The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  And then he remembered something that the old man had said: Value in’t just in’t eye o’ the beholder, tha knows … If I was fussed about all that I’d go about flashin’ my watch-chain.

  A watch-chain, that would do. If he took that, Sam wouldn’t be able to accuse him of having failed. He bit his lip, imagining himself taking the one thing the man owned of any worth. But then, he didn’t value it, not really. It was other things he treasured. Pictures. Memories. Those kind of things. In’t eye o’ the beholder.

  He took a deep breath and started up, one hand on the rail. It felt dusty but he didn’t take his hand away. If he fell, he’d be caught for sure. He looked down and saw the trail of muddy footprints he’d left behind. It struck him now that the old man might think the ghost had left them, the one who’d gone into the cupboard and disappeared. It seemed odd he’d never really thought about that before. He’d never seen a child, only the woman, and even then he’d barely thought the word ghost. He’d seen her, and so she simply was. It struck him how stupid it was that he’d just accepted that. He didn’t know what she was or where she had come from and he didn’t know what it was she wanted. Maybe she wanted him. Maybe she wanted him here.

  He swallowed. His throat had gone dry. It flashed across his mind how doubly stupid he had been. If he’d thought about this he could have simply knocked on the door, pretended he’d come to visit and slipped something into his pocket when the old man wasn’t looking. Now it was too late. The old man would be in his chair downstairs – he hoped – and if he came out now, Frank would be stuck. No, he had to keep going.

  He reached the top of the stairs and glanced down at his feet. His boots were still muddy; there were tidemarks on his trouser legs. His mother would kill him, regardless of how this came out. He should have been in for tea ages ago.

  He looked towards the bedroom and imagined stepping into that cupboard, that small stuffy space, and simply vanishing. He wrinkled his nose. Perhaps that would be best for everybody. He was nothing but a nasty thief now, wasn’t he?

  His eyes were itchy and he rubbed at them with his sleeve. Then he stepped inside the old man’s bedroom. For a second he saw the old man sitting there on the bed, a shiny watch-chain held in his hands – actually saw him – and he blinked and the room was empty. He pulled the door to behind him. The photograph album was leaning against the side of the dresser; Owens hadn’t bothered to put it away. He walked over and looked down at it. The man and his wife might have had children. Frank might have been friends with them, they could have laughed together, played together; the house would have been different then.

  No. Somehow, he knew that the house hadn’t been meant for playing, for laughter. It wouldn’t forgive such a thing for entering its doors.

  He saw now there was another picture, this one sitting on the dresser. The old man wasn’t in it but it showed the same woman as in the album and it was faded and browned. The frame it was in looked like silver.

  He couldn’t take that.

  The cupboard, that was where he kept most of his things, wasn’t it? That’s where the second-best suit was hanging. He might find the watch chain in there too. He walked towards it, his footsteps making no sound. Quick.

  The shelves were stacked with old newspapers, brittle and yellow, damp-stained cardboard boxes, and clothes: old shirts, jumpers, things that looked like rags. The suit was hanging from a rail. Frank stepped inside. It was almost fascinating, like stepping into someone else’s life. There were things in here Owens must have had for years. Decades. He noticed a small wooden box that looked as if it might hold something valuable and he opened the creaking lid and saw a jumble of rusted collar stiffeners. Nothing that was any use.

  He bent and looked under the shelves. There was a larger box, with something yellowed like net curtains sticking out of it. He popped open the cardboard folds with a scraping sound that seemed too loud and touched the material. The old lace looked soft but it felt dry and brittle. It had mildew on it, and there was the smell of rot. He realised what it was: a wedding dress. He had a sudden image of the face in the picture, the bright eyes looking straight at him, and he let go of it with a shudder. He pushed the lid back down but it wouldn’t stay shut, half opening itself again; the dress looked like an accusation.

  His lungs felt full of dust. He was trapped in here with the past and the weight of time and all the lost things pressing down on him. He stepped back, reaching for the door, and found nothing but the soft pressure of clothes, no body in them. He batted against them and the brown suit slipped bonelessly to the floor, and the hanger fell on top and clattered against the wall.

