A Home by the Sea (A Supernatural Suspense Novel)

by Saunders, Craig

  A Home by the Sea

  by

  Craig Saunders

  Copyright © 2011 Craig Saunders

  All characters in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover or format other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

  2nd Edition

  1st Edition published 2013 by Crowded Quarantine Publications

  Edited by Adam Millard

  Cover Art Copyright © 2015 Craig Saunders

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Part One: The Mannequin

  Part Two: The Blue House

  Part Three: The Black Room

  Part Four: The Blue House (II)

  About the Author

  Also by Craig Saunders

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to Adam and Zoe-Ray Millard of Crowded Quarantine Publications who took a chance on my work with the first edition of this novel. This is the second edition, but without the kindness and support of the small presses, I think I would have given up writing long ago.

  And, like most everything I write, this is for Sim.

  The tide rises, the tide falls,

  The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;

  Along the sea-sands damp and brown

  The traveler hastens toward the town,

  And the tide rises, the tide falls.

  Darkness settles on roofs and walls,

  But the sea, the sea in darkness calls;

  The little waves, with their soft, white hands

  Efface the footprints in the sands,

  And the tide rises, the tide falls.

  The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

  Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;

  The day returns, but nevermore

  Returns the traveler to the shore.

  And the tide rises, the tide falls.

  - The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls/Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Part One

  The Mannequin

  Irene Jacobs. She rolled it around on her tongue. Tried it out for size.

  ‘Irene. Jacobs. Irene Jacobs.’

  She shook her head. It didn’t sound right. Irene Harris...Irene Jacobs.

  ‘Sleep on it, Honey,’ her mother said.

  She did.

  *

  Irene always wanted a home by the sea. Somewhere to call her own, maybe a place with a view of the sea. Somewhere she was able to hear the waves rubbing the sand, or even just to get that fresh salt smell in her washing on a fine day.

  She sat on the porch, hands on her belly, smiling.

  She was petite and beautiful in a kind of boyish way. She was also young, and frightened. Her belly seemed enormous on her small frame, and so it should, because she was pregnant with twins.

  She rubbed her belly and made a noise like the sand rolling in the tide, soothing her babies. One kicked and set the other off and she laughed.

  Out here, way out on the point, with nothing to look at but the sea, she could think. She could feel.

  Some people called it the spit, but she could never think of it like that. It was the ‘point’ to her, pointing out to sea, telling her to look and never forget, every single day.

  She was drawn to the sea. Always had been. When the Blue House came along she fell in love all over again, with that electric, sickening pulse deep within that couldn’t be ignored. She’d had to have it.

  Back in her old town, she hadn’t been able to see clearly through the traffic, the Saturday shoppers, the queues at the supermarket and drunks walking past her door from the pubs further on down the street, singing football chants and swearing and fighting. Walking past dead kebabs that littered the streets and hearing the rumble of buses, or the plastic fake glass being smashed in telephone box. It was never the worst place in the country, or even the county, Norfolk, but something never felt right, like she didn’t belong and was just a traveller, passing through.

  The Blue House was right. She wasn’t a traveller anymore. She was home.

  The point ran slowly curving out to sea from east to west, joining the land in the east and petering out into the sea in the west. Out to the west was a seal sanctuary and on a still day she could hear them barking. The gulls and terns woke her first thing in the morning, as soon as the sky got light. They nested in the dunes that ran down to the beach. There were no trees, just hillocks with tufts of sea grass, lumps of driftwood and broken plastic and squid and broken nets and cages pushed up on the shore.

  She could sit out on the sand or in the warm, like now, when it was autumn and that bite was in the breeze that you only got on the chilly Norfolk coasts.

  To wake and walk down to the shore first thing in the morning had become a ritual, no matter if it was blustery or warm or wet or cloudy. To look out at the weather way off over the rough North Sea, and know that Holland lay over the horizon in the north, and Norfolk and the whole of southern England at her back.

  Every morning she stared with pale blue eyes at the sea, with the pale Blue House at her back and when she went back over the dunes to her home, she was never sad to leave the sea behind, because out on the point she was surrounded by it. From every room in the house she could see it. It was always there, when she woke and when she went to sleep. She could close her windows and shut out the sound of the waves breaking, but she never had.

  Maybe the Blue House could save her. Let her be a mother to her children, concentrate on raising a family, and forget.

  She smiled again, cooed, and her kicking babies calmed.

  She wished Paul could have shared those kicks with her and held his big hands against her belly. She would have loved the chance to share the Blue House and the sea with the only man she’d ever truly loved. But he was gone and her babies were all she had left of him.

  *

  Marc Jones frowned and rubbed a hand through his unruly greying hair, looking at the delivery he’d just received. The offending article stood in the middle of the shop, Beautiful Brides. It wasn’t what he’d ordered at all.

