The House on Everley Street (Death Herself Book 2) (4 page)

Chapter Five

Today

“I'll just be a couple more days,” he told Sarah over the phone as he made his way along the street. “I'll be back on Thursday, maybe Friday.”

Stopping at the corner, he looked along Everley Street and saw the house waiting for him. He felt a sudden twitch in his gut, as if his belly was on the verge of flipping over entirely, but he knew it was too late to turn back now. He'd even left his car parked a few blocks back, so he could walk the rest of the way and recreate his old route home. For a man who never really got nostalgic about people, he certainly enjoyed being reunited with old streets and buildings from his youth.

“So are you still not going to tell me where you are?” Sarah asked, as the children could be heard playing in the background.

“Just taking care of some business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Nothing important.”

“You're being mysterious,” she continued. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong. I just...” He paused, before realizing that he was once again delaying things. “You'll see when I get back. It's a surprise. Trust me, you'll be very happy. If I told you now, it'd ruin the surprise. You're always complaining that I'm not very romantic these days, aren't you? Well, I'm doing something romantic for you right now, it'll just take a little while to pay off. Come on, get off my back on this one.”

“Well you'd better be home when you say you will,” she told him. “Romance is fine, but helping to look after the kids is better.”

“I bet they've barely even noticed I'm gone.”

“Sure they have,” she replied. “Katie noticed the door to your writing room was open this morning. She was worried you'd been taken sick. She and Scott wanted to know where you'd gone, so I told them you were at an out-of-town book signing.” She paused. “As long as you're not screwing some hot fan, I guess I can live with your absence for now.”

“Come on,” he replied, “you know me.”

“I do. And I'm quite sure you're just moping around somewhere all by yourself. Have fun with that, honey.”

Once the call was over, he stayed on the corner for a moment, still watching the house from a distance. He figured he'd have to come up with a surprise for Sarah, but he told himself he had plenty of time to worry about that later. Slipping the phone into his pocket, he made his way along the street, keeping his eyes fixed on the house and, in particular, on the upstairs window above the garage door. It had been twenty years since he'd last been in the house, but those twenty years suddenly felt as if they'd fallen away. He remembered the day he'd left, and he remembered how he'd sworn to never return, yet over the years he'd come to realize that he
had
to return.

He had to find out if the ghost had been real.

The house hadn't changed much, at least not from the outside. Tall and narrow, slightly over-built with a large wooden gable and bay windows, the place slightly out of skew with the line of the street, as if it had been dropped into position. The front garden was neat and tamed now, not wild like he'd left it, but all in all it was still by far the most imposing house on the street, and he felt he wasn't biased when he noted that all the other houses seemed more timid, as if they were shrugging back slightly. He'd dreamed of the house many times over the years, and now he saw that his dreams had been accurate. No detail had changed, and the whole place had stuck fast in his memory.

Taking the key from his pocket, he realized that yet again he was delaying things. Determined to get on with the task at hand, he made his way across the street and then swung the garden gate open, the same way he'd done years ago on his way back from school. Every footstep felt heavy, as if he was making his way back into the past, and by the time he got to the front door he was starting to remember the way his grandmother's cooking would always send smells wafting out to meet him. It had never occurred to him until that moment that he might have a visceral physical reaction to this return journey, but now he could feel his body shifting into a different gear. There was a part of him that wanted to turn and run, but at the same time he knew he could never do that. He owed it to himself to at least take a look around, and to at least spend one final night inside.

He slipped the key into the lock, and a moment later he swung the door open.

The house smelled different.

After stepping into the hallway, he pushed the door shut and then stood for a moment, looking around. As he'd expected, the new owners had made some major changes, but the basic layout of the place was still the same. He looked over at the stairs and immediately remembered the morning, twenty years ago, when he'd sat there and picked up the phone to call for an ambulance. He wanted to reach out and tell that scared teenager that everything would be okay, and he swallowed hard as he made his way to the kitchen. Stopping again, he was hit by more memories: he remembered his grandmother cooking at the old stove, and he remembered when he used to sit at the breakfast bar in the corner and eat his breakfast before school. The room had changed beyond recognition now, of course, and the wall through to the old garage had been partially knocked down and replaced by an archway. Still, it was the same space, the same house.

The door to the basement was still over by the far wall.

Turning, he headed to the front room. More memories came flooding back as he walked past the spot where his grandmother's TV armchair had once stood, and he stopped at the window and looked out at the back garden. His grandmother had been a keen gardener and had cultivated a strong lineage of fuchsia plants, which had won several prizes at local shows. The garden had been completely changed in the intervening years, however, and the new owners had covered the lawn with paving stones, turning it into a kind of patio that seemed a little cramped in such a small space. He was glad that the place wasn't the same as it had been in the old days, and that it had been lived in, although he was surprised by just how much had been altered. He had to keep reminding himself that it was the same building in which he'd lived all those years ago.