  Frank gulped in air, pushing open the door and spilling out. There was movement downstairs; a sudden thud. His heart was beating wildly, almost painfully, and his throat ached. He went for the door, remembering the watch chain, Mossy’s frightened eyes; his brother, flailing in the mud for Sam’s coppers. Then he saw the picture, the one in the silver frame, and he strode to the dresser – no use in trying to soften his footsteps now – and he grabbed it. He tried to stuff it into his pocket as he went for the door but it wouldn’t fit. He ran anyway, knowing it was already too late.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Frank kept on running, his feet banging against each tread of the stairs, as the sitting room door began to open. Its movement was slow and relentless and it didn’t stop until the man’s bulk came to fill it. When it did, Frank froze. Owens stood there in his dark suit, staring at him. No one said anything for a long time.

  ‘Frank,’ the man said, his voice low and a little puzzled, and that was all.

  Frank started walking down the stairs. His legs felt weak. It felt as if he’d been descending for ever. The picture was in his hand and he tightened his grip on it, his fingers slippery against the cold metal, feeling the bumps and fissures of its intricate design, the smoothness of the glass that covered the woman’s face.

  Mr Owens took a step forward. ‘Frank?’ he said, and this time it was more like a question.

  He was almost at the bottom of the stairs. The front door was ajar, a slot of green showing through it. He could smell the air out there, so much clearer than this. Owens didn’t move, just stood there in the hallway amid all those muddy footprints. It struck Frank that there were too many to be his alone; then the thought was gone. He couldn’t think about anything but the expression on Mr Owens’ face. There was confusion there, and the start of disappointment. He recognised the expression at once; he had too recently seen his mother wearing it.

  He knew the exact moment that Mr Owens saw the picture clutched in his hand, because when he did, he let out a roar: ‘Why, you little—’

  Frank ran. He yanked the door wider and surged through it, almost falling when the ground went from under him, and then he was down the steps and onto the gravel and he ran harder, hearing the spray of little stones behind him. The door behind him slammed back. Mr Owens shouted, ‘Come back ’ere wi’ that …’ and then he was down the drive and at the gate, ready to grab Mossy’s arm and flee before the old man could see his brother waiting there. He didn’t care what happened to Sam. He’d just chuck the picture at him – he didn’t want it, never wanted to see it again – and he’d hope it brained him. He thought of that woman standing behind the boy, about to reach out, to grab his shoulder maybe – good, he thought, I hope you die – and he swung around the gate, but Mossy wasn’t there. Neither were Sam and Jeff.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered. ‘Shit.’ There was a hollow place in his belly. He wondered when they had run, taking his little brother with them; they surely must have made him go – Mossy wouldn’t have left him like that. Maybe it was while he was in the old man’s room, going through his stuff. Maybe it was the moment he’d gone inside the house, something they’d planned to do all along. Now they were gone, leaving only a place where the weeds were pressed a little flatter.

  Mr Owens was coming down the drive, not running but trotting as fast as he could, his belly under
the waistcoat swinging from side to side. In other circumstances, Frank might have laughed. Then he ran again, turning away from home where he hoped Mossy would be safe, and it struck him: if the dark woman was going to get him, it wouldn’t be at home, in his own bed; it would be at the river, where the air smelled of mud and flies, and where the water kept sweeping onward, ready to cover over anything that happened there.

  It was too late now. He ran alongside the wall until he reached the narrow path and swung himself into it. Behind him, Mr Owens followed.

  *

  Frank didn’t slow down until he saw the bridge. It had already occurred to him that the only way back was the way he had come, but that didn’t seem as pressing as his fear of the ghost. He suddenly felt sure she was real. She had been there all the time, pushing him the way she wanted him to go. No: he was only looking for someone else to blame. He was in deep trouble, beyond deep. He realised he was still holding the picture and he thought of reaching back his arm and throwing it into the mire. Somehow he couldn’t do it.

  The bridge was empty but he could hear a voice now, childish laughter, and his stomach dropped. Mossy.