  ‘What is that?’

  The delivery man shrugged.

  ‘It looks like a mannequin to me.’

  ‘I know it’s a mannequin. I ordered a mannequin. A dress maker’s mannequin. I did not order that. It’s...’ Marc shook his head. He wanted to say it was a piece of shit, but he didn’t like swearing unnecessarily.

  It was a piece of shit, though, he thought.

  The delivery man shrugged again. He couldn’t give a shit either way. He had three more jobs on his docket, and he had to go half the way across the county from Blakeney to Yarmouth, out on the east coast of Norfolk, for his final run. He wouldn’t be home ‘til after seven as it was. He just wanted a signature.

  ‘Sign here,’ he said, holding out his electronic pad.

  Marc shook his head. ‘I’m not signing for it.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do with it?’

  ‘Take it back,’ said Marc, mentally preparing himself for a battle of words.

  ‘I can’t take it back. I’m just here to deliver it. I’m the driver. You need to call whoever you ordered it from.’

  ‘I’m not taking it, and I’m not signing for it,’ s
aid Marc.

  The delivery man sighed. He closed his eyes and shook his head, like a man on the edge counting to ten and thinking of balloons or Mickey Mouse, maybe, instead of lashing out with words.

  ‘Look, Sir...’ he said.

  ‘No, you look,’ said Marc, through gritted teeth. ‘That thing’s moth eaten. It’s mildewed. It stinks, for Christ’s sake. It smells like dead fish or something.’

  ‘It’s not up to me, OK?’

  ‘Just put it back on the van. I wasn’t in, OK?’

  The delivery man looked down at his feet. He really did want to be home early. He shook his head once again and picked up the mannequin.

  ‘Whatever,’ he said, and lumped it back out of the door of Beautiful Brides.

  Marc puffed out some air, shook his head.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said again.

  *

  The delivery driver lugged the heavy thing back out to the van and hefted it into the back, swearing a little under his breath, but not cursing too heavily.

  He rolled a tight little cigarette. He wasn’t allowed to smoke in the van, so he stepped round the back of the shop. Took a piss against the rear wall of Beautiful Brides, zipped up and nodded.

  He finished his cigarette and returned to the van. The keys weren’t in his pocket. They weren’t in the driver’s seat.

  Something stank, stank like rotted meat. He turned his nose up and swore, more heavily this time, because if he’d lost the keys to the van there would be hell to pay from his boss and he’d never make it home for tea.

  With a steadily darkening face he walked around to the back of the van and saw the keys swinging in the van’s back door.

  The delivery man laughed, shook his head, and took his keys from the lock.

  He wound down the window on the drive out and kept it that way for the whole journey to Yarmouth, because he just couldn’t seem to get that stink out.

  He never did notice the footsteps leading up to the van.

  *

  Marc went into the back of the shop and sat at his desk in the small office. The desk looked cluttered, but Marc knew exactly where everything was. The desktop screen on his PC was covered in files, accounting and letters, but there was order there, should someone bother to figure out what the system was.

  The phone was under a note to make a call to a supplier. He moved the note aside and picked up the phone and dialled Irene’s mobile from memory.

  Reception was patchy at best out on the point, but the phone rang. Irene picked it up on the third ring. She must have had it in her pocket. Things must be getting hairy for her now, out there on her own, ready to drop.

  ‘Irene? It’s Marc,’ he said. He imagined her smiling, that serene smile of hers. Of course she’d know it was him from caller ID.

  ‘Hi. Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine. I had a problem with the delivery, though. I sent the mannequin back. It was manky.’

  ‘Manky?’

  ‘Yes, manky.’

  ‘Is that a word?’ she asked, a smile in her voice.

  ‘Of course it is,’ he said.

  ‘OK. Call Garb’s and have them send out another one, OK?’

  ‘I will. Just wanted to let you know. How are you? Any twinges?’

  ‘No. They’re kicking, though. Kicking like mad.’

  ‘My offer still stands, you know...’

  ‘I’m happy here.’

  ‘I could come and stay there...’

  ‘No, Marc. Sweety. I need this. You know?’

  ‘I know, love. I know. But if you need me...David would understand. He’s a big boy. He can even manage washing on his own. Cooking, not so much, but you know...he’ll manage.’

  Thinking of David, Marc twirled his wedding ring, an unconscious gesture that Irene knew well, like someone still getting used to wearing a ring.

  She laughed, her laugh calm and kind just like her.

  ‘David would be a bit put out I think, if I stole his husband.’

  ‘You know he’d understand.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘OK. If you change your mind...’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Bye. Call me if you need anything.’

  ‘Thanks. Really, I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ she said, and Marc could sense her welling up, which wasn’t like Irene at all. Probably hormones, he thought. He didn’t know a damn thing about woman’s hormones. Didn’t want to. There were plenty of things he could live without ever knowing.

