The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  ‘Thank you, Charlie,’ she started. She found she wanted to say something else, to explain the whole thing away perhaps, but tiredness had overtaken her. She didn’t want to think about it, not now. Later maybe, when she couldn’t sleep or when she was alone. Charlie showed her out and she stood in the hallway, looking at the door to her room.

  *

  She knew her room was empty even before she flicked on the light and it flooded across the dingy floor and into the dusty corners. The cupboard door was open, though she couldn’t see inside. The sense of presence which had been so strong when she’d awakened was gone.

  She went to the door, reaching out to push it closed once more, and froze. The suit was back again. It was hanging on its yellowing padded hanger, not pulled awry but straight and neat, the trousers sharply creased around the white shine of the bulked-out knees, the jacket hanging squarely over the top. At once she thought of grabbing the thing and taking it downstairs and throwing it out of the door, but she stopped herself even before the movement began. She didn’t want to feel that fabric on her fingers. Would the owner of the thing still be looking for it? Perhaps she’d feel his hand on her shoulder after all.

  But maybe he’d already found it – she had thrown it out, hadn’t she? She’d put it in the bin outside or left it in the drawing room, she wasn’t sure which. It hadn’t been something she’d wanted in the house. He must have come looking for it, and he’d found it and placed it in here. If she was to move it again, she might make everything worse. It might even call him back.

  Then a thought struck her and she flushed with heat. Charlie had come in here, hadn’t he? He’d been checking the place, being helpful. And he knew about the suit. More Savile Row, the old man.

  He’d been downstairs too, while she hid in his room. Had he found the suit down there and brought it back up with him? The whole thing might have been some kind of joke. Heat spread through her. She’d thought he was helping, that he was being kind, and all the time he’d just been pulling some kind of trick. She frowned. Had she really seen a stranger in her room or had that been only another kind of trick? The kind that meant standing and watching her, in the dark – watching her sleep, maybe?

  She shook her head. The suit was still there, in front of her eyes. Tomorrow she would take it outside and banish it forever; it would be gone and so would Charlie and she would get on with all the things she’d planned to do. For now, though, she had no intention of touching it. Let it stay there. She backed away and closed the door, making sure it snicked into place. It wouldn’t open on her again; she didn’t even have to think about it until morning.

  She turned, still not liking to have her back to that door, just as if she were a child again, afraid of the monster in the wardrobe, and she got back into bed. The sheets had grown cold and she pulled them up to her shoulders, watching the door as she nestled her head into her pillow. Charlie had comforted her. He had been kind to her, had gone to see what was wrong, looking around the house in the dark and the cold. It couldn’t have been him. She had seen a ghost, for God’s sake. If she accepted that, it wasn’t too much of a step to suppose it could have found its suit and put it back. And that was enough to worry about, without inventing trickery of another kind: without souring the kindness of the one person in her life who appeared to be intent on helping her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When Emma woke, the events of the night before were so close to the surface of her mind that she opened her eyes and stared directly at the same spot where the man had been standing. She knew exactly where it was, that space between the doorways. She remembered the suit too, but for now, she didn’t want to look at it. Instead she went into the bathroom and splashed ice-cold water onto her face.

  To look into the cupboard and see that worn black suit would be to acknowledge that it had all been real. Had she really gone running to Charlie in the middle of the night? He must think she was mad. She probably had been mad. And yet she could still picture the man looking back at her, the malice pouring off him like a musty smell.

  At least the house felt like her own again. Sunlight spilled around and beneath the curtains, filling the rooms with diffuse light. Despite her interrupted sleep, she felt refreshed. Today she would clean and paint and later, when she was ready, she’d come back up here with a bin bag and knock that suit off the shelf and into it, yellowing coat-hanger and all. She’d put it out with the rubbish, shove it down deep into the bin, and never think about it again.

  For now, she headed downstairs. She could hear a noise coming from the drawing room. When she went in she saw Charlie, his arms stretched above his head, reaching into the corner with a roller covered in paint. He had almost finished. The soft green glowed in the morning sun. He turned and she saw that his face was spattered with it, that colour; it was in his hair and over his clothes. He grinned at her, but Emma felt nothing but dismay. It was her room. This was what she had been planning to do first, the thing that would make the house truly her own. Now he had taken it from her; there was nothing left for her to do.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, his voice bright, as if he hadn’t noticed her expression. ‘Nearly there. Doesn’t it look good?’

  She swallowed, fighting the lump in her throat. It did look good. He must have been working for hours. She was being childish; she should be grateful. ‘It does. Thanks, Charlie. This must have taken you ages.’

  ‘Ah, well – that’ll teach me to pick a room without any curtains. I woke up at dawn, so not much choice.’ As if to underline the point his jaws stretched in a sudden yawn and when he tried to cover it with his arm it looked as if he’d dipped that in the paint too.

  Emma’s cheeks flushed. His eyes were red as if he’d been rubbing them, and his hair was flattened at the back and spiked haphazardly at the front. He’d probably barely slept, what with her running to him in the middle of the night and then being awoken with the sun. ‘I’ll make us some coffee,’ she said, ‘and see what I can find for breakfast.’

