“Not far from here. Don’t be fooled by her shabby exterior, the house is quite beautiful inside. Alice just didn’t see the point in paying to upkeep the gardens when she never went outside to enjoy them.”
The cab pulled up an oak-lined driveway. The approach would once have been grand and stately, but was now overgrown and wild. Weeds peeked out from the flowerbeds, creeping across the concrete drive, which was grubby with mould and grime. The lawn had gone to seed, the tall stalks swaying in the breeze, some patches as high as my waist. I saw statues toppled over, ornamental ponds green with algae, trellis arches sagging under the weight of their burden. Everything was choked with creeping weeds. Even though Alice Marshell was supposed to be rich, she clearly hadn’t hired a gardener in the last five years. I could see why Duncan was so quick to absolve himself of responsibility for it.
“Here we are then,” said Duncan, as we pulled up in front of the house. “Welcome to Marshell House.”
I opened the door and climbed out in the rain, staring up at that towering facade. It wasn’t a house in the true sense of the word, but a crumbling Victorian gothic mansion right out of a Wes Craven film. Built from dark brick and black-stained wood, Marshell House seemed to rise up out of the earth like a Lovecraftian beast. Two hexagonal turrets flanked the central section, the peaked roofs penetrating the cloudy sky above. A porch stretched along the front of the house, the gothic arches giving the appearance of a grinning row of teeth ready to devour anyone who dared enter. Two round stained-glass windows decorated with a multi-pointed star formed the focal point of each turret, like eyes glaring down at me. The house’s shadow fell over me, and a shiver ran through my body. Was it a chill from the cold weather, or something different?
Duncan was going on about history again. “... and Marshell House is one of the newest homes in the area,” he explained. “The land was originally part of a much larger estate, but the family that owned it ran into some trouble back in the 1700s and sold off most of their land. Alice’s grandfather purchased it and built the home in the Gothic Revival style—”
“While that’s all fascinating,” I crossed my arms over my sodden coat, trying to keep what little warmth was left inside of me. “I am soaked through. Can we please get inside?”
“Oh! Of course, I’m so sorry.” Duncan lifted a set of old-fashioned keys from his pocket, crossed under the ornate porch arch, and fitted one into the door. “There are only two keys to the front door,” he explained. “I’ve got one back at my office, and this is the second set, which I’m giving to you. All the other keys on this ring also belong to the house, although I’m not quite sure what all of them unlock just yet. The police have finished their investigation, so you don’t need to worry about disturbing anything, and I’ve left some of the council files on the house in the office for you, in case you need them.”
“Thank you.” Duncan pushed the door open, and I dashed inside.
One quick glance around the entrance hall was all I needed to know that this house had the same Wes Craven vibe both inside and out.
Duncan pushed my sodden suitcase through after me. He stood on the stoop, his beady eyes regarding me with concern. I clamped my mouth shut, forcing my face to look impassive. But it was too late. Duncan must’ve noticed my concern.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay in a hotel? You will be all alone in this large house. I could have my office arrange—”
“No, thanks.” While the idea of a hotel suite complete with Jacuzzi tub did appeal, I wanted to get the job done as quickly as possible so I could get back to London and rescue Operation Shag Damon. If I stayed in this creepy house, I’d probably never sleep, which meant the work would be finished in half the time.
“Well, just call me if you change your mind.”
“I will. Bye, Duncan.” I tried to shut the door, anxious to escape the rain and get out of my sodden clothes. But he was still standing there, looking all needy and concerned.
“Do you need me to show you where everything is? I know this house pretty well—”
“That’s fine. If I need any help, I’ll call. I promise.” I forced a smile. Finally, Duncan stepped back, gave me a jaunty wave, and walked back to the car. I pushed the door shut behind him. The wind caught it, slamming it with a loud CRASH that rattled the walls in the entranceway. The sound echoed through the large, empty house.
