by Cat Knight
The first thing she did was turn around and check for a message over the door.
Nothing. Nothing! Sweet relief bloomed within her.
Smiling, she turned toward the rest of the house. She was pleased with the tear down for the most part since it would lead to the build-up. The downstairs loo was looking good, although the water had not yet been added. She guessed that the plumber would install all the fixtures before he turned on the water. That made sense. No one wanted a gushing pipe. The kitchen hadn’t really taken off.
Upstairs, the bedrooms wanted more attention, but the bathroom looked almost ready. As she flashed the light around, she noticed something in the tub. She hesitated for a moment. The last thing she wanted was another message. But right now, in this minute, that whole notion did seem a bid absurd. She didn’t need to be thinking about inexplicable things. After all, she had no proof that there had ever been a message.
Still, it wasn’t a comforting thought that she might have dreamed the whole thing up. Except that it did leave her with that whole insanity problem.
Which was worse? Lucy didn’t have the nerve to decide right now. No sense tempting fate.
But there was certainly nothing on her phone and for that she was once more relieved. Encouraged even. She stepped forward and shone the light into the tub. Books, she found books, and that was when she remembered that Ronnie’s blokes had discovered books in the attic.
She supposed that they had retrieved them and placed them in the tub, then, promptly forgotten them. Well, with an electrocuted worker, Ronnie and his chaps would have their hands full.
There were four books of different sizes, three hardbound and one paperback. She didn’t bother reading the titles. That would come later. She merely added them to her satchel and turned toward the bathroom door.
A gust met her and it slammed shut. The cold wind felt like the inside of a meat freezer. Below her she heard the sound of another door slamming. The front one.
Lucy was frozen. She stared at the bathroom door in front of her as the intense cold seeped into her bones. What the bloody hell had happened? She knew she had shut the front door, and she knew all the windows were closed. So, where had the wind come from? A wind strong enough to slam a door that wasn’t open? And a wickedly cold wind that made the skin on her arms pimple like a goose.
Her hand shook, and her torch light bounced up and down and all around. Surveying the door, she wondered what waited on the other side.
Her insides twisted to knots. Panic quickly grabbed a hold of her brain and she stopped thinking, paralysed with fear. She was scared, so scared, she didn’t know if she could even open it. But she had to open it. If she was going to escape, she would need to turn the knob. And that took a conscious effort. She shuffled forward and grabbed a hold.
Fierce pain ripped through her. Lucy heard her own scream loud and piercing. Jerking back her hand, she stared at it. She expected to see red splotches with rising blisters, the kind of blisters that accompanied severe burning. But there were no splotches, no blisters, nothing but ordinary skin.
But the knob had been boiling hot, hotter than boiling. It was like grabbing the red-hot end of a poker. It had felt so… real. Shaking, licking her lips, Lucy tried again. This time, she moved, proceeding slowly, carefully. She touched the knob with her fingertips and found it cool, room temperature, not scalding at all.
Too frightened to consider the ramifications of the abrupt change, she twisted and pulled, and the door opened just as it was supposed to.
Was that crazy? And there was no more cold blast. The temperature was… normal? She felt an urge to bolt, to run, to race down the stairs and out of the house as if it were on fire. Yet, forcing calm on herself she did not succumb to the urge. She would be calm, careful.
She supposed that if she ran down the stairs, she might miss a step — or one of them would move — and her body cascade down the risers to an injury or worse.
No, she was going to treat her new home like a carnival funhouse, a place replete with booby traps and outrageous surprises. Of course, the longer she stayed inside the house, the more her anxiety would grow. It was like waiting for a parent to come home from work and mete out the punishment she deserved. Only, inside her own house, she didn’t deserve punishment.
Inside her own house.
Slowly, with more care than she knew to give, Lucy slid toward the stairs. She stepped down one at a time, fully testing the riser before adding all her weight. With each step, she gained a bit of courage, a bit of normalcy. No gale whipped up the stairs at her. No doors slammed. No messages dripped down the walls. At the bottom, she looked around the kitchen twice before she started across. How she wished her torch was brighter, stronger.
She needed something that would sweep away the shadows that hid in the corners and up on the ceiling. But it was the best she could do, and she was thankful for it — until its light dimmed and started to fade.
Bloody, bloody hell! She glanced at the phone and discovered that she had precious little power left. For a moment, she found her mind wondering about the phone’s battery. How had it drained so quickly? Then, she told herself it didn’t matter.
The bottom line was that the light was ebbing, and she needed to get out of the house before it died altogether.
While there might be electricity, would the ghost allow a light to actually work? If it could flip circuit breakers— she didn’t complete the thought. Bracing herself, she got ready to run. She needed to move, to get out because deep inside her core, she knew the spirit’s power would wax with darkness. In the dark, in the dark, well, she wasn’t going to allow herself to be trapped in the dark.
She scooted down the hall, mindful of how little time she had. She reached the front door, and the exit seemed like some sort of magical crossover to safety. All she had to do was pass through the portal. That was it. Quick and safe and no longer in the clutches of something that couldn’t be named.