  He ran over the soggy ground. It actually made splashing noises under his feet. He could hear Mr Owens’ panting breaths and although he knew he deserved to be caught, he still wanted to get as far away as he could. Instead of running onto the bridge he ducked low and away to the side, where the ground was soft and the grass was long. He started to sink at once. Water seeped into his boots. He crouched down as low as he could, feeling his feet press further into the ground, and he clutched the picture in front of him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at it.

  Through the grass, he saw Mr Owens reach the end of the path. He stood for a moment, resting his hands on his knees. He could see his cheeks puffing in and out, even from here. For a moment, he heard him gasping for breath. He didn’t like the sound of it. A part of him wanted to step out of the grass and walk up to the old man and give the picture back. He should never have parted him from it. Still, somehow, he didn’t move.

  From somewhere beyond the bridge came another high giggle. The old man straightened at once and headed towards it. Frank heard the dull sound of steps on concrete and, after a few seconds, he rustled clear of the grass. Now the path home was clear. He could run away and try to forget any of this had happened. But the old man would surely follow him and he’d tell his parents everything. A nasty little thief, he’d say, and Frank wouldn’t be able to bear the look on his mother’s face because he’d know that it was true.

  He followed the old man across the bridge, one hand skimming the rail. The river was silent but Frank could smell it, a scent that belonged to this place and here alone. It wasn’t a nice place. There was no way they should ever have come here, or ever have gone to the house. It was odd that it was so close to his home, his safe, warm, comfortable home, and yet he longed to be far away from it.

  Then he heard a shout; it was a child’s voice, but not one he knew. He could just see Mr Owens, picking his way ahead, and in front of him—

  He blinked. There was a child standing in front of Mr Owens, but it wasn’t anyone he had seen before. He was a little shorter than Frank, and he looked a little like him but his clothes were different. He was wearing shorts and a shirt and a V-neck pully and his hair was lighter than Frank’s, was almost glowing as the sun’s low rays caught it, but Mr Owens didn’t seem to have noticed the difference; he was edging towards him over the unsteady ground.

  Frank went after him. He saw something else and his heart stuttered. It was the woman, standing further out, at the edge of the river, and now he could see her face. It was pale and thin, her cheeks sunken as if she hadn’t eaten in a long time, her eyes shadowed. She was wearing mourning, he could see that now. It was like some dark mirror of a wedding dress. The veil was pulled back from her hair and her gown was a rich, deep shining black. She must be standing in the water, he realised. No: on the water. His belly contracted; his bladder nearly let go.

  The child grinned as if he were playing some game and turned and ran. He was heading towards the water, quick and lithe, holding out his arms for balance as he went. Hadn’t Mr Owens seen that he wasn’t even carrying the picture? Frank watched as the boy pushed his way between the taller grasses and was gone.

  Suddenly Frank felt afraid for Mr Owens. The man was blundering, every step clumsy. He seemed to be saying something as he went, Frank could hear the gruff tones of his voice, though he couldn’t make out the words. Then he let out a wilder cry and he fell to his knees, struggling to pull his foot from the mire.

  Frank stepped forward. He realised the other child was waiting after all; he had stopped just at the edge of the reeds. He had his back turned and Frank couldn’t see his face. He glanced back to where the woman had been standing – no, floating – above the water, but now he couldn’t see her at all. It did not comfort him. If she wasn’t there she must be somewhere else, waiting at the foot of the path maybe, or standing right behind him. He whirled and saw nothing but more grass and beyond that, a golden, bloody sunset.

  ‘Mr Owens,’ he said. His voice was soft, but the old man heard. He pushed himself to his feet and turned.

  ‘He hasn’t got your picture, Mr Owens,’ he said. He held it out. ‘It’s ’ere.’

  He stepped towards him. He didn’t even look at the picture. ‘You,’ he said. ‘You. I’m going ter – you wait. You’ll never ’ave ’ad—’

  Mr Owens stepped towards him. Frank glanced back. The bridge was behind him now. He ran towards it and grasped hold of the rail, the rusted metal rough but welcome under his fingers, the concrete solid beneath his feet.

