The House on Everley Street (Death Herself Book 2) (2 page)

Chapter One

Today

“I guess you're the expert when it comes to ghosts.”

John turned to him, momentarily thrown. “I am?”

“The big writer and all.” Smiling, Aaron stepped out onto the balcony, away from the party. A cool night breeze ruffled his hair as he made his way to the edge and looked out across the vast, starry city. “The man who knows how to really scare people. I must say, I thought it was a good wheeze to put an actual medical warning on the cover of your new book. I'm sure that'll shift a few more copies. That and the reassuring message about blaming one's parents for all of one's unfortunate experiences.”

John frowned. “That's not the message at all.”

“Are you sure? I finished it last night. Your protagonist basically suffers throughout his life due to having been raised by sadists. He blames them for everything.”

“He doesn't blame them. He fights back, but their influence is too strong.”

“Either way,” Aaron said with a grin, “I don't want to fight. I'm sure it'll be a hit.”

“Maybe.” John paused, turning to look back at the crowd of people in the penthouse's main room. He hated book launches at the best of times, especially his own, but this one felt even more sickly than usual. He kept expecting something to go catastrophically wrong, as if some hidden danger was lurking just out of sight. This wasn't exactly a new sensation, in fact it was one he lived with all the time, but tonight it felt particularly strong. After a moment, he made eye contact with his wife Sarah, and she smiled at him before continuing her conversation with some minor C-list actor. Unlike John, Sarah knew exactly how to schmooze people. She was, in all respects, his better half.

“How many people live in London again?” Aaron asked, nudging his arm. “Five million? Six?”

“Something like that,” John replied, turning to look out at the city. “Too many.”

“Misanthrope. How many would you prefer?”

“One or two million would be about right. Then the place wouldn't be so crowded.”

“And how many ghosts do you think there are?”

John opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught. “I have no idea,” he said finally.

“But there must be billions, mustn't there? If everyone who ever died is still floating about, where are they? If they're real, why don't we ever get a glimpse of them?”

“I have no idea,” John said with a faint smile. “I don't really go into the science of it too much. I just make things up for a living, remember?”

“But don't you think it's kind of juvenile?” Aaron continued, leaning against the railing and looking down at the busy street far below. A coach was just pulling away from the front of the hotel, joining the sea of lights that criss-crossed the city. “What's the difference between believing in ghost and believing in... fairies? Or leprechauns? Hell, even unicorns! Aren't you basically a writer of fairy-tales?”

At this, John allowed himself another smile.

“What's wrong?” Aaron asked. “Not macho enough for you?”

“I just don't know where to begin proving you wrong,” John replied, before wincing slightly as he heard someone guffawing with laughter nearby. He hated that about himself, the fact that he got so tense around loud people, and he was tempted to tell the next interviewer that the increasing gap between each book was entirely down to the fact that he loathed publicity events. He felt certain he could write faster, maybe even better, if people left him alone.

“Jesus,” Aaron continued, “we have this same conversation every year, don't we?”

“More or less,” John said quietly, sipping from his wine glass. “Every book launch, at least.”

“And I guess I shouldn't have the temerity to challenge you on this subject. Like I said, you
are
the expert. If you say ghosts are real, then I suppose I must just take it at face value.”

“Did I say they're real?” John asked.

“More or less.”

“I'm not sure about that.”

“You couldn't write about them so convincingly if you had doubts,” Aaron told him.

John smiled again, but he knew full well that Aaron was watching him intently. Every single time the pair of them met up, John ended up feeling as if he was under attack. Aaron had a tendency to enjoy chipping away at the beliefs of his friends, but whereas John had once enjoyed these discussions, now he was starting to tire of the whole thing. Truth be told, he felt he was getting a little sick of Aaron altogether, but he could never truly acknowledge that fact. After all, Aaron was by far his closest friend.

“You never answered my question,” Aaron said finally.

“What question is that?”

“You know the one. The one you avoid every time we talk.”

“Some people might take that as a hint.”

“Not me.”

“Evidently not.”

There was a pause. John knew what was coming next.

“So,” Aaron said finally, “
have
you ever seen a ghost? I mean, for a guy who's made a billion-dollar career as the world's most successful horror novelist, it'd be kind of disingenuous if you hadn't had at least one spooky encounter. Something to fire the creative juices?”

