Authors: Mark Lumby
My Mom was diagnosed a year ago with terminal cancer. She had been bed ridden for the last three months. I was studying for a law degree, but chose to put my education on hold and took a job in construction so that I could care for her. We had become closer than I could remember in the past year. She had never told me that she grew up in New England; she never said about my Grandad who also lives here. I was never told where he lived, though. When asked why she had left, she always avoided giving an answer. Eventually though, after a twist of fate, the truth did come out.
We received a letter. It was recorded delivery so we knew that it was important. It was addressed to Mom, but she was too weak to open it. I read it first, before I repeated to her.
She glanced at the letter, saying nothing. I cleared my throat. “That was the mail man,” I told her. “Listen Mom, I’ve something important to tell you.” I sat on the edge of the bed and stole a deep breathe. “Grandad’s dead.”
She closed her eyes and smiled. A tear broke free from the corner of her eyes. I took her hand and she returned the gesture with a gentle squeeze. Still smiling, she opened her eyes and said, “Thats it then…its over.”
I always had the impression there was something untold between my Mom and her father, and she had given confirmation in that smile. It was relief. And those tears? I think it was happiness.
“Theres something else,” I told her. “He left a will.”
She looked away from me and focused her attention towards the window, as if his death was the only news she needed and everything else was irrelevant. The blinds were closed, but light still leaked through the gaps.
I noticed a haze of dust float calmly through the sun rays.
Oxygen hissed through tubes attached to her nose. “I want nothing off that man,” she breathed.
I cleared my throat because I felt a sense of guilt. “He hasn’t left you anything, Mom.”
She chuckle, then coughed. “Figures,” but I couldn’t help detect an air of disappointment. “He can’t even do the right thing in death!” There was a pause between us. Eventually, she said, “But you’re old enough now, Daniel. You can walk your own path, make you own choices…now, and when I’m gone.” She turned to me, a tear fell down her cheek. She took my hand again. “But I beg of you, take nothing from that man.
He’s cursed! And anything he has given you will be cursed too!
”
I Promised that I wouldn’t. I ripped up the letter in front of her, but I never threw it away. This was the first link I had with my Grandad, and although my Mom had warned me against him, I had to know more about him.
What did he do that had been so bad?
What had he done to my Mom?
She gave me a gift: an old biscuit tin, sealed with tape. She instructed me not to open the box until she was gone…dead. She told me that it would provide answers to questions I hadn’t asked yet. Three months, one week and two days later, in the autumn of 2014, my Moms life ended. Her absence left mixed emotions. But ultimately it was relief that overwhelmed me. The chains that bound me to her were no longer there, and after the funeral, I gave it a few weeks before I re-read the letter.
The will was all pretty much straight forward. My Grandad had stated that his house and all of his belongings would pass on to his only grandchild. I collected the keys from a run down office building on Main Street in the town centre. They were handed over to me with documentation to the house. Before I left the office, I was handed a letter. It was in a manila envelope, hand written with my name on the front. I stared at it for a while, looking at my written name.
My name; he knew my name
.
I stepped out onto the street, closing the office door, still staring at my name and then at the keys.
I have a house
. I climbed into my car and placed the letter, paperwork and keys on the passenger seat. I reached over and pulled down the glove compartment. I hadn’t had the courage to open my Moms tin; I’d kept it inside the compartment just waiting for the right moment. “The tin of answers,” I reminded myself. I placed the tin on my lap and began stripping off the tape. I marginally opened it and stopped.
But what if I don't like what I see?
I picked up the keys, balancing them in my palms. I felt torn. I sighed and shut my eyes. I snapped the tin shut. I decided to at least see the house first. If I liked it, I would live there. It would be a fresh start. And if not, I would sell it. I’m sure my Mom would object either way, but she’s not here.
The tin could wait.
***
The drive was short. I’d occasionally taken the same route, pass the same roads, the same shops and parks. I followed the sketched directions given to me. There was nothing unusual about the journey. It wasn’t until I neared the destination that I was aware of the imposing trees of Jacobs wood. I slowed and glanced at the map again. A cold chilled ripped through my body. I slowed some more and pulled over. I caught a glimpse of the tin and contemplated whether this was the right time to open it. I checked the address. It was the right place. I swung the car around and parked outside of the house. I climbed out, looked both ways down the road. It seemed less busy than all those years ago. I rubbed the back of my neck, a bit uncomfortable. I thought about Jack. This was the last place we saw him alive. And I remembered the stories of the old man that lived there. That he had killed his wife and daughter. Or perhaps not; it was just a rumour. But this
was
the address.
I strolled around towards the front of the property. The gate was closed. I just stared at the house, still checking the address.
All those years and she didn't say! She never told me he was my Grandad!
I didn’t know whether to hate her. But I remembered the tin.
I have to open it right now!
But just as I was about to head towards the car, I heard a thud from the house. I opened the gate and cautiously walked down the paved footpath, the strips of lawn at either side still as immaculate as before. The outside of the house was still cosmetically inviting. I was consciously aware that this might have been where Jack had taken his last steps. But this was different. The house
was
empty this time around. There was no more old man, and I would not be trespassing. So why the hell did I feel so cold when it was warm. Why did I feel as though I were being watched?
I wondered where the thud had come from. Perhaps it seemed as though it came from the house, but it wasn’t possible. There was no one here.
I climbed the first wooden step that lead to the shiny red door, when the rocking chair croaked back and forth, back and forth much faster than anyone who sat there could make it go. But I don't think it was the rocking that worried me; everything was as pristine as if I had only been here yesterday.