“Welcome home,” he muttered to himself, before glancing at the ceiling and realizing that he still had to go and look at the upstairs rooms. If there was still a ghost in the house on Everley Street, that was where she'd be.

Chapter Six

Twenty years ago

“She was just on the floor,” he said blankly, sitting at the foot of the stairs as he spoke to his father on the phone. It was late now, almost midnight, but the timezone difference meant that he'd had to wait until early evening before calling, and even then he'd had to try several times and leave a message with his father's assistant before finally getting a callback. “They said it was probably an aneurysm, but they're going to let me know for sure.”

“Jesus,” his father replied, sounding tired. “At least aneurysms are fairly quick. What kind of aneurysm was it? Cerebral? Aortic?”

“I don't know.”

“Was it thoracic? They must have have a few ideas.”

“They just said it was an aneurysm.”

“But if -”

“It's all been kind of a blur,” he added, hoping to shut off the flow of incessant questions. Reaching back, he scratched one of the cigarette burns on his shoulder. “They said she might have felt a little weak just before it happened. They didn't know why she'd sat down on the floor, but they thought maybe she'd tried to get out of bed during the night and her legs had given way. Even so, they said she probably didn't suffer. She probably just slipped away, like she was going to sleep.” He paused. “Which I guess is good.”

In his mind's eye, he saw her dead face again, with her eyes staring up at the ceiling. It was an image that had been constantly filling his thoughts all day, interrupting everything else, and he'd spent most of his time running through the precise series of events in order, obsessively trying to remember every moment of the discovery. He figured maybe he was in shock, although he didn't really know what to do about that fact. Ride it out, maybe, and just wait for it to pass.

“So she might have been calling out to you for help?” his father asked.

At this, John paused. “I didn't hear anything,” he said cautiously, glancing up at the dark landing at the top of the stairs. He waited, half expecting to hear some sign of movement. “I slept the whole night through. I only woke up so early because someone phoned for her.”

“And you're there now?”

“In the house?” He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

He paused. The question was unexpected, and he couldn't remember the last time his father had asked him something so personal. “I -”

“It's good that you're not freaking out,” his father added, cutting him off. “It must have been a shock for you to find her like that, but what's done is done. Everything's going to be okay.”

“I know,” John whispered.

“And there's really nothing to worry about,” his father continued. “Try to get an early night, sleep's always the best medicine in a situation like this. You need to give your brain time to rest and heal, let your subconscious mind do its stuff and absorb everything. I won't keep you talking for too long.”

“I don't mind.”

“It's late for you. And I have meetings.”

“But...” He paused. “She'd wet herself,” he added finally.

“She'd what?”

“She'd wet herself. There was a stain on the carpet. I need to go and clean it.”

“Yeah, people do piss themselves when they die,” his father muttered. “You're lucky it was just that. Sometimes the bowels loosen too and you end up with the old brown stuff everywhere.”

John flinched at the directness. Still, he wanted to talk about the discovery of the body some more, in as much detail as possible. Somehow, it made him feel better.

“She wasn't a bad woman,” his father continued, “even though we had our disagreements over the years. I don't think she ever thought I was really good enough for her precious daughter, but I guess that's a story for another day. I guess she blamed me for your mother's...” He paused. “Well, you know what I mean. Listen, buddy, you must let me know when you've arranged the funeral and I'll book a flight. I won't be able to stay for too long, just a night or two, but I'll definitely do my best to come. I know it's probably a lot for you to handle on our own, but look online if you're stuck with anything. There are loads of sites that'll tell you exactly what you have to do. Of course, we'll have to talk about the house, too. When I bought it for the pair of you to live in, I never really had a long-term plan. This definitely puts a spanner in the works, but it might be an opportunity too.”

“When I found her,” John replied, “and when I moved her, her mouth opened and -”

“I should let you go,” his father said, interrupting him.

“Her mouth opened -”

“Give me a call tomorrow if you like. I'm busy most of the day, but I'll be free between about half five and quarter to six. I'm not sure what time that is where you are, you'll need to work it out. What's the difference? Six, seven hours? But chin up, kid, yeah? It's probably all for the best in the long-run, really. I know that sounds harsh, but I think a change could really help to spur you on. Now go and get a good night's sleep. Hey, did your grandmother still keep a bottle of port or sherry on the sideboard?”

“I think so.”

“Take a glass or two. I know you don't like drinking alcohol, but it'll settle you down.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe. Definitely.”

“Sure.”

“And try to look at this as a good thing,” his father added. “Your grandmother was fine in her own way, and it's always sad when someone dies, but she could also be... I mean, you know she wasn't all there in the head, don't you? Some of the things your mother used to tell me, well, they were pretty shocking. Your grandmother was a strange old bird, and she was making you strange too, so looking on the bright side, I can't deny that I'm glad you'll be getting out from under her shadow. One day, you'll look back on this as the first day of the rest of your life.”

