Charlie looked to the right of the view, clocking a shop he recognised as it went past.
“Yep, nearly here,” he confirmed. He’d known they were drawing near for the last few minutes, seeing landmarks he knew. Thank God, he thought. Get out me out of this bloody thing. He meant the car, and realised that he could have meant the black room as well. “Couple more streets down, on the left.”
The day was bright, being morning and early autumn, and as Charlie dimly acknowledged this, a switch flicked in his head and a jarring thought occurred. Was it Autumn? He’d just realised he had absolutely no idea what the date was, assuming all along that it was the next day after his night out, a Saturday, meaning today would be a Sunday. What if wasn’t Sunday? Then what the fuck would he do?
He tried to steady his shaking hands in front of the screen’s bright glow, and took a deep breath, wondering whether to ask Minnie.
One thing at a time. Last thing you need to do is give her another crazy concept to worry about. Let’s do the bloody home visit first, confirm you’re the real deal, then see what’s up…Sunday mornings off, at least. Good thing you’re not supposed to be in work right now.
He opened his mouth to tell Minnie that it was the next turn, but the sat nav app got there first; she flicked the indicator without a word, and the Fiesta turned into Fynford Road. As Charlie laid eyes on his home street, he felt sudden pang of longing; here was normality, here was his life, represented by the terraced street he called home. It wasn’t the most glamorous street in the city by any stretch, but the rent was cheap, the building was sound, and he knew enough of his neighbours to say hello to that he felt there was a greater safety here. He wasn’t friends with any of them, as such—they didn’t make any more effort than a smile and a greeting, and neither did he—but they were acquaintances, good people as far as he knew.
Take a trip in their heads buddy, double check. You don’t bother asking permission, right?
Minnie pulled over in the first available space, and drew the keys out of the ignition. She sighed again, a heavy, resigned, I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing this release, and the view swung up to the ceiling of the car. Charlie noticed that she seemed to have a habit of looking up when she spoke to him.
“Right. We’re here. Which number am I looking for?”
“17. The one with the high hedge.” Charlie said, as calmly as possible. He was excited now, the prospect of getting her fully onside filling him with anticipation. This would be the start of the process that got him the fuck out of there, and Charlie decided in that moment that if she helped him fix this, he’d give her some money towards a new car. Patronising again perhaps, but he thought it was the least he could do.
“Of course it is. Doesn’t hurt that it’s also the one I’ve just parked near, right?”
She was persistent, he had to give her that.
“The hedge hides the door number from here. How could you know that one was number 17?”
She didn’t reply, and simply unbuckled her seat belt.
“Let’s just get this over with,” she said, quietly, and opened the door. Charlie felt his shoulders drop and his back settle the instant she stepped out of the metal cage.
The view moved across the fairly empty street as she walked—at that time of day, as usual, most of the cars were gone—and approached the house, which was obscured, as Charlie had pointed out, by the high hedge sticking up over the small fence that ran around the edge of the miniscule, gravelled front garden. Her hand came into view, pushing open the low gate that was made from a different wood to the rest of the fence. Minnie’s steps seemed to grow lighter once she was walking on the short, concrete path, as if she was worried about being caught trespassing. The scuffing sound of her trainers on the dull grey surface ceased as she picked her feet up properly, put them down with care.
“It’s okay, no-one’s in,” said Charlie, noticing the change and trying to reassure her. “Eric’ll be out at work—sorry, Eric’s my housemate—so there’s no-one to worry about.” Minnie didn’t respond to this, and instead the view began to cast about the front doorstep, looking for something.
“Where’s this spare key hidden then?” she asked, her voice very low and discreet. “There’s nowhere for it to be hidden under.”
“You have to crouch down,” said Charlie, whispering himself on reflex—not wanting the hiding place to be overheard—then realising that doing so was idiotic. He raised his voice again. “At the back of the step, on the right hand side, it’s crumbled away slightly and left a gap. We stash it in there.”