I flicked on a light, revealing even more of the large entrance hall decorated in an old-fashioned style. My teeth chattering, I yanked off my jacket and pulled open my suitcase. Finding my largest, warmest jumper, I pulled it on, balling my hands into fists inside the sleeves in an attempt to warm my numb fingers. That taken care of, I took a better look around my temporary home.
The front hall was decorated like a Victorian museum, the kind of style an old woman might think of as timeless, but was really perennially ugly. On the wallpaper, naked cherubim stared at me from fluffy clouds, their wide eyes following me as I moved deeper into the house. A heavy coatrack stood in the corner, and a sideboard stood between two uncomfortable-looking chairs, each upholstered in faded floral fabric. I set the key ring down on the sideboard next to a porcelain statue of a grinning cat, and moved across the hall. The floorboards creaked ominously beneath my feet.
The only sound was the squelch of my shoes against the rug and the slow tick-tick-tick of a grandfather clock somewhere in an adjacent room. The house seemed heavy, the walls groaning under the weight of all that solid oak and richly patterned fabric. I stood in the first doorway and peered into the next room. It was some kind of receiving room, with more uncomfortable chairs placed around a Rococo-style coffee table. Faded prints depicting various naval battles adorned the walls, as well as cameo portraits of old, stuffy-looking people. I stopped in front of a large one above the fireplace—of a grim-faced woman dressed in heavy brocade, her eyes a beautiful rich blue. They stared straight ahead, almost following me as I moved across the room. Alice Marshell, I guessed.
On another wall hung a portrait of a young man, his handsome face set like stone. Black ringlets streamed down the sides of his face, and his black jacket and trousers faded into the shadowy background of the painting. In his hand he held a battered violin, resting it against the side of his neck. The artist had taken great pains to depict his fingers holding the neck of the instrument. I guessed that must be Eric Marshell, the famous rock star.
Beyond this room, I could see a dining room with a long table, still set for dinner, and another sitting room, this time in a drab green hue.
This house could be really cool, if it was updated a bit, I thought, my gaze landing on the high ceilings, ornate chandeliers, and large, arched windows. I wonder what will happen to it now that the old woman and her son are both gone—
The staircase creaked. I whirled around, my heart clattering against my chest. It sounded like someone descending the stairs.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice wavering. Great, now the intruder knows you’re scared.
Another creak. It was definitely coming from the top of the stairs. I scanned the landing, but all I could see up there was shadow. I took a step back into the entrance hall, searching for something I could use as a weapon. But there was nothing except that cat statue, which would probably do more damage if it were a real cat.
What are you doing? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it wasn’t someone walking around up there. This is an empty house. You’re here because this is an empty house. You’re just scaring yourself.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, or something, was staring back at me from the landing at the top of the stairs. I felt weirdly self-conscious, as if the eyes in those portraits were following my every move. I didn’t want to stand in the large, open hall anymore, so I darted across into the room on the bottom floor of the turret, slamming the door shut behind me. I fumbled along the wall for the light switch and flicked it on.
Even with the two dusty chandeliers lit up, the room was shrouded
in darkness. The bay windows were obscured by thick red velvet drapes. But apart from its gloominess, this room wasn’t actually too bad. Heavy oak bookshelves lined one of the walls, crammed with dusty volumes bound in black leather. A large desk dominated the space, but there was no computer in sight, only a typewriter set aside, and a stack of black leather ledger books. In front of the windows were two over-stuffed chairs, a small table containing a chessboard set between them. There was even a fireplace along one wall, and a small stack of wood in the basket beside it. The room reminded me of a cosy writer’s study or professor’s office, the kind of room you saw in movies where secrets were hidden and puzzles were solved. I liked it instantly.
I moved behind the large oak desk and jiggled one of the drawers, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked, most likely. That wouldn’t be a problem—these old desks were easy enough to break into. I’d deal with that later. For now, I needed warmth. The house clearly had no central heating, and despite the heavy drapes the air was bitterly cold.
I got to work setting the fire. There was no way I would live in this house for a fortnight without some kind of heating. Once I had some decent flames roaring, I opened the door to the hall, grabbed my laptop, and dumped it on the desk.