John stared out at the late-night city vista for a moment. “Tell me what you see,” he said finally.

“Out there?” Aaron turned to look. “Not much. A lot of lights.”

“Exactly,” John replied. “Your gaze is drawn to the lights, mine is drawn to the darkness. How many people do you think are being murdered in this city right now?”

Aaron sighed.

“How many are being raped? Robbed? Emotionally abused?” Warming to his theme, John almost didn't notice his phone vibrating in his pocket, but finally he slipped it out. “How many people are sobbing in absolute despair? How many are holding a knife to their wrist?”

“Morbid, much?” Aaron asked.

“I've got to take this,” John said, grinning, before he'd even checked to see who was calling. “It might be my agent.” Glancing at the screen, he saw he was almost right: it was his lawyer.

“When you're done,” Aaron replied, “I want a definitive answer to my question. Have you, the great John Myers, ever seen a ghost?”

“Hey,” John said, answering the call and turning to wander back across the terrace. He smiled briefly at Sarah and she smiled back at him, but he made his way past the door to the penthouse and around the side, across to the darker part of the outside area. “You just saved my ass,” he continued, taking a sip from his glass. “I was actually thinking about jumping, that's how dull this whole event is. What's up?”

“You asked me to call,” Reginald said, on the other end of the line, “if the house on Everley Street ever came on the market.”

“Sure, why -” John stopped suddenly, feeling a faint shiver run up his back. “And has it?”

“I just got an alert. It was put up about two hours ago, the price tag is -”

“I don't care what the price is,” John said quickly. “Buy it.”

“Well, I -”

“Contact the owners,” he continued, “and offer them whatever they're asking. If they hesitate, double it. Whatever, just get it done.”

“As your lawyer, I have to tell you that's not a very good negotiating tactic. We need to go in low -”

“Just get the damn house bought,” John said firmly, glancing over his shoulder and seeing that Aaron was watching from a distance, well out of earshot. “Do it,” he continued, turning and heading to the farthest end of the terrace, which happened to be shrouded in darkness. The city's distant lights seemed brighter now, and the stars above dimmer.

“I really don't think there's any need to move so fast,” Reginald continued. “It's an ordinary, end-of-row family house on a dull little street in a dull little town. I'm sure we can haggle the price down, you'll probably be the only one who's interested anyway.”

“I just want it done,” he replied. “Call me when the deal's complete. I'll be here for the next couple of hours, then I've got some infernal book signing in the morning.”

“You want me to conclude a deal for the house in the next couple of hours?”

“Ideally.”

“John, what is it about this house on Everley Street that -”

“I'm not here to answer questions,” John snapped, before realizing that he was perhaps being a little too harsh. After all, if Aaron was the closest thing he had to a friend, then Reginald was the second closest, forming an unlikely and fragile club of just two. “Reginald, please, I told you years ago that this house is important to me. I've been waiting for it to come onto the market and there's no way I'm going to miss the opportunity. I usually bow to your advice, but this time I can't wait. Buy the damn house.”

Reginald sighed on the other end of the line. “You're the client, your wish is my command. If you want to throw a quarter of a million on a podgy little house that's barely worth half that, I can't stop you.”

“No,” John said firmly, “you can't. Sorry, I don't mean to be harsh, just...” He paused, feeling as if the whole world had suddenly shifted slightly on its axis, as if some long-forgotten thought was stirring in the back of his mind. “Let me know when the deal's done.”

“Will do, boss. Over and out.”

“Wait,” he added, “Reginald... Do you happen to know
why
the current owners are selling?”

“I do not.”

He paused. “Try to find out. Don't make a thing of it, but try to bring it up in conversation.”

“Just to satisfy your curiosity?”

“Just to satisfy my curiosity.”

“And you're going to tell me what this is all about one day? What does this house mean to you, anyway?”

John paused again, watching as a light crossed the horizon. Plane? Shooting star? UFO? He didn't know and he didn't care. Whatever it was, it was undoubtedly something mundane.

“Just buy the damn house,” he said finally, before cutting the call. Taking a deep breath, he realized his chest felt tight, and he chose to walk the long way back around the edge of the terrace, hoping to regather his composure by the time he reached the others. He knew Aaron was still watching him, so he made his way to the door that led inside, and he signaled for Sarah to meet him. She excused herself from whoever she was talking to and made her way over to him. As ever, she seemed totally in control of the situation, as graceful and sociable as he was mannered and stiff.

