Mum called Ethan and we sat at the kitchen table with a pot of tea, the not-so-burnt scones and the jam and the cream. This was our dinner, and, in that moment, as far as I was concerned, it was the dinner of kings and queens! Covering one half of my scone with butter, I reached for the jam and piled that on too, but as my knife dipped into the clotted cream, I saw it congeal before my eyes.
Mum noticed too. “What the heck? I bought that cream yesterday, checked the sell by date specially and it was fine. God, I don’t know, it’s just…” She shook her head, started agitating at her lip. “The sooner Carol replies to my emails the better.”
After tea, I followed Ethan upstairs. Mum had said she’d told him earlier about her plans, although it wasn’t within my earshot, and I wanted to gauge his reaction. Ethan stopped just shy of opening his door and turned to me. He was nearly thirteen now and I suppose I could understand the effect he’d had on Lucy earlier in the year. His face was nice enough; he had big eyes, and thick dark hair. He’d also grown recently, he was head and shoulders above me, and his arms were strong, despite doing nothing but sitting in front of his computer, playing endless games. What marred his looks slightly was a rash of spots along his jawline. They reminded me of the rash he’d once had – tiny dents and holes, as if someone had stuck pins into him.
“It’s great news, isn’t it, Ethan, about moving?” I kept my voice deliberately low.
Ethan looked far from impressed. “Not really, I like it here.”
“Like what exactly?” I was curious to know.
“It’s big, big enough so I don’t have to bump into you anyway.”
I ignored his comment and carried on, “We might go to live in Lewes, or in Brighton, Mum hasn’t decided yet.” Wherever it was I longed for a small house, terraced too, with shops close by, cars and people – ordinary people.
“Whatever…” He really wasn’t giving much away. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
He turned his back on me and went to open his bedroom door.
“What do you mean you’ll believe it when you see it? Don’t you believe Mum?”
He shrugged.
“Ethan?”
“Mum’s different isn’t she? She’s not the same anymore.”
Nor are you! I wanted to shout.
“It’s this house,” I said at last, hardly daring to believe my own bravery. “It’s because of the house.”
He turned his head to look me in the eye. I held his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. Go on say it. Call me stupid. I dare you.
He didn’t, he just sneered some more and then entered his den, leaving me alone on the landing with the house bristling around me.
* * *
It was later in the month of October that I went into Ethan’s room, not on Halloween, although Halloween would have certainly suited the occasion. I don’t know where he’d gone – probably to a friend’s or something – and I was on my way to the bathroom when a familiar smell assailed me, drifting out of his room, vaporous almost and filling the air. What was going on behind closed doors? If Mum wasn’t curious, I was. I decided to take a peek. He’d never know.
Despite Mum being downstairs, I tiptoed across. Silly really, there was no reason not to walk boldly over. My breathing slightly ragged, I pushed open the door. That smell… it far surpassed that of his trainers and, believe me, they were bad enough. My eyes started watering, and I almost choked. How come Mum hadn’t noticed this? His bedroom was right next to hers.
I slipped inside, not closing the door entirely behind me, but leaving it open just a crack. The curtains were closed on an already darkening night; I suspected those curtains were never opened, that Ethan always shut the light out. Groping for the light switch, I finally found it; the light was the same sickly yellow as in the attic, leaving so much gloom. His room was as untidy as I’d expected it to be, clothes and shoes everywhere, computer games strewn across the surface of his desk, which already vied for space with a computer and a small TV. He had shelves on the walls too, books, Star Wars figures and packs of Top Trumps adorning them. Long gone was the Lego, taken to some charity shop for someone else to play with. Tentatively, I made my way over to the desk and opened various drawers, which were stuffed full with socks, underwear, t-shirts, more computer games, and a homework book. Selecting the latter, I flicked through it, although it didn’t contain much, but then Ethan wasn’t keen on homework and would do anything he could to get out of it. Mum used to make him, but I guess she didn’t anymore.
So all was normal. What wasn’t? I scanned shelves again, the floor, then went over to the curtains, to move them aside so I could check the windowsill. Puzzled, I stopped to think. If he had something to hide, something rotten, where would it be? My eyes rested on the wardrobe in the far corner. Of course! After all, that’s where I’d hidden something too.
I took a deep breath and walked over, the light flickering above me as I moved. A warning? It certainly felt like one. Standing in front of the wardrobe, it was a solid piece of furniture, already in situ when we arrived, the dark wood giving it an old-fashioned appearance. It had a thin piece of mirror running down the middle of it, tarnished slightly with brown spots – reminding me of the kind you sometimes see on the back of old people’s hands. I caught sight of my reflection, something I was wary of doing. I always hated looking at myself in mirrors in that house, wondering if when I turned away, my reflection would still be staring outwards.
