The House on Everley Street (Death Herself Book 2) (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Today

“Do you feel anything?” Hannah whispered, as they sat on the floor in the dark nursery with their backs against the wall, watching the spot where twenty years earlier John had found his grandmother's body. “Anything at all?”

He paused. “Um... No. Sorry. What about you?”

She looked around the room for a moment, wide-eyed with wonder. “Not yet.”

“So -”

“But I think it's coming.”

He frowned. “I'm sorry?”

“I think there's some kind of unusual energy in the place,” she continued, taking another sip of wine before handing the bottle back to him. She wiped a red bead from her bottom lip. “It's hard to express the feeling in words, it's more like a kind of vibration running through my body. There's nothing here now, but... There
has
been, I just don't know when.” She reached a hand out and swirled it through the air. “This space has been disturbed in recent times by some kind of dark energy, something that left a trace. There's been an entity here, maybe even in this very room, and it'll return soon.”

“It will, huh?” he replied. “Well, I'm not sure how you'd go about measuring or proving something like that.”

“Proof is for when you want other people to believe you,” she replied, turning to him with a smile. “I'm more interested in personal understanding. If
I
know something, then that's all that matters. I know other people will catch up eventually. By the way, do you have a cigarette I can nick?”

“A...” He frowned. “Um, no. Sorry.”

“I thought I saw there was a packet in your coat pocket earlier.”

He shook his head. “You must be mistaken.”

“Huh.” She stared at him for a moment longer, before turning to look at the opposite wall. “Is that where the body was?”

He nodded.

“And then you dragged her onto the bed?”

“I just thought... I don't really know why I did that.”

“Maybe you were panicking. You were all alone, right?”

He nodded again.

“That must have been hard.” She put a hand on his arm, as if to reassure him. “Then what did you do?”

“I checked to see if she was really dead.”

“And she was?”

He nodded.

“And then what?”

He swallowed hard, fully aware that her hand was still resting on his arm. “And then I called for an ambulance.”

She stared at him for a moment, her face just about visible in the darkness thanks to a patch of moonlight that had fallen across one of the walls. “And then what?”

“And then... It's all kind of a blur.”

“It must have been hard for you.”

“I was fine.”

“What kind of woman was she?”

He paused. “A tyrant,” he said finally.

“Seriously?”

“She was a bitter old woman. Vindictive, cruel... Not just to me, this isn't self-pity. She was well known for having a harsh temper, and for turning against people. She was worse at home, though. Behind closed doors, she really turned the screws. To be honest, if she hadn't died, I'd probably still be under her thumb.”

“You were a Granny's boy, huh?”

“For some reason, I just didn't have the urge to rebel.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I find that very hard to believe,” she said finally. “
Very
hard.”

“She told me once that I'd never be a writer. She said I didn't have that kind of mind, that I should stop dreaming and just focus on something more practical. She used to say the same thing to my mother when she was younger too, and it worked on her. She wasn't lucky like me, she didn't get to escape.”

“Your mother was a writer?”

“She wanted to be,” he continued, “but my grandmother ground her down. It was my mother who had real talent, I'm just a hack.”

“I don't think you're a hack,” she told him.

“You're biased.”

“Why?”

He turned to her. “Never mind. My mother wrote a lot of short stories. She even finished a novel, I think, but it all got lost.”

“You didn't save it?”

“My grandmother burned everything.”

“I'm sorry,” Hanna replied, watching his expression carefully for a moment. “What happened to her?”

“My mother?” He paused. “One day, when I was very young, she locked herself in the bathroom and drank half a bottle of bleach. My grandmother broke the door down when she heard the cries, but it was too late. My mother died in agonizing pain, and I...” His gaze flickered for a moment, as if the memory was too much. “I heard her screams. In some ways, I don't think I've stopped hearing them since.”

“No-one should have to hear something like that.”

“I read up on it later,” he continued. “The bleach would have burned through her gut and -”

“Maybe you don't need to think about all that.”

“It would've burned her esophagus too. All the way down into her stomach, it would have just eaten through the lining. Her stomach acid would have burst out too, spreading to the rest of her body. I've researched death a lot for my novels, in some ways I think I've been searching to find a more painful method of death, and I've come up with nothing.” He sighed. “And since my father already lived on the other side of the world by that point, I ended up living with my grandmother.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Sucks to be you, huh?” Hannah said finally.

“I'm lucky,” he continued. “I'm still here.”