Without a word, the view lowered and then angled up, showing the upstairs windows as Minnie craned her head back, leaning in with her shoulder. A few seconds passed.
What…did the curtain just move upstairs?
“There’s nothing here,” said Minnie, softly. “There’s a gap, but no key.”
“Of course there is,” said Charlie, annoyed at what he took to be a half-assed effort on her part. “Check again.”
“Charlie, I felt all round it. It’s only a small gap, barely enough room for a key as it is, and there isn’t one there. This is, as suspected, bullshit.” She didn’t sound victorious, or even angry. She sounded scared, the word bullshit coming out almost as a squeak.
Eric. He’s forgotten to but the bloody key out.
“Eric’s obviously forgotten to leave it out,” Charlie said, frustrated now. This was typical; Eric, always so reliable, except on the one day it was really required of him. “This means nothing. And hey, how would you have known the gap was even there in the first place?”
Minnie sighed, and the view moved to the floor in silence for a moment, showing one of her trainers pawing in aimless arcs on the path. Charlie’s heart sank; despite the important point about the gap in the step actually being there, she didn’t buy it, instead fearing the worst.
“Look, Minnie, I promise you—“
Both of them jumped as the front door opened, the view leaping a foot back from it and Charlie actually falling onto his backside. The floor in his darkened room was solid, and yet didn’t hurt; it wasn’t hard or soft, it was just something for him to stand on, it seemed. But there was no time to consider that.
The person responsible for the door opening was a short, elderly woman, easily in her eighties. She was wearing a green jumper and jogging bottoms, with an apron covering the whole ensemble, and her feet were covered with nothing but a pair of brown socks. Her white hair was scraped back into a high ponytail, though some of it had escaped in thin strands that stuck out in all directions. She wore glasses, and the expression on her aged face was a mix of confusion, suspicion and indignance.
“What are you doing?” she asked, looking Minnie up and down and putting one foot out of the door onto the step, holding on to the doorframe with one hand. Minnie didn’t answer, the view just showing the scene before her. Had he been of normal mind, Charlie would have realised that she was frozen, waiting for him to explain or give her a clue as to what to say, without Minnie having to ask question of an invisible companion to get the answers needed. At that moment, however. he simply wasn’t capable; his blood had ran cold upon seeing the old woman, and his world was rocked even further upon its battered and strained hinges.
He had never seen the old woman in his entire life.
His mind raced; Eric’s mother? No, you’ve seen pictures! Had Mr Bansal, the landlord, hired her as a cleaner? He’s never done that in ten years, and he knows I’d hit the roof if he sent someone round without telling us first! Had Eric invited her round? What the hell for?
Everything drew a blank, and Charlie just stood there and gaped in shock. The mutual silence went on long enough to draw another enquiry from the old woman. Her free hand went up, palm out, and her head began to shake back and forth in slow defiance.
“I not interested, whatever it is. I don’t want it. The sign says we don’t buy from salesmen, so we don’t buy from salesmen. Or saleswomen,” she added, gesturing
her hand up and down Minnie’s frame. The view scanned around dumbly, as Minnie looked for the aforementioned sign. The old woman caught the look.
“Here,” she said, annoyed, reaching around the doorframe and pointing to the front room window from the outside. “In the corner. You’ve seen it, I know you’ve seen it.”
Minnie looked, as did Charlie, and his shock dropped into straight up terror. He felt like ice had just travelled around his entire body, and his mouth gaped at the sight before them.
In the bottom left-hand corner of the window was a large, faded yellow sticker with black writing. It read:
NO DOORSTEP TRADERS, NO SURVEYS
The sticker had obviously been there for a very long time, peeling slightly at the edges, its surface bleaching after many years of catching the sun. Charlie didn’t know how they’d missed it on the way in, due to its size, but it was clear as day to them now; to Charlie it was like a rubber stamp that declared his reality void. He’d lived in that house for ten years, looked out through that window every day.