“Hey,” he said, trying to seem relaxed, “I'm going to be heading down to Dorset for a few days.”

She frowned. “Dorset? Why?”

“Something's come up.”

“In Dorset?” She smiled. “I didn't think anything
ever
came up in Dorset.”

“I just need to do something,” he told her. “It's... old family stuff, that's all.”

“Family stuff? Well now I know you're lying.”

“It's nothing,” he replied, trying not to sigh. He was already aware that he should have waited, maybe seemed more casual, but he figured there was no going back now. “I just have to take care of some business. I'd invite you, but it's going to be incredibly boring and, well, I'll tell you about it when I get back. I'll be gone a day or two, maximum.”

“So you're shooting off just as the kids' school breaks up for summer holidays?”

“I'll make it up to you.”

She stared at him for a moment, before slowly nodding. “Okay. I know better than to try to stop you, or to ask too many questions. You're entering one of your semi-regular mysterious phases, aren't you? The ones I tolerate because I know you'll spring back to your usual self eventually?”

“Am I really like that?”

She nodded.

“When I get back,” he continued, “we'll -”

“Don't make promises,” she replied, leaning closer and kissing him on the cheek. “We both know how those usually end up. Just stay safe and don't be away for more than two nights. The kids are always at their most energetic at the start of their summer holiday, you know.”

“I'll make it up to you,” he said again.

“Of course you will,” she said, taking a step back, “and now I have to go and schmooze the editors, reviewers and media personalities
you're
supposed to be schmoozing, while you drink wine and talk to Aaron about ghosts. Come back soon, okay?”

“I haven't even left yet.”

“Haven't you?” She paused, before smiling and heading back inside.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he called after her, but it was too late. She was already talking to someone he vaguely recognized from the papers. Someone who'd married someone who'd once been on a reality TV show. Nearby, on a table, dozens of copies of his new book were waiting for guests to admire

“So are you finally going to answer my question?” Aaron asked suddenly, stepping up behind him. “Have you, famous horror novelist John Myers, ever seen an actual ghost?”

John paused, before turning to look at him. “Not yet,” he said after a moment, forcing a smile. “You never know, though. There's still time.”

Chapter Two

Twenty years ago

“What are you doing?”

Hearing his grandmother's voice in the hallway, John immediately slipped his notebook out of sight and pretended to be reading a magazine. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the page, even as he heard his grandmother shuffling closer. A moment later, she snatched the magazine from his hands and took a look at the cover.

“What are you reading about television shows for?” she asked haughtily, clearly not approving of the subject matter. “What have television shows got to do with anything?”

“I just -”

“You should be reading about proper things,” she continued, flicking through the magazine. “Cultural things, things that'll improve your mind. This is just garbage.”

“It's -”

“You're going to end up with a soft brain,” she added, dropping the magazine into his lap before turning and making her way slowly to the sideboard. She was in her nightgown, ready for bed, which was always when she seemed most uppity. “You'll end up like your mother, achieving nothing in life and wasting all your potential. You're directing your energies in all the wrong directions.”

“Mum didn't waste her potential,” he replied, watching as his grandmother's trembling hands unscrewed the lid on the sherry bottle. “If she hadn't died, she'd have been a writer.”

At this, his grandmother gave a derisory laugh.

“It's true,” John continued. “Dad said she won competitions in magazines. He said she was working on something and that one day she'd get published.”

“Rubbish,” the old woman hissed. “Your mother had all these fancy ideas, but she was never going to get anywhere with them, she'd never have finished that stupid book, even if she'd lived to be a hundred. No wonder she ended up weak in the head. I did everything I could for her, I tried to put her on the straight and narrow, but sometimes you just can't help someone. Some people are just doomed to failure on account of their own personalities.”

“She was -”

“Do you want to end up like her? Locking yourself in the bathroom and downing a bottle of bleach?”

John shivered a little as he heard those words. Looking back down at the magazine, he suddenly felt a little hollow, as if his grandmother's words had struck at his core. Any mention of his mother's suicide was always enough to knock him off kilter.

“You're lucky you were too young to remember,” she continued. “
I
remember. Course I do, I'm the poor soul who had to hear the screams and break down the door. I'll never forget the moment I saw her writhing in agony on the floor with blood pouring from her mouth, while you cried in your room. That's the problem with suicides, they're so selfish, they never think about the people who have to find them.”