  ‘It’s no use runnin’,’ Mr Owens said. ‘I’ll find yer.’

  And Frank knew that he would. He backed across the bridge, letting go of the rail, and he felt his foot slip off the edge. He gasped and snatched for the rail again and the picture slid from his grip. It fell and there was a dull gritting sound and the higher chink of splintering glass.

  ‘You little—’ Mr Owens strode towards him.

  Frank turned and fled. Nettles flicked at his legs as he went, but he didn’t care and he didn’t stop. He wanted only to be home. It didn’t matter how much trouble he was in. He wanted his dad in the front room, safe and solid, and his mum with her grumpy face and folded arms. And Mossy: he even wanted Mossy.

  There was a noise behind him, a strangled, breathy sort of sound, and he turned.

  Mr Owens was on the bridge. There was something wrong with him. He clutched at his throat with his hands, then shifted his grip, clawing with one hand at his collar and the other at his chest. His face had gone red, but it didn’t look funny. It wasn’t funny.

  Frank blinked. The child had emerged from the reeds. He was watching Mr Owens and he had no expression on his face at all; no fear, and no pity.

  Mr Owens fell to his knees, choking. He supported his weight with one outstretched hand. The picture was just in front of him and his eyes fixed on it. They looked as if they were bulging from his head. Then he fell forward with a dull smacking sound and Frank flinched. It had sounded as if something had broken, his nose maybe, or even his skull; there had been a dull crunching and something else, a wetter sound.

  He stood there, frozen, until he realised that everything had fallen still. A moment longer and he couldn’t even hear Mr Owens gasping for breath.

  He stepped forward, his legs shaking. He walked up to Mr Owens. He was lying face down and he wasn’t moving. He didn’t look as if he was breathing. Shivers ran across Frank’s arms. He felt cold right through. When he looked up, he realised the woman was there. Then she turned and moved away, taking the child with her, into the reeds, until he couldn’t see them any more. He was alone. There was no one left to hear him and no one to help. He looked down at what had once been Mr Owens and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. This wasn’t the place for words. It simply was.

&n
bsp; He looked down and saw the picture, the filigree shine of broken glass. He stretched out one foot and pushed the frame closer to Mr Owens until it was touching his hand; then he saw that it was lying face-down. The old man hadn’t even been able to look into his wife’s face as he died.

  Then he turned and ran back the way he had come, towards home, knowing that as long as he should live, he never wanted to come to the river again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The house was no longer quiet and it was no longer dark. All of the curtains had been thrown open, letting shafts of light onto the worn carpets. They had looked better in the semi-darkness; it felt like an invasion.

  There weren’t many people, but because they were all wearing the same thing, it looked as if there were more: black crows pecking here and pecking there, peering into corners, tut-tutting over the worn chairs. There were ladies standing in the big room, but no one had chosen to sit in Mr Owens’ seat. Frank didn’t want to sit there either. He looked around for Mossy. His little brother had looked odd when they’d come here, dressed all in black too, his hair turned slick-shiny where his mother had dampened it down.

  Someone had been cleaning the place. Frank sniffed. He could smell beeswax and it was a nice smell but he wished he couldn’t; it didn’t seem right, as if the very air had changed now that Mr Owens was gone.

  Except that he wasn’t gone. He was in the narrow back room. The funeral was later and now there was this; people bustling in and out doing goodness knows what. It didn’t make any sense to Frank. It was as if the shadows that lay in the house had come to life and were milling about, rubbing shoulders, holding teacups or plates.

  He knew most of them from church or the village. Some were from away, as his mum had put it, distant relatives who probably hadn’t been here for years. There was an older woman with bright red lipstick that was garish against her powdered cheeks, and another of a similar age with a similar expression; they stood together, clutching tiny glasses of sherry. There was someone else he didn’t know, a man who stood apart from everybody else, alternately sending dark looks around the room and examining the cornicing through his long pale eyelashes as if he was trying to work out what it cost.