There had never, ever been a sticker on the window.
As Charlie goggled uselessly, he heard Minnie’s halting voice start up, coming to their rescue after realising she wasn’t getting any help.
“Sorry…Madam…but I’m…”
“Pardon?” said the old woman, cutting Minnie off and speaking louder than she had before. She seemed to realise that Minnie was on the back foot, and looked like she’d decided to take control of the conversation. “I can’t hear you I’m afraid, you have to speak loudly, speak up.”
Charlie heard Minnie take a deep breath, and tried to come back to himself, to help, but got nowhere, seeing the gluey remnants of the stickers previous, fully-stuck edges, now left as ghosts of their former glory where the corners had peeled back.
Where the fuck did that sticker come from?? Who the fuck is this woman??
“Sorry Madam,” he heard Minnie say, as if from far away. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m not selling anything. I think I might have the wrong house, if I’m honest.”
The old woman eyed her suspiciously, but her body seemed to relax slightly…if not completely. Minnie’s words—or the surprisingly confident tone she injected into her voice from nowhere—had had an effect.
“Wrong house…who are you after then? What number are you after? This is 17,” she said, leaning out again and tapping the numbers stuck to the outside of the house. “17,” she repeated, as if Minnie hadn’t heard
“Yes, this is the number I was given, but I might have been told wrong,” said Minnie, sounding businesslike but not stern, not forceful. She was coming across like a softly spoken schoolteacher. The transformation was surprising and impressive. “I was looking for a Charlie Wilkes, is this his house? He might have lived here before, and moved?” The old woman scoffed in response.
“You’ve been told wrong love, there’s no Charlie Wilkes here,” she said, almost looking satisfied by giving the news. “No-one on this street even and I know them all, apart from the Punjabi lot up the road,” she added with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Who told you he lived here?”
“But he could have moved, maybe?” Minnie repeated, ignoring the question. “Did he live here before you?” Another scoffing noise came in response, the old woman leaning against the door frame and crossing her arms in front of her chest. She was no longer defensive or alert, but that didn’t mean her outward personality had softened in any way.
“Unless he lived here sixty years ago, but I doubt he’d be anyone you’d know,” she said with an unpleasant chuckle. “My husband and I bought this house in 1954 and we’ve been here ever since.”
Her words were a slap, and they catapulted Charlie into action.
“That’s bullshit!” he yelled, thrusting an accusatory finger at the screen, veins standing out on his forehead. “That’s fucking bullshit, she’s lying! I’ve lived in this house for ten years, ten years! Tell her she’s talking bullshit Minnie, I’m telling you, this is bullshit!” His shouts grew into hysteria of his own, confusion fuelled by terror and a crazy, cold sensation all over his body. They’ve done something to my house, someone’s done something to my house and put me in here, this is bullshit!”
The only sound now was his heavy breathing and the brief noise of a passing car on the road behind them. Charlie saw the old woman’s face grow confused. He realised that Minnie hadn’t responded to her—she’d been listening to Charlie’s rant instead—and now the old woman was wondering what was going on again.
“So. Not here,” the old woman added, waving a hand to emphasise Charlie’s absence and waiting for a response. Charlie looked past her into her kitchen—his kitchen—and saw souvenir magnets he’d never owned pinning grandchildren’s crayon drawings to the fridge.
Wallpaper as faded and peeling as the sticker. Bran cereals on top of the cupboards, a half-eaten bowl of catfood.
This was real. This wasn’t his house, and never had been.
THIS EXTRACT CONTINUES IN THE BLACK ROOM, PART ONE: IN THE BLACK ROOM, AVAILABLE NOW ON THE AMAZON KINDLE STORE.
www.lukesmitherd.com
@travellingluke
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Also By Luke Smitherd:
The Physics Of The Dead
What do the dead do when they can’t leave…and don’t know why?