“Mum wasn't selfish,” John said quietly.

“What was that?” she asked, raising her voice. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you say she wasn't selfish? What do you know, eh? She was weak and pathetic, and rather than buckling down to a proper life, she decided to take the easy way out.” Finishing the glass of sherry, she poured herself a second. “You don't know what you're talking about. You don't even remember your mother.”

“I do,” he replied, a little defensively. “I mean, I remember... flashes. I remember what she looked like.”

“Lucky you.”

“And I remember the sound of her voice.”

“She was always a whiner.”

“She had a lot of self doubt,” John continued. “I remember -”

“You don't remember anything.”

“But -”

“You were just a child when she died,” she added, interrupting him as she took another sip of sherry. “It's impossible for you to remember anything about her at all, but if you did, you'd know what a mess she was. She used to cry at the drop of a pin, she never had the strength to be anything in life. I'm telling you, you're lucky she cleared herself out of the way. If she'd raised you, you'd be an insufferable wimp. She'd have been a malignant influence. Fortunately, you've got me now to make sure you grow a spine.”

He opened his mouth to reply, to insist that he
did
remember his mother, but at the last moment he held back. He'd learned long ago that there was no point arguing with his grandmother. She often got drunk and ranted about the past, and he knew she was incapable of admitting she was wrong. All he could do was let her say whatever she wanted and then go to bed, leaving her to drink alone. On a good night, that would be enough.

***

A few hours later, sitting by himself on his bed, he leafed through some more of the old handwritten pages from his mother's tin. His mother had been a keen short story writer, and although most of her work had been thrown away following her death, he'd managed to salvage a few of the short stories and now, once again, he was reading them late at night. Even just holding the pieces of paper were enough to make him feel closer to her.

“I wrote these for you,” he remembered her telling him once. “They're nothing special, I just thought they'd make you laugh.”

“Can I write stories one day?” he'd asked.

“Of course you can. Anyone can, if they work at it.”

He couldn't help but smile as he turned to another of the pages and found one of the little pen sketches she'd added to this particular story. They were all he had left of her; there were no photos, no videos, no recordings, none of her possessions. His grandmother had thrown everything out many years earlier, even before the funeral, but somehow he'd been able to hang on to these few stories, and he kept them carefully hidden. Even now, reading them for what must have been the thousandth time, he felt as if they offered one last connection to the past. He knew ghosts didn't exist, but a part of his mother lingered in the stories she'd written. The craziest part was that as he read those stories over and over, he still couldn't find any hint of the sadness that had caused her to take her own life.

“You can be anything you want to be,” she'd told him once, just a few weeks before she'd committed suicide. “Don't let anyone tell you any different.”

“What if I want to be a train driver? Or an astronaut?”

“Then go for it. I can't wait to see what you do with your life.”

She'd always talked about the future with excitement, like someone who fully expected to see what came next. And yet, somehow, she'd ended up drinking bleach on the bathroom floor, as if all her optimism and hope had suddenly burst one day and left her with nothing but despair. Sometimes, he even found himself wondering whether -

“What have you got there?” his grandmother asked suddenly.

“Nothing.” Panicking, he shoved the papers back into the tin, but he could already hear her stomping closer. A moment later she reached down and grabbed the tin from his hands. “It's nothing!” he blurted out. “It's mine!”

“Let me see.” Pulling the lid off, she reached inside and pulled out the papers. “Stories?” she muttered. “This is your mother's handwriting!”

“It's just -”

“I thought we burned all of these.”

“I -”

Before he could finish, she grabbed him by the collar and pushed him forward, slamming him face-first into the wall.

“Well,” she said as he recovered, “there's no time like the present. If we missed a few, we'll get rid of them now, won't we?”

“But -”

“And we'll talk about this later,” she added, with a hint of anger in her voice as she crumpled the papers in her fist and then dropped them back into the tin. “I told you not to keep things from me, my boy, and I warned you there'd be consequences if you disobeyed me.”

“Wait!” he replied, reaching out and trying to grab the tin. “Can't I just have a few of them?”

