothing.
‘You there yet?’
A pause.
‘No, I don’t.’
I don’t know what he’s referring to.
It’s a memory of a conversation. I don’t think he could hear me, even if I could get my voice to work. This call happened back then. Back when the girl was lost.
‘That’s what they said. It’s the one facing the green, with the view of the big white building. It’s an Eventide home. I don’t know…some Christian thing.’
I just listen. Concentrate on keeping my calm. My heart is running away from me.
‘Give me a call when you’re there.’ Another pause, more lengthy.
‘I’ll give Jess a call, ask again. Just go to the green and have a look.’
I can see the green from where I’m standing, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want to lose the connection.
‘Can’t you hear anything?’ A long pause, broken by the occasional uh-huh.
‘That’s it. Can you see it?’
I can’t see what they’re talking about, but I will, when they hang up.
‘I’ll wait. Go in. If it’s not the one I’ll come and meet you.’
A boyfriend. He sounds very young. Not her father. A friend, maybe? Where was she going? A party? That age? Out alone?
Why not? It’s a safe estate. I wouldn’t let my daughter go out alone, but I suppose some would.
‘OK. No problem. See you there.’
Then nothing.
I don’t bother to memorise the number. It’s a mobile. Over five years old. Whoever it was won’t have it now.
I walk back to the bushes and bury the phone. I don’t think I could take it, even if I wanted to.
I go to the green. The green goes to the edge of the road. A good short cut, but it’s fenced in. I stand and look. There’s a house there. Same as all the others in most respects. But there’s no doubt it’s the one. The big white building is off over the small green, which is maybe an acre shy of being a proper park.
The building is big, and there are small buildings all around. It looks old, too. Most is white, but some is plain brick, with green patches. It’s the same I saw from the road. The Eventide Home.
It looked grander from the road. From here, it looks desolate.
I turn back. The house the guy of the phone spoke about is still there.
I look with both eyes.
It’s too bright.
Should I knock?
I should. But I know I’m not going to. I’m going to go home, and forget all about this, because I can’t save the girl. She’s dead. I couldn’t save Samantha, I can’t save Sarah, as much as I want to. They’re both lost girls.
So I turn to go but when I open my eyes the red door of the house facing the green, in the shadow of Eventide, is before me, and the knocker is falling.
It’s a hollow sound.
*
41.
The door swings open as the knocker strikes.
‘Hello?’ I call. My throat is dry. I swallow. Try again.
‘Hello?’
Still no answer.
What was I expecting? What did I want? If someone had called out, I think I would have run as fast as my gimpy leg would let me, like a child playing knock up ginger.
The driveway is empty.
Whoever lives here could be in the back garden. I don’t think so, though. The house feels empty in a different way. It feels empty like I’d imagine a crypt would be empty. Nothing but skellingtons. Makes me think of Samantha, sitting on my knee reading a book about ghost pirates. Laughing as I read her the story and she looks at the pictures with bright wide eyes. Crying in the night with nightmares. Crying out that the skellingtons were coming to get her. The skellingtons under the sheet.
Maybe not such a sweet memory after all, but it’s the right one for this place.
I push the door all the way open.
The smell hits me as soon as I step in. I can’t place it. Maybe I don’t want to.
In the corner by the door is a small table piled high with brochures. I pick one up, fully aware that I’m in someone’s house, illegally, and now I’m taking things.
I call out again. No answer.
I read the brochure. It’s for the estate. I relax, a little. The brochure, the empty driveway, the empty house…it’s a show home. The show home for the estate.
They should have sold it on by now. The estate must be at least ten years old, if not more. Knowing it’s a show home makes me feel better about breaking in, but that’s a minor worry. The place is eerie. Silent. And then, there’s the smell.
I head along the hall. Stop and examine my reflection in a long mirror hung from the wall. I don’t like what I see. I look ill, a sheen of sweat on a pale, drawn face.
I turn away, carry on along the hall, trailing my free hand along the white painted banisters as I walk.
There’s a door to the left, a door to the right, and a door straight on, into the kitchen. I go through into the room on my right. It’s the living room. No one ever lived there. It’s not quite barren, but it’s a cold, heartless room. A sofa, in the centre of the room. A dead electric fire set into the wall – one of those fires with the glass screen. No TV, not even a fake. A few pieces of furniture, but minimal. A coffee table, a bookshelf. I pull out a book, but five come away. Cardboard dust jackets, all one piece.
In through the other door there’s a dining table with six places set. The dining room runs through to the back of the house, where there’s a large kitchen with no utensils but a double oven with six hobs and a plate warmer. Double doors on the back lead into a conservatory of white UPVC, set with cane chairs and a nest of tables – glass and cane.
I clump back the way I came and up the stairs, into the bedrooms. Toward the master bedroom. That’s where the smell draws me.
I ignore the other bedrooms now. The smell's got me. It pulls me int
o the en suite. The smell is there. It’s heavy in the air. Sickening.
It’s what I’ve been looking for. It wasn’t the smell of a new house that drew me in. It was the smell of the blood staining the bath and the tiled floor.
I gag, looking at it. It’s still fresh, running toward a drain set in the floor, running down the sides of the bath tub, along some unseen obstruction, then into a pool around the plughole. I figure out what the obstruction is. That’s where the girl’s body was. The blood is running down the sides, past her legs, into the drains.
I don’t know how long I stand there, looking. Thinking.
A long time.
The house screams, shattering the crushing silence, and everything else, the world outside the blood, floods in.
I run from the bathroom into the bedroom. The quilt on the bed is covered with dust and bird shit. The floors, too. A bedside cabinet lies over on its side. Glass from a broken window litters the floor. Everything is covered in grime. A smell overlays the blood. Musty. The smell of rot and long neglect.
The curtains have mould on them, as do the walls, rising from the floor, creeping across the ceiling.
The sun is going down. I can see my yellow through the broken window.
‘Get out.’
The stranger’s voice, heard, not in my head, but through my ears. Louder than the scream that rattles through the house.
The bathroom is bright behind me. Flickering, like a fire.
I don’t look behind me. I run down the stairs. My right foot gives out on me and I slide down. Both hands go behind me to break my fall. My left hand drops my cane. My right wrist takes my weight on it at a strange angle and snaps.
The screaming is tailing off. The sun is setting. The pain is terrible but I cradle my right hand and push myself up at the foot of the stairs. Then I run, out through the door, into the twilight air, yellow surrounding me.
The windows all over the estate are brightening with a flickering, twitching, orange glow.
It’s not just one house. It’s all of them.
RAIN/Damned to Cold Fire (Two Supernatural Horror Novels): A RED LINE Horror Double: Supernatural Page 35