The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  She reached out for the mug and thought at once of the river.

  ‘We could go and see the mire,’ he said, and once again she had the impression he was reading her mind. He knew her so well. ‘It would do you good, I think. Both of us.’

  He was right again – she’d been cooped up in here far too long. And yet she felt a twinge at the thought of leaving the house.

  *

  Ten minutes later she was standing in the hall. There were no muddy footprints on the tiles this time; the place didn’t even look lived in. At least, when they came back, they could leave their own prints there.

  She looked around at the work she’d done, the places where she’d tried to paint over the past. It was no use; she could still sense it, the layers upon layers soaked into the walls.

  ‘Ready?’ Charlie opened the door and it filled with the washed-out light of a pale morning. The day was beautiful. She smiled and walked into it.

  The path was so close to the house she wondered why she had never followed it until now. It sloped up a gentle incline before dipping once more towards the lower ground. It was overgrown, almost closed in by long grass, and there was a hedgerow formed of dead bushes interspersed with small leafless trees. It didn’t look like an easy path, but Charlie went ahead anyway, finding a stick in the undergrowth and swiping at the fading greenery. The foliage was wet with dew and each strike sent shining droplets flying into the air. It must have been a long time since anyone came this way. The whole place felt as empty as the house; there was not even a bird in the sky, which was clear and pale and a little cold.

  When Emma glanced back, the grey stone of Mire House looked faded. Beyond it was the churchyard, everything softened by a faint haze. Only the yew tree’s branches looked heavy and dense, as if they were still darkened with rain. For a brief moment she thought she saw someone standing beneath it, but no: it was an illusion born of the twisting branches. It had probably always been an illusion. For a moment she closed her eyes, imagining clawing hands reaching for her; then it was gone.

  Charlie had drawn ahead and she hurried to catch up. He was blocking her view but she caught glimpses of a wider, flatter space. The path ended and there was nothing but the long grass and the susurration it made and the smell of the water.

  ‘Watch your step,’ he said, and she looked down to see that the toes of her shoes had sunk into the ground, a bright edge of water marking the line between them. She pulled them free and felt herself sinking again almost at once. ‘Maybe we should go back.’

  ‘We can go a little further. Look, there’s a bridge.’

  And there was, though it was nothing but a simple concrete slab with a single rusted rail. It wasn’t a pretty bridge, but having seen it, she wanted to go across. That was what bridges were for.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ll go on before you.’

  She followed, each footstep making a sound like a hungry mouth. She had hoped to see the water but there was nothing, only swollen-looking reeds interspersed with the grass. She could smell water, though, the iron scent of the river, and she could sense its flow, steadily leading somewhere else. The taller reeds masked it from view. They were close-pressed and stirring in the breeze, rattling against each other.

  It was treacherous beyond the bridge. She took a few more steps, trying to find solid ground, but it was impossible. For a moment she couldn’t see Charlie; then she realised he was standing away to the side, watching her. ‘The water’s high,’ he called. ‘It must have risen in the storm.’

  He was right: the whole area was half-submerged. Emma pulled a face. There wasn’t anything to see. Then she spun around to face him. How had he known that the water had risen? He had never been here before.

  He saw the look on her face and smiled. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I needed you to see this. This is the edge.’

  She thought at first he said the end and she started.

  ‘You don’t need to be afraid.’

  She had a sudden image of herself falling into the water, being carried away by the tide under that endless sky, and she took a step away from him. There was only softness beneath her, the water finding its way into her shoes, lapping at her ankles, greedy for the warmth of her skin.

  Charlie smiled once more and it was a broad smile, impossible not to trust, and yet she didn’t trust it. She wanted to run, to be somewhere far away. She had that odd feeling again, like when he’d reached for her at the bottom of the stairs: as if he was Charlie but not Charlie, at once the person she thought she knew and someone else entirely.

  ‘There is something I needed you to see.’ His voice was soft, almost hypnotic, and Emma found she couldn’t move. She was sinking into the ground as if she was already rooted there, a part of this place. Becoming part of it. He kept moving though, apparently without difficulty, until he stood in front of her. He reached out, but he did not touch her; he simply swept his hand around, indicating the reeds, the broad sky, the whole empty place. ‘Look at it, Emma,’ he said. ‘What do you see?’

  She frowned. She had seen everything already and yet she felt now that if she knew the right way to look there were depths here after all; things she had only begun to glimpse.

  ‘Go on, Emma,’ he whispered, and she did, walking away from him, moving easily after all, as if something inside her was lighter. She wanted to see the river. She wanted to catch a glimpse of where it led. The reeds opened before her to reveal something hidden behind them. For a moment she thought she saw a figure there, a small shape in the water, reaching out; and then she went dizzy and her vision speckled with white. The paleness spread. It was coming from the centre of the mire now, rising like mist from the water, hanging before her face. Everything was white, pure and clean, and she looked up at the sky to see that it had gone; everything had become that same sheer blankness. She couldn’t see anything else. White: everything was white.

