Dream House (9 page)

“So what exactly are you saying?” he asks, sounding intrigued.

“I don't know what I'm saying,” I admit. “I just . . . I don't know. That's why I'm not sleeping. I need to keep my eye on him.”

“I understand,” he says affectionately, “but don't forget to take a break and catch your breath sometimes.”

I just nod.

“In any case,” he adds, “if you ever need me, you know where to find me.”

Still not entirely convinced that he's taking my fears seriously, but grateful in any case to have him on my side, I thank him, and for a short, intense moment we stand facing one another over the gate, me wishing that I didn't have to ever let him go away. But I realize we both have things to do, so I politely say goodbye and make my way back inside, in desperate need of a hot bath.

As I walk towards the front door I pick up the newspapers and magazines again lying on the doorstep and, once inside, dump them unceremoniously on top of the stack accumulating on the console table.

One of the newspapers slips to the floor and falls open to a page of adverts for local businesses and events. I run my eyes over them—it's the usual assortment of provincial weirdness:

The Hills Inn Line Dance and Barbecue—Live music from Hank Akeley and the Black Mountain Boys . . .

Wilma Nightmoth, Psychic and Seer—Not a fraud!!! Since 1954—drop in at 13 Chapel Lane and speak to the dear departed . . .

LOST!! TIBBLES—Our lovely cat, black-and-grey coat, one leg missing. If you see him, please call . . .

White Hills Hardware, Est. 1890—A knife for every occasion! . . .

Machen and Sons, Greengrocers—Special offer: pumpkins half price (while stocks last) . . .

I reach down, pick it up, and fold it closed, and as I do, the words on the front page catch my eye. The headline is in bold capitals and reads “TRAGEDY ON CHURCH ROAD,” and there's a photograph of a broken body, its face covered with a sheet, lying on the ground surrounded by a crowd of onlookers and some ambulance staff. The fields in the background of the picture are easily recognisable as the ones in front of the Blooms' home, or at least ones very much like them, and I feel certain that the accident must have taken place somewhere around here.

I place the paper back on top of the others and go to finally take that much-needed bath.

As soon as the water in the tub is hot enough and the steam has started misting up the mirror on the wall, I take off my clothes, dump them on the white wicker chair in the corner by the sink, sit on the edge of the tub, and slowly lower my feet one at a time into the scalding bathwater, sliding the rest of my body in as soon as I've got accustomed to the temperature.

A feeling of extreme relaxation starts to suffuse my entire body, and thoughts of the night that I've just spent in the garden with Avery come vividly back to me—it's probably the only positive experience I've had since my arrival here, other than that of living in what I would consider my dream house.

As I remember the moment that passed between us before I fell asleep next to him, I feel my cheeks warm with a blush.

Is this what infatuation feels like? Have I ever even
been
in
love
? So many things about my own past seem blurred and inaccessible in my mind, to the point that I can't even answer my own questions about myself.

At that moment, my train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the keyhole cover being moved, as though somebody is trying to get in.

I leap out of the bath, struggling to keep from slipping on the wet floor as I cross the room, and place my hand on the doorknob, waiting. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, as I don't hear anything else, but needing to be sure, I twist the handle.

And, to my horror, realise that I'm locked inside.

I'm certain that
I
didn't lock the door—I've never even seen a key for this room, and there was certainly none in the lock. I can feel a sense of dread mounting inside me.

With my composure beginning to crumble, I start anxiously shouting, then banging and eventually kicking at the door, yelling for someone to let me out.

But nobody does, and my panic is getting closer and closer to being pure hysteria. My heart is beating so fast that it feels as though it's about to explode, while the air in the room gets thinner and thinner until I can scarcely breathe anymore.

Finally, I collapse onto the cold marble floor.

S
LOWLY, MY
senses start to return, and I carefully get myself up from the bathroom floor.

There's no longer any light shining through the window, which suggests that it must now be night-time outside. I reach for the doorknob, hoping with all my heart that it'll turn and let me out—and to my surprise and relief, it does.

Without wasting any time, I pick up my clothes, wrap a towel hurriedly around myself, and run down the hall towards the living room.

When I get there I pause for a moment, looking about me and trying to work out what it is that has happened. I peer into the kitchen and see the digits of the clock on the stove click over to 2:00 a.m.

Hiding myself as best I can from any prying eyes, I put my clothes back on and dump the towel on the clean kitchen table. I open the fridge and find some fresh fruit—which I'd swear I hadn't noticed in there before—but only take out a bottle of water to hydrate myself. Feeling my wobbly legs begging me for mercy, I pull out a chair from under the table and sit myself down.

And then I see the camera that I left there a few days back.

I turn it on and replay the long clip, stopping at the fifteenth minute. As expected, the glitch at the sixteenth minute is still there, and so I replay it over and over again, watching as closely as I possibly can and studying every tiny detail.