I reached out a hand, as did my mirror image, turned the handle, and heard the click as it yielded. The smell as good as flew at me. Gagging, I lifted both hands to my face in a bid to protect myself. And then my hands dropped as my mouth fell open. There were no clothes in the wardrobe, none at all. But it was far from empty.
Ethan had been in the attic! Clearly he’d been there on several occasions. What was up there: the insects forever trapped in glass weights, the pinned butterflies, a few of the photographs – the dead things basically – he’d looted them. Not only were they in his wardrobe, he’d added to them a collection of his own: flies. There were so many flies, lying in heaps, their bodies rotting. There were the carcasses of larger insects too – beetles, centipedes and spiders. He must have spent ages rummaging in the garden for them. And something else, something I had to force myself to look at – a field mouse, a tiny little field mouse, staked, as the butterflies were staked, one half of it putrefying. I could hardly tear my gaze away, not because I was fascinated but because I was trying to tell myself that Ethan didn’t do this, that he didn’t know it was there and that someone else was responsible. Ethan might be a pain, he might be nasty to me, but he was still my brother and I loved him. I didn’t want him to be capable of this. I was about to turn, get out, when I saw something in the wardrobe move. What was it? What could possibly live amongst so many dead? And if it was alive, could I help it? Release it from my brother and his tyranny? I leaned forward slightly. Yes, there was something in there, beneath layers of flies, struggling to get out. Dare I find a stick… something I could use to poke around a bit? There was no way I was touching anything with my hands. I looked behind me; the best thing I could find was a pen. It was no good. I needed something longer. What else, what else? A ruler! That’d do – at least it meant I didn’t have to put my hand inside the wardrobe, I could just hold it at the tip. I didn’t want to do it, I really didn’t, but I happen to believe all creatures are sacred, that we should help anything in peril. Even so, I hoped it wasn’t a spider, I’d never killed one, but the big ones frightened me.
I started moving the ruler, shifting the vile contents, trying to ignore the aroma of death and decay. Where was it, the thing I’d seen moving? Had I imagined it, with my mind playing tricks on me? But no, I’d seen rippling and heaving, there was something there. Reaching further in, it was as if the ruler started moving of its own accord, left to right, only slightly at first, imperceptibly, but then with more force.
Let it go. Turn and run.
Th
ose were my instructions to myself and I was about to obey them when it seemed as if something crawled up the ruler – yes, crawled – and closed itself around my hand instead. I screamed, started pulling back in earnest now.
“Let go of me! Let go of me!”
What was it that had me in its clasp? Nothing that was remotely human. It was insectile, many legged, and it wanted to impale me too.
“No!” I continued to scream. “No! No! No!”
As much as it pulled, I pulled too, my other hand flat against the wardrobe, in an attempt to give myself extra leverage. I was failing, drastically. This thing was much stronger than me, I was going to fall into the wardrobe, be shut in, and left to fester.
“Help! Someone help me!”
But Mum was downstairs, she’d never be able to hear me – the house would make sure of it.
“Help!” My voice was hoarse; soon I wouldn’t be able to scream at all. “Help!”
My call was answered but cruelly. I was thrown back, hitting my head against one of the drawers on Ethan’s desk and the wardrobe door slammed shut. But the horrors weren’t over, not by a long shot. There was an image in the wardrobe mirror: me. I was standing hand in hand with someone. A boy? It looked like it.
And we were laughing.
Blakemort Chapter Twenty-Four
Of course I wanted to go downstairs straightway and tell Mum what I’d seen and I proposed to do just that. Despite my aching head, I got myself up, ran out of Ethan’s room, turned left on the landing and at the top of the stairs I skidded to a halt. What would the repercussions be if I told Mum? How badly would Ethan get into trouble? What if it was really badly and she sent him to live with Dad whilst we waited to leave? There’d be just the two of us left then. Another thought: what if she told the police? Young as I was, I thought that was possible. He’d get taken away, put in prison. For how long? It could be months, years even. I couldn’t tell her. Besides, it would feel like snitching. Tell-tale! Tell-tale! I could imagine Ethan yelling it at me. I had one option and that was to encourage Mum to leave – she was our only hope, our means of escape. All she had to do was get in touch with Carol first.
The weeks passed, I kept away from Ethan, certainly away from his room. I still found it so hard to believe that he was capable of what I’d seen. I considered talking to him about it, but quickly thought again. He wouldn’t talk to me. As for Carol, why wasn’t she replying to Mum’s emails? Was it really so vital that she did? Couldn’t we just leave anyway? Mum was adamant we couldn’t. “It’s not fair to do that, besides I haven’t found the ideal place for us yet.”