“You don't have a lighter, do you?”

He turned to her.

“A cigarette lighter?” she asked.

“No. Why?”

“I could just use one, that's all.” She grabbed the corkscrew she'd used on the wine bottle, and slipped it into her pocket. “Sorry, thinking several steps ahead, that's all.”

“I don't even know why I've told you all of this,” he continued. “I haven't even told my wife the whole story.”

“You should.”

He nodded.

“I'm definitely picking something up,” she added, crawling forward toward the center of the room, until she was just a couple of feet from the spot where, years ago, the stain had been left on the carpet. “Don't worry, I don't think anything's going to start banging on the doors and windows, but I definitely feel a presence. There's something in the house with us. I don't know if it's a ghost, though. It feels like some other kind of entity, but I guess I could be wrong. There's definitely something here.”

“There is, huh?”

“But it's not
here
. It's not in this room.”

“I'm pretty sure this room is
exactly
where it'd be,” he replied.

She shook her head.

“You think you know better than me?” he asked. “She died in here, right over there against that wall.”

“I still don't think the presence is focused here. I think it's elsewhere in the house. In fact, this feels like one of the least affected rooms.”

“Okay,” he replied, starting to see through her act. “If you say so.”

She smiled. “You don't believe me.”

“I believe you, I just...” Pausing, he realized that she was right: even though he
wanted
to believe what she was saying, he couldn't quite bring himself to accept that the house was haunted. If they'd met just twenty-four hours earlier, things might have been different, but now he felt totally at peace with the place and ready to move on. He liked Hannah, but he'd already written her off as an over-enthusiastic wannabe ghost chaser who'd spent too much time online. “Maybe it's best to leave these things alone,” he said finally. “If there's a presence here, that's okay, let it be here.”

She shook her head.

“No?” he continued.

“If there's a presence here,” she replied, “that means it wants something. Can you think of anything your grandmother might consider to be unfinished business?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe she just wants to put more burns on your back.”

“The -” He paused, suddenly starting to worry. “How did you know about that?”

“I'm very observant.”

“Still, how -”

“There's definitely
something
that keeps her here,” she continued, interrupting him, before turning and looking at the door. She paused for a moment. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“I thought...” She paused again. “It was probably just the wind.”

Setting the bottle of wine down, he crawled over to join her in the center of the room, looking out at the landing. For a moment, he listened to the extreme silence of the house. Of all the houses he'd ever spent time in, the house on Everley Street was perhaps the most silent of all.

“Are you holding your breath too?” Hannah whispered.

“I am.”

“I just thought I heard a scratching sound,” she continued, “that's all.”

“Coming from where?”

“I don't know. Downstairs, maybe.”

“Could it be badgers?”

She turned to him. “Badgers?”

“Nasty little things,” he continued with a smile. “If there's a badger in the house, we're in trouble.”

She laughed, breaking the hush. “Don't talk to me about badgers,” she said finally. “Trust me, I could tell you some war stories involving badgers that'd turn your hair gray.”

“I'm serious,” he told her. She had a nice laugh, and he wanted to hear it again. “If it's a choice between a badger or a ghost, I'd rather face a ghost, because a badger can cause some serious damage when it's angry and -”

He stopped suddenly as they both heard a loud, heavy bump from downstairs, as if a wooden surface was being briefly but violently shaken. Whatever caused it, it was quick and over in just a couple of seconds, but John and Hannah stayed completely silent for a moment before slowly turning to one another.

“It's definitely downstairs,” Hannah whispered, slowly getting to her feet. “I was right.”

Hauling himself up and following her to the door, John could feel his heart pounding as he waited for another bump. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that she was imagining the whole thing, but at the same time he knew he couldn't write off the sound so easily.

“We have to go see,” Hannah told him.

“It might be a burglar.”

“We still have to go see,” she replied, taking a step out onto the landing. “Don't worry if it's a burglar, we'll just beat the living hell out of him.”

“But -”

“We
have
to go and see.” Come on, don't disappoint me. Don't be a coward.

“But -” Realizing that she was right, John followed her to the top of the stairs. He'd been so caught up in the relief of realizing the house wasn't haunted, it had never occurred to him that they might actually hear something. He still wasn't willing to accept that there might be a ghost after all, but he knew that the banging sound had been real, and he could see the fear in Hannah's eyes as she looked down toward the hallway.

Fear and excitement.