Her torch app died.
She stood still in the sudden dark, for the windows seemed to be covered with some sort of impenetrable material, something that light could not breach. The utter darkness was unnerving, terrifying. She shivered even as a cold draft slipped across her face. It was as if someone was lightly blowing on her skin, someone with incredibly cold breath. Or maybe, it was a hand, an ice-cold hand whose fingers danced over her cheeks and chin, teasing and tickling and yet promising abject fear.
Her mind stopped working. No ideas popped into her head. No orders for action emanated from her brain. She was locked in place, unable to process or reason. Had she had her faculties, she would have marvelled at what was happening, but she didn’t have her faculties.
She had only naked, cold terror. She knew her eyes were open, and yet, she was blind. She saw nothing until the message appeared in front of her.
Chapter Seven
The letters, red and fiery, appeared in the absolute dark. Lucy supposed they were on the door, but there was no way of knowing. They appeared one at a time, spelling out the message.
STEALING IS A CRIME.
PUNISHABLE BY…
Lucy stared as the message pulsated in front of her. The meaning was clear. The books in her satchel belonged to someone else, and that someone didn’t want her to take them. As the letters faded, she suddenly knew she was going to keep the books no matter what. If they mattered that much, then she wasn’t going to give them up. Biting her lip hard and savouring a pain that sharpened her mind, she edged forward, her hands extended in front of her.
She touched the door almost immediately, which surprised her. She had no idea she had been so close to the door, to escape. Hands slid down to the knob, and mindful of what had happened in the upstairs bathroom, she barely touched it.
Safe. She turned the knob and pulled. Nothing happened. Frowning, she tried again. Nothing.
Panic rose like a wave in her head. For a moment, she could think only of being stuck, chained inside a house with a malevole
nt spirit. There could be nothing worse, nothing. She had to get out. She had to run.
STEALING IS A CRIME
The message flashed before her eyes. The implication was certain. She wasn’t getting out with the books. She would remain right in front of the door as the spirit nibbled at her psyche. How long could she hold out in the dark? How long with something so powerful chewing through her mental defences.
THEY’RE NOT YOURS
Searing sinus pain pounded over her eyes and radiated over her face. Gasping at the agony, Lucy had no false assumptions about her ability to withstand the onslaught. The light and safety were on the other side of a door that wouldn’t open.
“All right, all right.” Lucy’s words came in ragged breaths. She felt for her satchel which she opened. She took out the books one by one, placing them on the floor.
“See?” she breathed. “I’m leaving them behind. You can see that. There are the books. They’re yours, so I’m leaving them. You win. See?”
There was no answer, no letters in the dark. There was only silence, only something she could neither see, nor hear, nor smell. And the pain receded.
“I’m leaving now,” she added. “I’m leaving.”
She twisted the doorknob and pulled. The door opened. Bright light spilled in, temporarily blinding her.
Her hands flew to her eyes shielding them as they adjusted. No pain. She blinked, more thankful than she had ever been in her life. Squinting in the light, the life-giving light, Lucy Panted, her heart pounding. she pushed one foot out of the house.
Then, she turned. With a speed she hardly knew she had, she reached back and scooped up the books. Even as she did, the door banged into her, almost knocking her out of the doorway. But she grabbed them tight and persisted forcing her body against the banging door until she could drop the books outside the door onto the stoop.
The door banged against her again, and she knew she would have bruises, but she no longer cared because if the spirit wanted the books, she wanted them more. As the door was pulled back, she jerked out her leg, falling even as the door slammed shut, shaking the entire door frame.
On her bum, Lucy looked up at the door, half expecting to find another blood red message, another threat. But nothing appeared. She was alone, sitting, trying to control her pounding heart. She sat for over a minute before she slowly gathered the books and placed them in her satchel. She didn’t feel like a winner, but she knew that, in some sense, she had beaten the spirit — at least for now. Standing, she hit the door with her fist.
“I’m coming back,” she called to nothing she could see. “I’m coming back, and when I do, you’re going out. ITS NOT YOUR HOUSE. Hear me?! You’re BLOODY WELL LEAVING!”
A sudden blast of cold air hit her in the face, and her knees buckled. She barely managed to stay erect.
Spooked, she spun and scurried away. While she had felt brave for a moment, it was only for a moment. To feel brave again, she needed a pint.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Lucy sipped her ale and looked over the almost filled pub. She stood, her back to the wall, which felt safer. For some reason, she did not relish the idea of someone being behind her. Paranoia? She no longer cared. She wanted safety, real safety. What had happened in her new house was like an infection that would be overcome only slowly, only with time. For a moment, she considered finding a table and perhaps looking through the books she had taken. No, she wasn’t going to do that, not yet. She wanted to finish this pint and perhaps another before she opened the books.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Oliver smiled as he caught her eye from the doorway and made his way to her. Lucy wasn’t at all sure she wanted to talk to him, she really just wanted to go home. But she had no reason to avoid him, especially since he had agreed to research her house for her. She forced a smile as he arrived.