  She tried to speak, but she was choking. What had Charlie done to her? He must have done something terrible. She batted a hand in front of her eyes as she gasped for breath. No: she was all right, she must be all right. It would pass. She was standing firmly on the ground. She forced herself to concentrate on that but when she shifted there was only mire beneath her feet; she couldn’t even be certain of that. Then she felt his hand on her shoulder, an intimate, warm touch.

  ‘You see now,’ he said, close to her ear.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She pulled away, but he held on. His grip tightened. His hand was cold: bone-cold.

  ‘You will. All things end, Emma. All things have new beginnings. You have hung on long enough. It is time for you to leave.’

  No.

  ‘It’s time to see what’s on the other side.’

  She pulled away from him. Everything seemed to happen so slowly. The whiteness in front of her gave way as she turned, first to the dull colour of dead grass, and then to Charlie’s smiling face. There were shadows behind it. She almost felt she could see into him, through him, to glimpse the truth behind his eyes. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘I came to show you the way.’ He gestured towards that white light. ‘You should go, now. Before it’s too late.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She turned and the light was there. Fear ripped through her. She didn’t know what had happened to her vision; at least he hadn’t hurt her, not yet.

  ‘I’m here to show you how to cross.’

  ‘You’re not Charlie,’ she said. ‘Are you? Or not just Charlie.’

  He bowed his head, acknowledging the truth.

  ‘So why—?’

  ‘I needed to take a form that you would understand. A form you would not be afraid of.’

  ‘You brought me here to— You’re going to kill me.’

  She watched as his eyes filled with pain. They were gentle. So gentle.

  ‘No. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to show you the way home; to the other side, to your family.’

  The thought of her father an
d mother cut deep. Sorrow blossomed inside her, a raw wound, and she hugged herself.

  ‘You see it now.’

  She shook her head. She didn’t see anything, only blank whiteness.

  ‘You have to see, Emma. This is your chance.’ He pointed towards the river, towards nothing.

  ‘I—’ She looked into it. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t know what that is.’

  He gave a rueful smile. ‘I can’t tell you that. You have to go alone. I can’t go with you.’

  She turned to meet his eyes and there was a light in them she couldn’t explain. She had that sense again of seeing only the surface of things, that behind them lay a deep river, something she couldn’t comprehend. She knew now that the words he spoke were somehow not Charlie’s. She was no longer sure he was male or female, young or old; she wasn’t sure he was even human.

  ‘There are other doorways here than those built by man.’ He gestured and this time, when she turned to look, she realised that she could see the church. No: the graveyard, the yew tree at its edge standing tall and dark, looking more than ever like a hole in the world.

  ‘There are places where the walls grow thin,’ he said.

  His expression was so kind that her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away. ‘What is it?’ She pointed to the place where land became river and the river, land. ‘What’s through there?’

  ‘Only you can find out. I can point the way, Emma, that’s the reason I came. Beyond that – I don’t know.’ Now he looked sad. ‘I’ve never seen it. I’m not sure I will ever know.’

  She blinked. The whiteness was everywhere now, and it obscured his face. For a moment, through the blur, she thought he looked different; and then she thought she caught sight of others standing next to him, an old man in a shabby suit, a soldier, two young boys. When she rubbed her eyes, they were gone. There was a sound in her ears like a river rushing, moving onward towards a place she couldn’t see.

  ‘All you have to do is walk through.’ He pointed towards the water, towards that whiteness, towards nothing.

  Emma’s eyes blurred with tears. She stepped forward and felt herself sinking deeper. It was as if the mire was trying to claim her. She shook her head. She had heard of people going into the light; it soothed their pain. Soon she needn’t feel it any longer. She would see her father’s face, and her mother’s, and she would be happy again. Charlie was right. He had been right all along. She would go into that whiteness and she would simply disappear: she would be free.

  With the next step, she sank up to her knees. The water was cold, deep cold, but she knew it wouldn’t last for long. She floundered and pulled herself forwards. It was sinking inside her, the cold, touching her flesh, her bones. Death was such a simple thing, so small a barrier to cross. Now it was her time; it would all be over in moments. She felt a flood of gratitude towards Charlie. She paused only to turn, to say goodbye, and she saw the expression on his face.

  She gasped and struggled to pull herself upwards. For a moment she had almost felt she could see what lay beyond the veil; for a moment, she had almost believed him. She twisted and floundered her way back across the mire towards Charlie – no: not Charlie. It didn’t even look like him any longer. There was someone standing behind Charlie, in him.

  The mire reached for her, trying to drag her under. For a second she thought she saw something amongst the reeds, a flash of golden hair, and then it was gone.

  She turned from it and she saw Charlie’s face. His expression was blank, as if he’d just woken, and there was something else, something a little like a shadow around him, as if he was surrounded by a dark halo. Then his face darkened, as if the shadows were gathering, and it suddenly sharpened, and Emma saw it was the ghostly woman she had seen in the graveyard, in front of him; no, stepping out of him. Her veil was drawn back. Emma could see her eyes.

  The woman turned, putting her hand on Charlie’s shoulder, and he slumped, his head lolling. He looked pale, exhausted. His eyes closed but he did not fall. Suddenly he shivered.

  The woman looked at her.

  ‘There’s nothing there,’ Emma whispered. ‘Nothing but the mire.’