“Hello?” she called out suddenly, before turning to him. “It's good to try establishing contact if there's a spirit around. Plus, it's only polite. And if there's a burglar, hopefully he'll leave without us having to beat him to a pulp.”

“It was probably just...” John's voice trailed off as he realized that he couldn't come up with a feasible explanation, even though he was certain there must be one. He was tempted to make another badger joke, but the moment didn't feel right.

Slowly, Hannah began to make her way downstairs, with John close behind.

“Hello?” she said again. “Is anyone here?”

“Wait,” John said, suddenly pushing past her as he realized that he couldn't let her go first, not if there was even a chance that something dangerous was in the house. Reaching the hallway, he looked around, but there was no sign of anyone. “It's okay,” he continued, turning to Hannah, “I think -”

Suddenly there was another bang, and this time they could both tell it was coming from the kitchen.

“That's not a badger,” Hannah hissed, hurrying past him and then stopping in the doorway, “I think it came from...” She paused, her eyes filled with shock before finally she turned to him. “I think it came from the basement.”

Chapter Fourteen

Twenty years ago

“Damn it,” John muttered as he pulled on the edge of the carpet, only to find that it still wouldn't come up. He'd spent the past hour or so picking out every tack he could find, but still one seemed to have eluded him. Grabbing the hammer, he began to search once again, before finally spotting the offending culprit. After picking it out, he dropped the hammer and pulled on the carpet again, and at last he was able to start ripping it up from the floor.

He worked hard and fast, gutting the room completely. He knew that his father would eventually show up to visit, and the last thing he wanted at that point was to still be living in a house filled with reminders of his grandmother, so following Alison's departure earlier that morning he'd decided to start clearing everything out. He'd started with his grandmother's old room, naturally, and he'd hauled the bed and all the other furniture out to other rooms so he could get to the carpet. He had no real plan in mind, other than the absolute determination to make the place as empty as possible.

Just as he was pulling the carpet through the doorway and out onto the landing, he heard the phone ringing. His first instinct was to ignore it, but finally he dropped the carpet and headed to his bedroom, figuring that while few people ever called him, the ones who
did
call tended to have a good reason.

“Hello?” he said as he picked up the receiver.

“Jonathan?”

He immediately recognized the voice and wished he'd let the phone keep ringing.

“Hi, Dorothy,” he said, trying to sound polite. For a moment, he stared down at the cigarette stub on the nightstand. “I don't know if -”

“I heard the awful news,” she continued. “Gladys told me at the last fuchsia meeting. Everyone's so completely shocked, your grandmother seemed so full of life just last week.”

“It was a surprise,” he replied, wiping sweat from his brow.

“I was just wondering, dear, if you know when the funeral will be taking place? A few of us would so very much like to attend the service, and there's also the small matter of flowers to arrange.”

“I...” He paused for a moment, imagining all his grandmother's friends showing up at the church. “I don't know yet,” he told her finally. “It's still being arranged, it's very complicated.”

“Complicated?”

“I'll let you know as soon as I can.”

“If you would, dear. Do you know where it'll be? I hope it's somewhere close to the center of town, most of us are a little unsteady on our feet these days.”

He paused again. “Actually, she always said she wanted to be buried in Essex.”

“Essex?”

“Where she was born.”

“Oh.” There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. “Well, yes, I suppose I can understand that, but... Will there be no service here in Bournemouth at all?”

“I'm still not sure. I need to talk to my father about it, but he lives in Australia so it's not easy getting in touch with him.”

“When is he flying in?” she asked. “I'd like to pay my condolences in person.”

“He won't be coming for the funeral.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He let me know last night,” John continued, surprised by how quickly he was able to come up with answers that sounded believable. “He has too much work to do, so he can't make it. He and my grandmother were never very close anyway, so I understand. He's going to come and visit soon, though.”

“So are you making all the arrangements yourself?”

“I've got some help,” he told her. “A friend of mine was here yesterday, and she's going to give me a hand.”

“Oh.” Another pause. “Well, I do hope you decide to hold
some
kind of service here in Bournemouth. Your grandmother was a highly respected member of the local community, you know. She was a very popular woman.”

“I know,” he replied, unable to stifle a faint smile. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Well... No, I suppose -”

“I'll call you when I know about the funeral,” he added, interrupting her. “Have a nice day.”