Back in the hall, I felt foolish for being scared. Sure, the house was a little creepy, but it was just because it was old and enormous and someone has recently died inside.
A board creaked upstairs. My heart started pounding furiously. You’re being ridiculous, I told myself. Stop listening for ghosts and get your things unpacked so you can get to work. The sooner you finish the catalogue of Ms. Marshell’s assets, the sooner you can get back to your life.
Swallowing my fear, I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and started hauling it up the stairs.
Eric
I heard the front door creak open, and I watched from the top of the stairs as Duncan entered the house, followed by a brown-haired woman of such stunning beauty, I thought for a moment I must’ve have imagined her. Even in flat shoes, she towered over Duncan, and her sodden suit clung to every curve of her body, accentuating her womanly figure. She flicked strands of matted hair from her heart-shaped face, her intelligent hazel eyes surveying the hall from behind a pair of cute black-rimmed glasses.
The brown-haired beauty pursed her bow-shaped lips as she took in my mother’s decor. Duncan dropped the keys into her hand, and scurried back outside. They had a brief conversation through the crack in the door, and then the beauty shut the door on Duncan, a wise decision if ever I’d seen one. Even though he’d been a good friend to my mother ever since my father left us, and he’d looked after her when I moved to London and she got sick, I’d always had a bad feeling about that man. I realised then that I should’ve moved closer and listened to their conversation, but I’d been so preoccupied watching her that it hadn’t even occurred to me.
Who is this remarkable woman, and what is she doing in my house?
It’s not your house, I reminded myself. I’m pretty sure dead men can’t own property.
While I’m haunting it, I feel entirely justified in calling it my own. I retorted inwardly. I’d been stuck alone in the house for eight days now, and eight days was a very long time without anyone to talk to. When I’d been alive, eight days of peace and quiet would have been a welcome holiday. Eight days away from the squabbling of my band and the stress of the road. Eight days without being harassed for autographs in the street, or hounded by interviewers for the most private details of my life. It sounded like heaven … in theory.
But now, I was desperate to get out, to figure out what was going on, and if I could somehow reverse my current poltergeist status. I was going crazy here by myself. I couldn’t even turn the TV on or listen to a record. I’d taken to having conversations with myself, although they usually turned into arguments—I can be one stubborn asshole, even when I’m fighting with myself.
I stood in the shadows at the top of the landing, watching the woman peel off her sodden jacket. Underneath she wore a nude-coloured blouse, perfectly tailored to accentuate her pear-shaped figure and her plump breasts. Now, though, it clung to her skin, practically see-through, revealing the lace of her black bra and her nipples, standing hard as rocks from the cold.
I groaned, and I felt my cock swell as blood rushed toward it. That was an interesting sensation. I didn’t know ghosts could get hard. It certainly hadn’t happened to me in all the days since I’d been a ghost. There was no blood to rush there, after all, so it was only the lingering, familiar sensation of arousal. Apparently, it didn’t matter, because when I glanced down at my crotch, there was my cock standing proud, jerking at the sight of this beautiful woman’s nipples as they jutted out from her blouse.
I turned away, embarrassed. It felt wrong to stare at her like that, when she didn’t know I was there. I may be dead now, but I could still be a gentleman. I counted to ten inside my head, picturing my mother in her nightgown—the most unsexy image accessible to me—and waited for my arousal to flop. Then I floated back to peek again. The woman had covered herself in a large wool sweater and was standing with her back to me, looking into the receiving room and giving me a nice view of the curve of her back and her arse. I floated across the landing, wondering what she was doing in the house with a suitcase. Did she buy the place? But that doesn’t make sense. It would take a long time for the lawyers to sort the estate out, especially since I was gone, too—
I set my foot down on the top stair, and the floorboard creaked loudly.
I leapt back into the shadows just as the woman looked up. My non-heart thundered in my chest. I stared down at my foot, hovering a few inches above the faded floral carpet. I bent down and tried to rest it on the floor again. But it was the same as it had been the past eight days—my foot sank right through the floor as if it weren’t there at all.