“It's these stories that got her into trouble,” his grandmother said firmly. “She wasted so much of her time writing them, with her head up in the clouds, she never bothered to do anything else. I told her, I warned her, I even threw them out whenever I got the chance, but she wouldn't stop! That's what happens when you don't listen to advice from people who know better, you end up making mistakes and wasting away. By the end, the only decent thing she could do was get herself out of everyone's way.”

“Please let me keep the stories,” he said as she headed out to the landing. “It's just a few pieces of paper, what does it matter?”

Hurrying after her, he tried again to grab the tin, even as his grandmother made her way unsteadily down the stairs.

“You're starting to remind me of her,” she muttered, swaying slightly as she reached the hallway and headed to the back door. “I've worked so hard to get rid of her influence on you, but it just keeps showing through like weeds in the garden. Sometimes I think you actually
want
to be like her.”

“I just want the stories.”

“What's wrong? Haven't you read them already?”

“Of course, but -”

“Then you don't need to read them again, do you?” Opening the door, she stepped out into the dark garden and set the tin on the ground. A moment later, she reached down with a cigarette lighter and set fire to one of the pieces of crumpled paper.

“No!” John shouted.

“Don't you dare disobey me!” she hissed, pushing him back and then looking down at the tin as the flames quickly spread. “This had better be the last of them. If I find that you've been keeping anything else hidden from me, boy, there will be consequences. It's not often that you make me angry, but by jove you've disappointed me tonight. It's as if you don't appreciate anything I do for you.”

“But the...” Staring at the flames, he realized it was too late to save the pages. “That was all of them,” he continued, with a sense of sorrow in his chest. “That was all I had.”

“And why should I believe you?” she asked, turning to him as the light from the fire caught her features. “You've already shown that you're more than willing to deceive me. I put my whole life aside to take you in, and this is how you repay me. With lies and deceit.”

He shook his head, unable to stop looking at the tin. The flames were already dying down, having burned through the pages in less than a minute. There'd only be ash left, and although he knew that he could write down most of the stories from memory, he also knew that there'd be little point doing so if he was no longer able to read them in his mother's handwriting. They were gone.

“Go to your room and wait for me,” his grandmother said after a moment.

He turned to her. “Please -”

“Go to your room,” she said firmly, “and wait for me. Don't make me tell you again. I'm exhausted enough already.”

He knew exactly what was coming, but at the same time he also knew there was no point trying to argue with her. Heading back into the house and then upstairs, he'd already removed his shirt by the time he reached his room, and he got down onto his knees and leaned forward against the bed. Waiting, he heard his grandmother moving about in the kitchen below, getting everything ready, and finally he heard her feet on the stairs as she slowly made her way up to him. He didn't even turn to look as he heard her entering the room. He simply waited, listening to the sound of her labored breathing and contemplating the pain he was about to endure. Still, he'd always known this was the price to be paid for disobedience, so he figured he only had himself to blame.

“She used to burn me sometimes,” he remembered his mother whispering one night, long ago. “Only when I was bad, though. It was always my fault. Just be good, and she'll never do it to you. You can be good, can't you?”

“I promise,” he'd told her.

He'd been wrong.

“I hope you know this gives me no pleasure,” his grandmother said after a moment. Even without looking, he could tell she was already smoking the cigarette she was going to use. “I'd much rather have a smart grandson, an honest grandson, but you're a filthy little liar, just like your mother. If you're not careful, you'll end up the same way as her. Is that what you want, eh?” She paused. “Still, you're young, there's time to beat it out of you. You're lucky you've got me to put you on the straight and narrow. Or do you want to be like your mother?”

“No,” he whispered. It was a lie, but he knew it was the right answer.

He waited, and now that she was silent he realized it was about to happen. She was most likely choosing her spot and savoring the anticipation. Even though she always said she didn't enjoy what she did to him, he felt certain she was lying.

Suddenly he felt the cigarette's tip pressing against his back, just below his left shoulder-blade. He gasped and leaned forward, gripping the sides of the bed as he held his breath. The cigarette was still burning, and several more seconds passed before he felt it being pulled away. He took a series of sharp, deep breaths, trying to fight the agony. He knew that even the faintest cry would anger his grandmother further and cause the punishment to last longer, but the pain was intense and he had to bite his lip and hold his breath again as he squeezed his eyes tight shut. Finally, slowly, he began to feel a little strength returning.

“Hurts, doesn't it?” his grandmother muttered.