  ‘No need: I made egg butties – might be a bit cold now, but should still taste okay. I left you one. And I found a coffee grinder in one of the boxes – I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not. It’s good of you.’ She glanced at the window, wondering just how late it was. She’d slept the day away.

  ‘I had a look at the hot water too. There’s an immersion – should be piping in an hour or so, I reckon.’

  ‘You have been busy.’

  ‘Least I can do.’

  ‘Hardly. You didn’t have to do anything. I know you must have things of your own to be doing.’

  ‘Well – but we’re relatives, and all that. Even if it is only distant.’ The last words came out in a rush. ‘And anyway, I couldn’t head off without seeing if you were okay. Last night – whatever it was you saw – well, I would have been worried about you, that’s all.’

  Emma opened her mouth to say there was no need, then looked away. What had she seen? It felt further from reality than ever. And yet he’d said what you saw, not what you think you saw.

  ‘Grandfather used to see ghosts.’

  She met his eye, startled.

  ‘Seriously. He never talked to me about it, though. He told Dad, who told me. Of course no one believed him and after a while he just stopped talking about it, apparently. I got all excited about it when I heard – I even tried to ask him about it, but he just gave me this look, like it was a serious matter, you know, and certainly not for the likes of me. Not something to laugh about.’

  Emma shook her head. ‘He saw something here?’

  ‘Hell – I didn’t mean that.’ He frowned. ‘Actually, I don’t know where he saw it. I never really got the whole story, and I never thought to ask where he was. I suppose it might’ve been about the time he bought this place, but it’s not all that likely – he didn’t stay here very long.’

  ‘Do you have a photograph of him?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Why?’

  �
�Well, I— Never mind. I’m not sure. It was just a stupid idea.’ She hadn’t even seen his face, the man last night. And anyway, she’d got the impression of someone who wasn’t quite that old; he was stooped, yes, but not a man in his eighties as Clarence Mitchell had been.

  She pushed the thought away and looked around the room once more. It did look better – it looked right. If she half-closed her eyes she could picture it with furniture in place, and how she’d sit and read a book, light falling across the page. She could almost see it: a dark winged armchair with a high back, grand enough for its position in the room, and a tall, elegant standard lamp, and her sitting there quite straight – and she found she couldn’t breathe. There was someone sitting there. The armchair was faded, the arms rubbed almost bare, and the windows were clouded because he was smoking; she saw the wreaths of smoke quite clearly, obscuring his face, leaving nothing but the dark smudges of his eyes.

  She blinked and he was gone, but she was quite sure that it had been the same man, the one she’d seen last night. The only difference was that he was wearing his suit. He had found his pipe too. Of course she was imagining things, but she found herself trying to remember what she’d done with that; she could remember picking up the suit, ready to throw it away, but not the pipe. She thought, though, that the last time she’d looked in the cupboard, the pipe had been gone.

  She blinked. There was only the window, full of soft brightness.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  It must have been a trick of the light, that was all. She was seeing things, summoning them out of shadows and bad dreams. She was tired and she was hungry; that didn’t mean she’d seen a ghost. Perhaps she’d just been spooked by the big old empty house last night – and yet the house didn’t feel frightening to her. It felt like home. It felt like hers.

  ‘Emma?’

  She started. She had almost forgotten Charlie. She turned and smiled and he looked reassured. He grabbed hold of the roller again. ‘I’ll get this finished, then I’ll head off.’

  Then she would be alone. Perhaps that would be better; when she knew the house was truly empty she wouldn’t be listening for odd sounds from dark corners. She wouldn’t imagine she’d seen someone where there was nothing. Still, she couldn’t help feeling vaguely disappointed. As she left the room, she breathed in deep; the paint fumes filled her lungs, almost – but not quite – masking the richer, spicier scent of pipe tobacco beneath.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Well good luck, almost-second-cousin, or great-grand-niece-in-law-by-marriage or whatever it is that we are.’

  Emma smiled. ‘It was good to see you,’ she said, and she found that she meant it. He held out his arms and she hugged him back, feeling the warm strength of his body under his sweater. She suddenly wanted to apologise again for waking him in the middle of the night, but it didn’t feel necessary – his smile was clean and open, and she didn’t want to remind him of her behaviour.

  He picked up his bag and she watched while he slung it into the boot. The air was cool but the sun was shining, making everything bright and clear. ‘Take care of the old place.’ He glanced up at the windows and said approvingly, ‘I know you will.’ He got in and rolled the window down and waved out of it before reversing away down the drive.

  Emma watched the car pulling out of sight, not sure how she was supposed to feel. She wasn’t afraid, that wasn’t it, but she was alone. It was odd that she had become accustomed to his presence so quickly. Now, though, the place was hers. There’d be no more coming downstairs to find things had moved without her moving them – no more suits reappearing in a wardrobe.

  She frowned, remembering she still had to clear that thing away. It would be the first thing she did when she went back inside. For now, though, it was a bright clear Sunday. She looked over at the church. It was strange that no one had rung the bells or come for morning service. It was as quiet and still as it had been before. She pulled the front door to, then found herself checking around before walking down the drive. But there was no one about; she probably didn’t even need to lock the door around here anyway.