But how—
I had felt the floorboard beneath my feet. Not the ghostly tingling that usually accompanied my nonexistent body passing through solid objects, but an actual, solid surface. I’d leaned my weight on that board, and it had creaked. I hadn’t imagined it. The woman peered up at the staircase, searching for the source of the creak. She hadn’t imagined it, either.
I’m a ghost, I don’t have weight, so how did that happen?
It could just be a coincidence. I raged back at myself. This house is old. It creaks. It just happened to have a senior moment right when you put your foot down. Maybe the sensation was your mind tricking you, because more than anything you wish you were alive so you could go down and talk to that woman—
Maybe … but I wasn’t so sure. I had to pay even closer attention to my sexy intruder. I floated out to the edge of the railing and looked down.
The woman had grabbed her briefcase and was stashing it in Mother’s office. I heard her curse as she tried to light the fire. I started to think about going down to see what she was up to, but she appeared again and dragged her suitcase up the stairs, muttering something under her breath.
I slid back into the wall as she dragged it past me, so that just my eyes and nose were in the upper landing, as if I were part of one of my mother’s horrid nautical prints. Even though I knew the woman couldn’t see me, I felt perverse standing right out in the open around her. Besides, I hadn’t been a ghost long enough to know if I was invisible to absolutely everybody, and I didn’t want to test the theory by having the hottest woman I’d ever seen fall down the stairs.
The girl flung open the door to the master bedroom. She took one look at Mother’s flowery suite and shook her head. “Yuck, no thank you.” She moved on to the next door. My old bedroom.
I hadn’t been inside my room since I’d become a ghost. I still had a lot of bad memories from living in this house, and particularly from that room. I didn’t want to spend my post-death time dwelling on them. But if the hazel-eyed beauty was going in there, than so was I. I moved through the wall cavity—a family of mice scurrying between the framing alongside me—and came
out in front of the vanity unit in my bathroom. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection of the wall behind me, an empty room where my own body should have been. Ghosts, it seemed, didn’t warrant a reflection.
“Ghosts Without Reflections” would make an awesome song title. I closed my eyes, searching for the first few notes of a melody. Slow, haunting, melancholy. If only I could still hold an instrument...
I heard the thud of the door hitting the stopper, and opened my eyes to see my new houseguest throw her suitcase down on my bed. The room was exactly as I remember it the day I left—brass bed-ends polished to a high sheen, my few toys hidden away in an oak chest at the foot, threadbare blankets covering the bed, an embroidered alphabet sampler on the wall above the tallboy. I noticed the framed picture of my father I kept beside the bed was gone. Briefly, I wondered if whoever cleaned the room had found my stack of music magazines under the bed. I bet my mother had had them burned.
It was strange to see this woman walking through the space that had once been so intimate to me, a prison of my mother’s making. I watched from the bathroom, frozen, as the woman walked across to the window, her hands running over the heavy velvet drapes that obscured the round, stained-glass window. She peered through, but it was impossible to see anything through the coloured glass. Instead, she turned to the window on other wall and stared down into the backyard below, filled with overgrown garden beds and trees that had gone wild, and down the back, the gleaming marble edifice of our family mausoleum, and an old well obscured in the hedgerow, the crumbling capstone pulled across the opening. The woman sighed heavily, and turned back to the bed. She picked through her suitcase for some fresh clothes and a toiletry bag. She pulled a towel from the stack on the tallboy, and headed for the bathroom.
I heard her gasp, and I leapt back into the wall. Had she seen me? Or was she gasping at the hideous Blythe doll my mother had sat in the chair in the corner of the room? I couldn’t be sure. I peered through the soap dispenser as the woman entered the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, sweeping her matted hair off her face and peering at her reflection in the mirror. She frowned. Why is she frowning? I couldn’t see a pimple or a wrinkle or any other reason for a woman like that to be frowning.
The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts) Page 3