  The woman threw back her head and laughed.

  ‘You – you were going to trick me. I would have drowned.’

  The laughter swelled. ‘Oh, my dear. Oh, my dear.’

  ‘You’re her. The one – the one who said—’

  ‘My God, my God,’ she replied. ‘It’s so funny, don’t you think? Not to despair; not to grieve; not to sorrow, but to ever believe there is a God in the first place. To believe there is someone to listen when you call.’ Her face straightened. ‘There is no God, Emma, not in this place. There never was.’

  Emma glanced around. It was desolate, she saw that now; she didn’t know why she’d ever been drawn to it.

  ‘Because it called you to it. It called you home.’

  Emma shook her head, as if she could deny everything: this place, the woman’s presence, the death that had awaited her. She would go back and get her things, leave as soon as she could and never come back. She would get out. It struck her now that was exactly what Clarence Mitchell must have done. He had come here and seen the house for what it was, a place that was never a home, never meant to hold life in it. He’d seen everything and he’d fled, and when he died he had left it for her but not for love, not for the sake of family, but out of his hatred, his bitterness. It wasn’t meant for you, he’d written to his grandson, and now here she was, drawn in like some foolish, trusting child. Well, she was a child no longer. She wouldn’t be caught a second time.

  Now his grandson had been made a part of it too, used by this woman like some puppet. He was still standing there, his eyes nothing but white slits, his cheeks deathly pale.

  ‘It was you,’ she said, ‘all the time.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, not all the time. Not at first. But I had to use him, you see – I couldn’t speak to him the way I did his grandfather.’

  ‘Clarence Mitchell? You knew him?’

  ‘I knew him well. I whispered in his ear. He did not always know I was there, but we grew close, he and I. But then, we were family. He was my nephew: family, like Charles here. Perhaps that was why I could possess him so completely.’

  ‘But why—?’

  ‘Why you? Oh, I knew your grandfather too, my dear. He lived here for a while, along with Clarence. He was her blood, the woman who took my husband and this place and my life, stealing him little by little until I lost my child and everything I had. And I almost made Arthur pay – the nearest thing she had to a child – but he wouldn’t answer my call and I lost him in the end. But now you are here, his grandchild.’

  ‘But Charlie and I – we’re related.’

  ‘By marriage: a tainted marriage that should never have been. But blood runs deeper still and you are her blood – the last of her blood.’

  ‘And that’s why? Because of something that happened before I was even born?’ Emma gathered herself. ‘Then it means you lose. I’m leaving this place. I’m not coming back. I’m done with it – I’m done with you.’

  She glanced up at the sky. It was growing a deeper blue; colour was returning to the world. The woman was losing her power to drain it of life and soon Emma would return to it, leaving behind these close hillsides and the damp mire. She could leave now.

  ‘There are few things more amusing than the deluded, my dear.’ The woman smiled. ‘This place is your home, Emma. It always has been, I knew that at once. It is impossible to deny, since you felt it yourself – the moment you looked at my house.’

  Emma shook her head, brushing away the woman’s words. She remembered the first time she had seen Mire House, its dour grey stone, its louring presence, its sense of aloneness. And yet she had seen its beauty. She had loved it at once; it was as if it called to something inside her. No. The woman had seen how she felt and she was twisting it, manipulating her. She didn’t have to listen.

  She looked at Charli
e. She had doubted him, for so long, and all the time he was innocent; the woman’s pawn, not a part of her plan. He might be of her blood, this dark woman’s, but she couldn’t leave him here like this.

  ‘Let him go,’ she said.

  She had expected more, but the woman simply gave a mocking bow and stepped away from him. Charlie blinked, his eyes unfocused, and he raised his head. He frowned, as if he had no recollection of how he came to find himself at the mire.

  Emma stepped forward and took his arm. He didn’t react but he did listen when she said softly, ‘I think that’s enough of a walk, Charlie. There’s nothing here. Let’s go.’

  He turned his head. ‘I—’ He paused. ‘I don’t—’ and then he coughed, as if embarrassed. She could almost sense him trying to explain his presence here to himself.

  ‘We’ve been working too hard,’ Emma said. ‘It’s time we had a break. Get away from this place.’

  He rubbed his forehead. ‘You’re right. I’m not sure why – I mean, yes. I should be heading home.’

  She smiled. ‘You should.’ She could still see the woman’s dark shape, outlined against the reeds at his back. She turned away from it. She took his arm and began to guide him away. There was no need for him to know what had happened. She walked towards the path, the ground beneath her feet becoming firmer with each step, and she saw the bridge ahead of her. Soon they would cross it; they would leave all of this behind. The dead need not concern her any longer, only the living.

  Emma did not stop and she did not look back, but still the woman’s voice followed her. She glanced at Charlie, but he showed no sign of having heard it. She paused, closing her eyes, and she felt his hand close over her arm. He said something, but she didn’t listen: she could hear nothing but the woman’s voice, which followed her in a whisper.

  ‘There are few things more amusing than the deluded. There is nothing more amusing than someone who does not know they belong to me already.’

  And then, so faintly that she wasn’t sure she had really heard it: This is your home, Emma.