I took a deep breath and rose to the second step, all of the time keeping a firm eye on the chair. As I ascended the last step however, the chair stopped rocking, completely still. The red door was right in front. I noticed the large brass knocker in the form of a wolfs
’
head; only it wasn
’
t as immaculate as the door or the rest of the house. It was heavily corroded to a point of deformity, but I did recognise the face as that of a wolf. Or a Demon of some sorts. Its eyes were so deep that I could
’
ve inserted a finger in one of the holes. I went right up to the door and studied the knocker closely. There was a twinkle in one of its eyes, and I heard scuttling. I peered closer, something moving inside. Closer still. The scuttling stopped. Then, a black cock-roach scampered out of the hole, fell to the floor (a sound so audible I still remember it now) and hurried under the red door. I jerked backwards, nearly slipping down the steps. That should have been the last warning I needed, to turn right around and go home. I should open the box
now
, be persuaded by its contents that this
was
a bad idea.
I should listen to Mom; should not have anything to do with this…with him!
I backed away from the door, studied the front of the house, and all I wanted to do was talk myself out of entering. And even the fact that this was the last place where I’d seen Jack, never persuaded me to leave. The house was drawing me in like it had a magnetic pull over me.
Shit! He’s dead, Dan! He’s dead.
I returned to the red door, inserting the key. I turned the knob and pushed the door open.
I stood still in the doorway with a feeling that I really shouldn’t be here. I didn’t feel alone. There was an odour that resembled cabbage, and at times it was intense. Darkness filled everything; the light from the door proved a poor source of light. I flicked a light switch.
Nothing.
The power must either be off or disconnected. I could hear a loud ticking of a clock. I couldn’t tell where it came from, but it seemed to bounce off every wall and emit from every room.
I opened the door of a room to my left. I could make out shapes within the blackness, like something disfigured. I headed towards the window and opened the curtains. The furniture was covered with dust sheets. I tore a sheet from the chimney breast to reveal a huge oval mirror. I turned, studied my surroundings some more. There were two sofas, both covered. One had something underneath the sheet, as though someone was sitting there. But that was stupid. I ripped away the sheet in a frenzy, but there was nothing.
Nothing!
I made for the hallway. It was dark and the red door was closed, although I had no memory of doing so. I opened it again, more to allow the light through, though subconsciously to let some fresh air in. Even with little light, it was relatively easy to navigate my way through the house.
Ahead of me was another room entrance. There was no door, just the same pitch black density that seemed everywhere. It encompassed you like a black cloud. But I saw walls, doorways, shapes. And at times I felt as though someone was following me. Disfigured shapes would turn out to be innocent shadows.
Despite searching for the fuse box, it was the stairs that were calling. I stopped at the foot, glancing upwards, but could see absolutely nothing, although my eyes were slowly adjusting. The hallway had a funny smell like rotten milk. It smelt of burning, too, from the candles aligned down both sides of the wall, perched in ornate holders. I could smell the smoke as if they’d been extinguished minutes ago. On the browny red carpet, lay a hardened pool of wax beneath each candle.
I peered up the stairs; they arched to the right, onto the hallway above. I took a deep sigh, and breathed, “He’s dead, Dan!” I wanted to take another breath, but no point in delaying the inevitable. My hand held tightly onto the banister, and I glanced up the stairs, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darker environment. Cautiously, I climbed the first step.
Creak!!!
I cringed and peered up the stairs. It was disturbingly dark up there, even darker than the room I had left. I yielded to a second sigh, pushed myself to take another step, and then another, climbing slowly, quietly heaving myself up.
I should give up now
, I told myself. Find the fuse box first, a torch or something. I think it took me all of ten minutes to climb fifteen steps. And as I reach the top hallway, another floor board creaked. I paused, and to get my bearings.
Creak!!!
But this time it wasn
’
t me. I wasn’t moving. I had stopped climbing. I froze, just like I did when I was in front of that car. The air smelt differently up here; it was like bodily odour and onions and, cigarette smoke. It was such a strong smell; I wondered if this is what death smelt like. I imaged bodies rotting within the wall. The thought of it made me feel a little nauseated, too. I imagined boney hands ripping through the walls, bodies clawing their way free, and the moaning of the half dead reaching out for me.
Creak!!!
Oh, Christ! That wasn't me, either! Someone was on the landing, and it sounded as though they were behind me. I wanted to yell, but I couldn’t. And I was stuck! Stuck, as though something was weighing me down. My breathing became extremely rapid
–
I could hear it in my head again - and even though it was so dark up there, I saw frost floating from my mouth like ectoplasm.
Five minutes I stood, stranded…trapped. Five minutes of total fear. Five minutes with the feeling of being watched. And in that time, the creaking became silent, just the sound of my own heavy breathing, the drum in my head. But the frost persisted to ooze through the air, moving with intelligence. I watched it appear and then disappear beyond the darkness, swaying and swishing through the humidity of the house. Then, a face manifested from the frost. It leered at me. It knew I was here. It could
see
me. Its smile was packed with so much evil and hostility, and of cruel intentions in which neither man nor woman could ever bring themselves to imagine. I feared I would die where I stood. In its eyes, I saw a mass of blooded bodies crawling over one another in a pool of thick crimson. I saw sexual acts in which I never thought possible. I saw lust, abuse, torture; I saw men strung up by hooks through their nipples; and I saw women lacerated, peeling off their own scalp with broken glass. I shook with fear, and the face grinned some more as if I was feeding its hunger.
I gave out a shrill cry. And just before it dissolved, it breathed, “
Don’t trust the children!
”
A chilled sensation rippled down my back, and I felt a hand grab my shoulder. I remembered when I was thrown on the grass as a boy, that day when Jack went missing. I saw the blue pickup disappear down the road. It was the same electrify down my back, the same coldness as I felt now. And then I yelled out and spun around. On the top step stood a man; I couldn't see his face. The red door was closed again. This haunting shadow stood there for a while. And at that point, I didn't know who was trespassing.