***

A few minutes later, once the call was over, John crouched next to the stain on the carpet and began to slowly pour out some bleach. He knew there were better ways to clean the place, but he just wanted to nuke the whole thing and get rid of the urine smell, maybe even rip up the carpet in a day or two. Adding way more bleach than he knew was reasonable, he finally got to his feet and took a step back, before looking over at the bed.

For a moment, all he could think about was the way his grandmother's eyes and mouth had fallen open when he'd moved her. That was when he'd known, really known for certain, that she was gone. The worst part was, there had been just a hint of relief in his chest. He knew he was a bad person for thinking such things, but life in his grandmother's house had been difficult for many years and he'd been trying to work out how he could get away. He'd even tried taking a Saturday job at the local supermarket, but his social skills were non-existent and he'd lasted a little less than three shifts. His grandmother had always found ways to make him stay at home, to make him feel as if leaving was impossible, and over time he'd come to believe her, to accept that his life was going to be mostly lived in that cramped house. Now, suddenly, she was gone. The worst part, the part that really made him feel guilty, was that he hadn't even cried yet.

“You're no use out there,” he remembered her telling him once. “You're not a people person.”

“I could try,” he'd replied.

“There's no point putting yourself through it. Just accept who you are.”

As hard as he tried, he couldn't shake the sense of freedom. Freedom to think about the future, not just vague ideas but actual plans, things he could get out there and do, and freedom make mistakes without getting burned. He even had the freedom now to sleep in his own bed without having to let her climb in and sleep next to him, sometimes with her arm around his shoulder. He'd never said as much to her, but he'd always hated that and he knew it wasn't normal for a seventeen-year-old boy to live that way, but at the same time he'd felt powerless to stop her.

And now she was gone.

Really, truly, finally gone.

He knew it was probably sad, but he didn't
feel
sad. He hoped she hadn't suffered, that she hadn't known what was happening and that she hadn't been calling out to him while he slept, begging for help. Still, it was too late to worry too much. It was over.

“Goodbye,” he whispered, although he immediately felt a little silly for saying anything.

With the room filling up with the smell of bleach, he made his way to the window and opened it as far as he could, before heading out of the room and pulling the door shut. He took a step back and took a deep breath of cleaner air, and he told himself that there was really no reason to go into that room again. He could just leave the door shut and forget that there was a room in there at all, and he could spend his time planning what he was going to do next. His grandmother's death had been so sudden and unexpected, he hadn't had time so far to come up with anything more than a few vague notions.

More than anything, he wanted to be a writer, just like his mother had wanted to be, but he had no idea where to start.

Heading downstairs, he found the bottles of port his grandmother had left in the cabinet and he quickly poured them away. Then, filled with an urge to keep tidying even though it was well past midnight, he took the vacuum cleaner from the closet and began to clean the house. He'd always been good at his chores, but this time he couldn't hold back and he made sure to vacuum every inch of every carpet in all the downstairs rooms, preferring the loud roar of the machine to the calm, quiet stillness of the house. Once he'd finished, he put the vacuum cleaner away and decided to started bagging up some of his grandmother's possessions, so he grabbed some black sacks and started going through things in the front room. Feeling uncomfortable with the silence, he switched the TV on and turned the volume up, not even bothering to change the channel as he got back to work. Some late-night sitcom babbled along in the background, followed by another and then another, and by the time he'd filled up six sacks with his grandmother's things, he saw to his surprise that it was already 4am.

Too late, he figured, to go to bed now.

Might as well just work through the night.

So that's what he did, finding job after job until the sun came up. He emptied his grandmother's food from the fridge, and then he cleaned out the pantry cupboards, and then he started going through the laundry, getting rid of all her clothes. Soon he had eight sacks filled, then twelve, then he got to sixteen and ran out of sacks entirely. Starting to use plastic bags from the supermarket instead, he continued to clean, with the TV still running all the while in the background so that he wouldn't have to worry about the silence all around. He stayed downstairs the whole time, until finally the sun began to rise higher in the morning sky and cast a warm orange glow through the kitchen window, and he realized he'd managed to make it through the night.

Exhausted, he headed to the front room and turned the TV off. Silence fell, and he stood for a moment, listening to the house, waiting for any hint of movement.

There was nothing.

He was truly alone.

Heading upstairs, he made his way to the bathroom and went to the toilet, before washing his face. He felt strangely free, as if the long night's work had helped him to mark a transition. Leaning closer to the mirror, he saw his own dry eyes staring back at him, and he realized that he couldn't manufacture a sense of loss where no such thing existed. Although he felt bad for his grandmother, he was also glad that he never had to feel her arm around him again while he tried to sleep, and he never had to listen to her complain that he wasn't doing enough to take his mother's place. It was his mother's death, more than anything, that had been held over his head and used to keep him under control.

Turning, he headed out of the bathroom, but after a moment he stopped suddenly. A flash of fear rippled through his chest as he saw that the door to his grandmother's bedroom, which he remembered closing several hours earlier, was now wide open.