Setting the phone down, he paused for a moment, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. He'd known for a few days now that he'd have to start letting people know about the funeral, but the whole thing just felt too huge to deal with. At least he figured he'd managed to get the league of old ladies out of the way, which was one of the bigger hurdles he was facing, but there were going to be other people calling and he knew it would be difficult to dissuade them all from showing up or asking more questions

Hearing a noise downstairs, he headed out onto the landing and saw a fresh batch of mail down on the mat. Making his way down to take a look, he picked up the letters and found that they were all addressed to his grandmother. He wondered how long it would take before they stopped coming, although he figured that he'd need to contact a few companies and explain the situation. Still, that was a job for another day. For now, he had to focus on getting everything out of the house.

And he needed to set things on fire.

***

“Are you in there?” a voice called out from nearby, barely audible over the roar of the flames. “Hello? Jonathan?”

Turning, John saw the garden gate opening, and a moment later Mr. Shepherd from the next house appeared through the thick black smoke that was filling the air.

“Hello, Mr. Shepherd,” John said with a polite smile. Getting up from the white plastic patio chair, he headed over to shake the man's hand. “I hope the smoke isn't bothering you.”

“Bothering me?” Mr. Shepherd stared for a moment at the inferno in the center of the garden. Carpets, curtains, cushions, clothes, items of bed linen, even items of furniture had been stacked up in a huge pile and set alight, and a column of black smoke was rising up, visible no doubt for miles around. “You can't have a bonfire like this,” he continued. “You're lucky no-one's reported you to the council!”

“What's wrong?” John asked, watching as flames tore through some of his grandmother's most treasured possessions, which had turned out to be surprisingly flammable. “I'm just burning things.”

“For one thing,” Mr. Shepherd replied, “all that ash is going to fall on my garden. For another, Mrs. Henderson down the road put some washing out earlier, and now she'll have to do it all again.”

“Oh,” John said with a frown. Turning, he looked toward one of the distant gardens and saw some white clothes on a line. “Sorry, I didn't think about any of that.”

“Not to mention what this is doing to the environment. If you want to get rid of this amount of household waste, you're supposed to call the council and arrange a special pick-up.”

“I didn't want to bother them. It's not really a huge fire, is it?”

“It's big enough,” Mr. Shepherd said, shielding his face from the heat as he took a step back. “Is your father around?”

John shook his head.

“So it's just you, now that your grandmother has passed?”

“Just me,” John said calmly. He usually panicked when he was talking to people, but this time he felt strangely comfortable.

“And...” Mr. Shepherd paused for a moment, as if he wasn't quite sure what to say next. “I mean, what are you... What are you going to do?”

“Technically my father owns the house,” John pointed out, “so it's really up to him.”

“Huh. And what about the funeral?”

“Essex.”

“I'm sorry.”

“She wanted to be buried in Essex,” he explained, “so I'm going to have to arrange that. I'm not quite sure where to start, but I'm going to go to the funeral home tomorrow morning and see what they can do to help. Hopefully it'll be as simple as making a few phone calls and then getting her body driven or flown over there. I don't suppose I can just carry her onto a train.”

“Right,” Mr. Shepherd said with a frown. “So there won't be any kind of service here in Bournemouth?”

“I'm afraid not. If you'd like to come to Essex, though, you're more than welcome.”

“I... Well, no, I don't think I'll be able to make it. If you could let me know the details, though, I'd be happy to send some flowers.”

“I'll make sure to do that,” John told him. “Have a nice day, Mr. Shepherd. Good luck with your garden. I noticed from one of the windows that it's looking really good this year. I hope you manage to fix the problem with your compost system. Are the rats still bothering you?”

He rolled his eyes. “Kill one, two pop up in its place.”

“I'm sure you'll win out eventually.”

“Huh,” the older man muttered, clearly unimpressed but apparently unwilling to push the matter too far. “You're going through a tough time, kid,” he added, taking a step back. “Just... I don't know, try not to have any more big fires, okay? It's disruptive to the whole neighborhood. You really should've thought about that before you started.”

“Sorry,” John replied, watching as Mr. Shepherd left. He felt bad for causing a problem and he didn't like the fact that he'd been 'told off', albeit mildly; still, turning back to look at the fire, he couldn't help but feel relieved that he was getting rid of his grandmother's possessions. Once they were all gone, he'd feel less like she was still around the house, so he headed back inside to grab another section of carpet. Hauling it into the garden, he heaved it onto the bonfire, and within seconds the flames had taken hold, sending another plume of thick black smoke high into the afternoon sky.