Eventually, I manage to pause and capture a frame that I haven't noticed before: right after the shed door opens, a strange light is visible coming from it for a split second, and I can barely believe my eyes when I realise that I'm looking at a face in there.

I zoom in on the picture, focusing on the shape of the light: as the image increases in size it starts to lose clarity, but I'm still able to make out some features that I recognise—it's Alfred's expression, beyond a doubt. Just somehow a bit warped.

But what does this mean? That he's a ghost? A demon? Has he actually
become
the monster that keeps the Derfla legend alive?

If that's the case, I need to prove it.

I look behind me, over at the fridge—the plastic letters that scared me so much the other night are still there, still spelling out the same words. Could it actually have been
him
who wrote that? But why would he write “dear” if he doesn't even know me? It doesn't make any sense . . .

But maybe it doesn't really need to make any sense.

I stand up and touch the letters, sliding them into different positions until a new sentence appears.

Who are you?
the row of letters across the fridge now crookedly asks.

I step back, waiting.

Nothing happens. Could it be my presence in the kitchen that's stopping the supernatural forces from showing their hand?

Avery's words come to mind again—“Take a break and catch your breath.”

So I follow his advice, leave the room, and lie down on my bed, listening to the sound of my own deep breathing until I feel so relaxed that I drift off into a nap.

My eyes open again to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance.

Feeling pleasantly rested, I decide immediately to check if my question has been answered. I walk down the corridor towards the kitchen and the fridge, but nothing has changed, and I tell myself disappointedly that there's only one thing left to do: break into the shed and get it over with.

My blood's up now, so I grab a large knife from the wooden knife block by the sink and head outside.

I open the front door, only to be almost forced back inside the house, so strong is the wind that's blowing out there. But I push my way through it, struggling to keep walking until I've turned the first corner, where the wall shelters me just a little bit from the crazed weather.

The distant thunder is rapidly moving closer and closer, bringing freezing-cold rain with it, and in just a few seconds I find myself soaking wet instead of bone dry.

But I can't go back: I won't be satisfied until I've found out what the hell is inside the damned shed.

I cross the back garden and arrive in front of the shed. After a moment's hesitation, I raise my knife and start prying at the thick chain around the padlock and the hasp on the lock, but they're far too solid for it to be any use.

I take off my jacket, wrap it a few times around my right fist, and give one of the tiny windows to the side of the door a good punch—it shatters into thousands of fragments which scatter all over the place, and I put my arm through the hole I've created, feeling about with my hand for anything that might help me open the door.

My fingers touch on various useless odds and ends, until finally they come across something flat, sharp, and cold. I slide my fingers along it until they encounter a wooden handle—an axe! Just what I need!

I wrap my hand around it tightly and start pulling it upwards, in the direction of the window: it's heavy, but I've almost got it.

And then, suddenly, a violent freezing sensation grips my whole body and for one horrifying second leaves me completely immobile, unable even to move my eyes—and then sends me crashing heavily to the wet ground.

Barely conscious, I feel warm tears make their way across my cheeks as I lie there on the grass in the icy rain.

I can't move, I have no control over my body, and I'm scared. But none of that really matters.

One thought—one thought alone—keeps going through my mind.

I am going to die here.

I
DON'T KNOW
how much time I spend there, alone, frozen to the ground, before I pass out.

The only thing that I do know is that I am now waking up to mild, calm weather. I'm very uncomfortable—but I'm
alive
.

And I'm glad about that.

I have absolutely no idea what happened. Or why. I can't get my head around it. Perhaps I ought to try to just put it behind me. Forget about it. And maybe learn not to act so irresponsibly.

The only explanation that I can come up with is that Alfred must have found me looking too closely at his precious shed and decided to do something about it. I don't know how he could have paralysed me like that, and I've no way of confirming my assumption, as I didn't see or hear anybody near me when I fell to the ground—but I do know that it's the only thing that would make any sense at this point.

“Are you okay?”

A distant, concerned voice reaches my ears, catching me off guard.

“I . . . I don't know,” I mumble, still lying on the damp lawn.

Silence.

“Are you okay?!” the voice repeats, louder this time.

It takes me a moment longer than it probably should before my brain finally makes the connection that it's Avery's voice I'm hearing.

“Yes,” I answer, “I . . . just need a second.”

I collect my strength and sit up straight, turning in his direction. He's by the gate, wearing a white T-shirt which sets off his neatly combed dark hair. He looks smarter, more dressed up than usual. Is he going somewhere?

Obviously quite worried, he smiles with relief as soon as he sees me look him in the face.

Running a hand through my uncombed hair, I suddenly realise with a pang of self-consciousness how I must look, but—trying to conceal my embarrassment—I say bluntly, “I was attacked.”

His eyes widen. “By who?”

“I have no idea—I didn't see anybody.”

“So what happened, then?” he says urgently.