  The church was a sagging single-storey building, settling into the green earth like a tired old man. A faint mist rose from it, looking almost like a sigh. Its windows were intricately webbed and she could see the traces of colours, mostly faded and greyed on the outside, but one of them was glowing as if a candle was burning somewhere inside. The path to the door was made of old worn slabs. The wooden door was silvered and cracked with age.

  The slope rising behind the building was covered in gravestones that leaned and tilted towards one other like homecoming drunks. Everything was damp with dew and she could hear dripping from the trees. It looked the ideal of a country church, except that it was closed on a Sunday morning. She could imagine it back in the day, a hotbed of gossip, the chance to meet and mingle with neighbours seldom seen in the midst of harvest or planting or whatever else people around here used to do. She could imagine how it had dwindled over the years, with people no longer forced to attend, either through belief or obligation, or simply moving away. She had no religion herself, had never felt any desire to reach for the church, not even when arranging her parents’ funeral, but it was a little melancholic now, seeing such a building fall out of use.

  When she tried the iron ring set into the door it swung open. She had an image of herself walking in on the middle of a service and rows of people turning to look at her – but there was only a shadowy vestibule with short stone benches on either side. There was a noticeboard, though, and she leaned in, propping the door open with one foot so she had light enough to read by.

  There were requests for help cleaning, for cake-baking in support of a coffee morning, a thank-you to a group who’d been round to clear the gutters. In the middle was a notice: Next Service, it said, and there was something about the vicar being ill, and in large black letters, next Sunday’s date.

  No service today, then. Emma leaned in further and tried the inner door. It would be good to look around when nobody was there; she wasn’t planning on going next Sunday. It was locked, however, and she stepped out again into the bright air, closing the outer door quietly behind her – odd how churches engendered quiet in people, even when they were empty. She turned towards the path and that was when she saw the bench.

  It sat next to a path that led around the front of the church and up through the graveyard. It looked old but solid, made of stone that had darkened where the morning damp lingered. Large clear letters were carved deeply into the backrest. She went closer, and read: O taste and see that the Lord is good. Psalm 34:8

  The corner of her mouth twitched. Taste and see. She had a sudden image of the local children, their tongues sticking out, trying to lick the letters. She looked along the path and saw that there was another bench like this one, a short way along. It was set into a space between the gravestones and grass was growing thickly around its base. Like everything else here, it appeared to be sinking into the earth. It looked quiet, peaceful, a good place to sit and look up at the trees and let time pass. She walked to it and read: Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, rejoice. Philippians 4:4

  There was another, further down the path, this one facing the back of the church.

  Behold, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh. Jeremiah 32:27

  She had expected inscriptions in memory of husbands and wives, the beloved so-and-so, but this was sweet, a nice thing to do. As she walked, she remembered having to sing hymns as a child in school. ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, or her then-favourite, ‘Lord of the Dance’: something about dancing with the devil, an odd one for children perhaps, but she had liked the tune.

  The next was, Nothing shall by any means hurt you. Luke 10:19

  She smiled. It was an odd collection of verses and she wondered how on earth they had been chosen. It looked as if they’d been set here at different times. She had reached the end of them, though: the path ended with a last irregular stone a
nd then there was nothing but the graves spreading away, with trodden-down grass marking the walkways between them.

  Then she saw there was one more after all.

  A rougher path led between the headstones to the boundary fence, beyond which she could see the grey mass of Mire House. The last bench was close to the edge, positioned underneath an overhanging yew tree so that it was almost lost in shadow.

  She stepped onto the grass and her feet sank into the soft ground at once; she would be leaving a trail of footprints as she edged between the memorials of people long gone. She wanted to see the view from the bench. Looking behind her, she would be able to see everything, the whole graveyard and the church nestled among it all, peaceful, sleeping.

  When she stood in front of the bench and read the words, she frowned. She bent, sweeping the lettering clear of dead needles that had fallen from the tree, but the letters were cut clear and tall as the rest and their meaning did not change: My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me? Matthew 27:46

  She hugged herself, suddenly feeling colder. There was a twinge inside her – a feeling like loss – and she swallowed it down. She forced herself instead to focus on why? – who would have carved such a thing? Why had they chosen it? It was from the Bible – it must be, the chapter and verse were written there – but it was a hard sentiment to use in such a way.

  If not for those words, this would be a lovely place to sit. The bench faced her own house; from this position she could see straight through the gaps in the trees at the edge of the garden. But to sit here, knowing those words were at her back, somehow wouldn’t be the same. She wished she could reach back through time and understand. Perhaps it was only meant in some educational way; they were the words meant to have been spoken by Christ on the cross, weren’t they? In a moment of despair, of loss that must be borne before everything changed. Perhaps it was meant as a reminder of that sacrifice, or maybe – and the thought made her lip twitch – it had been a mistake, they had instructed the stonemason using the wrong verse number and he had etched it into the thing anyway. But she had no way of knowing why it was there; it was just a shame it was so bleak.