  ‘Speak to you later,’ she said, and hung up.

  Marc put down the phone and after replacing the note to call a supplier, walked back into the shop. He couldn’t really do anything about Irene’s stubborn insistence on having her babies her way. He understood, but it worried him, especially as she was so far away from everyone.

  He sighed.

  ‘Nothing you can do about it,’ he told himself.

  He heard the bell tinkle again, and thinking he had a customer he rushed back, straightening his hair and then slowing.

  The mannequin was right there, the stinking dirty thing, right in the middle of the beautiful dresses, white and cream and ivory, perfection, and a greenish old mannequin.

  ‘You arsehole,’ he said, but the delivery driver was long gone.

  The funny thing was, it didn’t smell the same anymore.

  It looked like the delivery driver had traipsed something in, too, because there were dirty footprints leading back to the mannequin.

  It took a while to place the smell. Marc thought it smelled like something dead had come in.

  *

  The mannequin had no legs, no arms. It was a dress maker’s mannequin, but obviously an antique, the material aside. People just didn’t make mannequins like it anymore. Everything was plastic or wooden, but mass produced with cheap materials.

  This mannequin looked like it had been made with love, and talent, a long time ago.

  It was little more than a bust, resting on a single long metal leg that looked like iron and that started under a half cut of a bottom and ended in a heavy rusted pedestal of iron, too.

  Marc touched the material. Good heavy material, but old and rotten in places. It needed replacing.

  It stank, too, but not as bad now he’d opened the door to the shop to let the stink out. Probably, it was just the material and whatever the driver had brought in on his shoes.

  Marc cleaned the floor and thought about the old mannequin sitting right there on the shop floor, stinking, making the place look ugly.

  But perhaps...if he could take the material off...

  It felt like good solid wood underneath...

  Maybe, he thought, Irene could use it after all.

  *

  The weather could be harsh out on the point, but the night was still when Irene headed down the stairs at two in the morning. It seemed like her boys kicked the hell out of her whenever she was in danger of getting a good night’s rest, or if they weren’t kicking they were sleeping right on her bladder.

  She used the toilet on the second floor of her three-storey house, then made her way into the kitchen on bare feet, cold, but refreshing on the bare wooden floors.

  She put on the kettle for a cup of tea and sliced some nearly-fresh bread for toast. While she was waiting for the toast and tea she ate a bowl of cereal.

  Always hungry, anything she could eat, she did. The cupboards were stocked with enough food to feed a family of ten. Even though she was only really eating for one, or three, depending on which school of thought you subscribed to, she ate all day. Maybe ten times a day. Cereal, for a snack. Fruit, tins – she wasn’t a discerning eater, although since falling pregnant it seemed she couldn’t drink coffee anymore. Tea would do, though. Maybe the boys didn’t like coffee, maybe it was her body telling her what to eat.

  A pizza would be nice, she thought.

  In a kind of middle of the night half daze she realised she’d already buttered the toast. She th
ought about it for a minute and put a single frozen thin-based pizza in the oven. It was a tex-mex pizza, with jalapenos and spiced meat on top. She wasn’t sure what kind of meat it was, but now she thought about it her mouth watered. She wasn’t a fussy eater. Meat was meat, and right now, spiced meat was just what the doctor ordered.

  It seemed her body wanted spice. She wondered for a second about the wisdom of eating spicy food this close to her due date, in the middle of the night. She’d heard two things could set off labour – spicy food and sex. She wouldn’t be getting the other, but if she wanted a spicy pizza, she wanted it. No sense in fighting it.

  She ate the toast, drank her tea and ate the pizza.

  Then she went back to bed and had the most terrifying dream of her life.

  *

  There were no lights on in the house, and only meagre moonlight coming through the windows. The house was heavy with silver and shadows. She had no voile or nets across the windows to spoil the view, and no one around to peer through her windows. Naked, she walked along the third floor landing, her bare feet slapping on the buffed floorboards, slightly turned out because her hips were loosening in preparation for the birth.

  She looked down at her feet and could see bars of moonlight washing across them. A cloud passed the moon and suddenly the night was almost pitch black. But her eyes were adjusting now. Then she heard it again and knew why she had woken. Her boys were crying out from the nursery.

  She rushed along the hall to their room, running in a heavy kind of waddle that she’d developed now she was in the late stages of pregnancy. She didn’t know how she could be so heavy when the boys were out and crying, but there it was. She was due in two weeks, and yet...

  And yet her babies were crying.

  No. That wasn’t right. They weren’t crying, like when they were hungry or soiled or a tired. They were screaming. The cloud passed from the moon and she saw footsteps in the hall, leading to her boys’ room.