The afterlife doesn’t come with a manual. In fact, Hart and Bowler (two ordinary, but dead men) have had to work out the rules of their new existence for themselves. It’s that fact-along with being unable to leave the boundaries of their city centre, unable to communicate with the other lost souls, unable to rest in case The Beast should catch up to them, unable to even sleep-that makes getting out of their situation a priority.
But Hart and Bowler don’t know why they’re there in the first place, and if they ever want to leave, they will have to find all the answers in order to understand the physics of the dead: What are the strange, glowing objects that pass across the sky? Who are the living people surrounded by a blue glow? What are their physical limitations in that place, and have they fully explored the possibilities of what they can do?
Time is running out; their afterlife was never supposed to be this way, and if they don’t make it out soon, they’re destined to end up like the others.
Insane, and alone forever…
Available now on the Amazon Kindle Store
Also By Luke Smitherd:
THE BLACK ROOM: A NOVEL IN FOUR PARTS
FROM THE AUTHOR OF THE AMAZON UK #1 HORROR BESTSELLER, ‘THE STONE MAN’, COMES A NEW MYSTERY TO UNRAVEL…
What Is The Black Room?
There are hangovers, there are bad hangovers, and then there’s waking up inside someone else’s head. Thirty-something bartender Charlie Wilkes is faced with this exact dilemma when he wakes to find finds himself trapped inside The Black Room; a space consisting of impenetrable darkness and a huge, ethereal screen floating in its centre. Through this screen he is shown the world of his female host, Minnie.
How did he get there? What has happened to his life? And how can he exist inside the mind of a troubled, fragile, but beautiful woman with secrets of her own? Uncertain whether he’s even real or if he is just a figment of his host’s imagination, Charlie must enlist Minnie’s help if he is to find a way out of The Black Room, a place where even the light of the screen goes out every time Minnie closes her eyes…
Part one of a thrilling three-part novel, ‘The Black Room, Part One: In The Black Room’ starts with a bang and doesn’t let go. Each answer only leads to another mystery in a story guaranteed to keep the reader on the edge of their seat.
THE BLACK ROOM SERIES, FOUR SERIAL NOVELLAS THAT UNRAVEL THE PUZZLE PIECE BY PIECE
Also By Luke Smitherd:
An Unusual Novella For The Kindle
THE MAN ON TABLE TEN
It’s story that he hasn’t told anyone for fifty years; a secret that he’s kept ever since he grew tired of the dis
believing faces and doctors’ reports advising medication But then, he hasn’t touched a single drop of booze in all of that time either, and alcohol loosens bar room lips at the best of times; so on this fateful day, his decision to have three drinks will change the life of bright young waitress Lisa Willoughby forever…because now, the The Man On Table Ten wants to share his incredible tale.
It’s afterwards when she has to worry; afterwards, when she knows the unbelievable burden that The Man On Table Ten has had to carry throughout the years. When she knows the truth, and is left powerless to do anything except watch for the signs…
An unusual short story for the Kindle, The Man On Table Ten is the latest novella from Luke Smitherd, the author of the Amazon UK number one horror bestseller The Stone Man. Original and compelling, The Man On Table Ten will leave you breathless and listening carefully, wondering if that sound you can hear might just be pouring sand that grows louder with every second…
Available now on the Amazon Kindle Store
Alternative Ending Synopsis
(Aha! Hello there. Bet you weren’t sure if this was back here after all, what with the plug for the other book on the previous page and all. I did say the last page, didn’t I, and this is the last one. So here it is. It’s basically the same ending, as I say, but with a definitive answer as to what happens to Paul. The last part was going to be told from his perspective, same as in the story, but after the fact. The conclusions he reaches at the very end would be the same, but from the point of view of a man looking back on it all, rather than a man inside it. I hope you’ll agree that this version just isn’t as punchy as the other one, and feel, as I do, that this is more of a petering out than a solid finish. Reading it back now, I’m not that keen. Either way, you might want an answer, so here it is.)
The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller Page 46