“You just caught me, I was about to leave when you called.”
“What have you been doing?” he asked.
“Don’t ask,” she answered. “Why?”
“You look a little pale, your eye is blood shot. Bad day?”
“I’ve had better. How about you?”
“I’ve been lucky,” he said.
“I’ve managed to find several people who know something about your new abode. Got a minute?” She smiled.
“Several.” She opened her purse and handed him some money. “Buy me a pint while I find a table.” He didn’t take the money.
“I’ll be right back.”
Lucy found a table toward the rear and settled into a seat. With Oliver around, she didn’t feel so exposed, although she was pretty certain the spirit wasn’t following her. When he came back, he slid a pint in front of her and sat. “You have my attention,” she said. “What did you find out?”
He grinned like a student who had just received the highest mark possible. “Well, I’m not tooting my own horn, but I devised a plan to help in my search.”
“And that was?”
“I went down to the council, and I searched public records, and then I did an internet search. You would be amazed how easy it is to track people down, and then I made a few phone calls. And you’d also be amazed how chatty some people can be.”
“Not really, but, amaze me.”
“Well, to begin with, your house seems to have been built approximately sixty years ago. Originally it was owned by Wilbur and Edna La Pierre. Then the house was sold to the Bakers, Anthony and Patricia. And then ten years ago it was sold to Clyde and Sally Decker. They’re the people I searched for online, and I found them. And I called them.
Clyde was only too happy to talk about the house. They had a bit of a time of things it seemed. At first, things went well but then they had a spot of bad luck. You know how things can go belly up. Lost jobs, health issues, and the Decker’s found themselves on the slippery slope. Eventually, the bank repossessed the house.” Oliver took a slow sip of his drink, enjoying Lucy’s undivided attention. Lucy sat smiling, curbing her impatience. “Apparently, the entire neighbourhood was on the downward escalator, because of the economy.”
Lucy could guess what happened next. “And then the house stayed empty and left to ruin?”
“Yes, it did. Businesses closed, work dried up, people tried to sell, but no one was buying. Few were actually paying their taxes. Some hung on as long as they could. Recently, the council bought your house off the bank and several streets worth of houses for a song. It was part of their answer to the housing shortage.”
“So far,” Lucy said. “You haven’t revealed anything out of the ordinary. Is this going somewhere?”
“Patience, Lucy, patience. While the house had no owner for the last five years, it was not unoccupied. Decker told me there were multiple reports of vandalism and theft. And not just in your street, all around the area. There were also stories of rage parties, and of squatters where people stayed for a few days or weeks. The Decker’s were glad they were out of it before it got that bad. Anyway, the Decker’s kept in touch with a couple who used to live in a few blocks away, see them for a dart game and a pint. But enough of the preliminaries. Here is the real info. A few years back when the Decker’s neighbours were still there, a young man moved in and the claimed the place. For free.”
Lucy understood. “Like a permanent squatter you mean.”
“Yes. He was territorial about his space and protective of his work. He was prone to crazy rants apparently and even other squatters avoided him.”
Lucy began felt the knot in her stomach. This didn’t sound good.
“He went by the name of Theodore Fontaine and he lived in the attic of your house. There wasn’t a lot to be said about Theodore except he was a failure. His plunge into the art world ended without a splash. and according to the Decker’s, the word was that Theo did a great deal of drugs and he died there. The Decker’s were sad about the plunge their old house took, but they would never go back there. Not even for one quid after everything that happened.”
Lucy sipped a
le and listened. Why did the introduction of Theo suddenly strike a chord?
“But it wasn’t the drugs,” Oliver said. “Not directly. He committed suicide in your attic.”
“Suicide?”
“Overdose. He left a note of sorts. Some other wasters found him and alerted the cops. The authorities took the body and cremated it when no one filed a claim.”
“That’s awful.”
“Exactly.”
Lucy stared into space and talked more to herself than Oliver. “It makes sense though. As insane as it sounds, I’ve got a house with an emotional ghost who’s got issues.”
There was silence for a moment and then Oliver spoke with a cheeriness that Lucy wondered if he really felt.
“I’m in, Lucy” he said. “When you go back, I’ll go with you.”
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely not, but I can’t let you have all the fun.”
“Yes… well fun isn’t exactly how I would describe it, but I won’t say no. And I’ll call Mia. She’s got experience in this sort of thing.”
A weak grin passed between them.
“We’re not laughing at her so hard, now are we?”
Oliver nodded in agreement.
“Nope. Even if she is a bit of a weirdo. But before we head out, just give me an hour or so to gather some crosses and garlic and silver bullets.”
“It’s a ghost, not a vampire.”
“You can never be too careful.”
“True. But don’t worry, Mia will know what to do.”
“It’s Friday night. Staying out?” he asked.
“No, I’m decidedly through with excitement for this day. But thanks.”
Lucy left Oliver in the pub. On her way back to her flat, she felt a heightened sense of fear. She reminded herself that she had to remain alert.
While the ghost was probably confined to the house, she would not assume that. She would keep her eyes open.