As far as I was concerned the gutter was preferable to Blakemort. I tried to talk to Dad too, but he just told me not to worry, that Mum was sorting it. “It can be hard to keep up with affairs back home when you’re travelling, but I’m sure Carol will be in touch soon. Perhaps it’s best to wait until after Christmas to contact her.”
He said what I dreaded hearing: that we had to spend another Christmas here.
Mum was looking forward to seeing Aunt Julia again. Apparently she’d split up with her boyfriend and was a bit down about it. “She really thought he was the one,” Mum told me. “It’s funny how we can be so wrong about people.” It was; about people, houses, and those closest to us. I was still so worried about Ethan.
“Mum, Ethan’s room…” I began.
We were sitting on the sofa, trying to watch TV but the signal kept dipping in and out, making it close to impossible.
“What about it?” she asked.
“Have you been in there lately?”
She laughed. Well, it was more of a snort really. “I daren’t. Teenage boys rooms are something to be feared, darling.” If only she knew how much. “No,” she continued, “Ethan’s a big boy now, he can clean his own room. I don’t see why I should do it. I do enough around here. If he wants to live in a pig sty, let him.”
Christmas was drawing closer and there was still no word from Carol. Mum wanted to put the decorations up and so we went to nearby Wilderness Woods to buy our tree, hoping for one that wasn’t quite as forlorn as last year. It certainly looked abundant as we dragged it through the hallway, pine needles littering the floor although their clean almost antiseptic smell failed to penetrate. Once positioned upright, the tree’s glamour decreased dramatically. Nonetheless, Mum retrieved the box of Christmas decorations that she kept in one of the spare rooms and we began to hang ornaments from its branches, Ethan dropping one of her prized baubles, made of Murano glass, one that Dad had bought her whilst they were on honeymoon in Venice. There were tears in her eyes as she picked up the jagged pieces.
Again we adorned picture frames with tinsel but, as soon as our backs were turned, they slid off. Mum bent to retrieve one of the garlands and then frowned.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“It’s nothing, it’s just… how strange. Look at this picture here, it appears as if the canvas is cracking, distorting the entire thing, making it look wavy instead.” She lifted a finger and scraped at the surface with her nail. “How odd, the paint is flaking too.” Examining other pictures, she found the same thing. “It must be something to do with the heating,” she surmised, looking for excuses again. “That bloody heating!”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t bother with the tinsel,” I suggested.
She nodded. “I think you’re right, we shouldn’t bother anymore.”
Mum went into the kitchen to do some baking instead, humming that tune of hers. Later, when I went in to find her, she’d done no baking at all. Instead she was sitting, smoking a cigarette, shards of Murano glass lying on the table in front of her.
* * *
Aunt Julia was due down on Christmas Eve Eve (as we called it). Christmas Eve we were spending with Dad and Carrie, to be dropped home that same evening. I was dreading the big day, absolutely dreading it, hating the Christmas tree in the drawing room that looked so out of place, a season that should be happy but which, at Blakemort, never was. And none of it was helped by Dad’s news – Carrie was pregnant, by over three months. We had a half-brother or sister on the way. Ethan was pleased, even I was secretly pleased, but Mum was shocked, truly shocked. As she broke the news to us she was trembling. When Aunt Julia arrived a few hours later she must have been informed too because she bypassed us and went straight to Mum, the two of them disappearing to talk. Whilst they did I went into Mum’s office, sat at the computer and opened up her email account, I wanted to see if it was true, if she’d really been emailing Carol. I’m sorry to admit it but I thought she could be lying, actually lying, that she’d been as seduced by this house as Ethan was. It took me a fair bit of scrolling but sure enough she’d sent various emails, latterly typing, ‘What’s wrong, Carol? Is something wrong? I really need to hear from you. I hope you’re having the time of your life and I understand you’re busy, but it’s been so long. Please, just let me know that you’re okay.’
For some reason, those words caused alarm. ‘What’s wrong, Carol?’ I hadn’t thought anything to be wrong before. As Dad had said, she was simply preoccupied with her travels, but what if she wasn’t? What if something had happened to her? Would that mean we’d be stuck here, that we’d never escape?
My hand started typing a fresh email – I couldn’t stop myself. ‘What’s wrong, Carol? What’s wrong, Carol?’ I typed it over and over again. It seemed whoever controlled my hand previously was back; at least I presumed it was them. I then hit ‘send’ or rather I was made to hit ‘send’. I thought that would be the end of it but it wasn’t. I was directed to the Internet search bar and my hand typed in Occult Symbols. I tensed. Wasn’t Occult a bad word, something to do with the devil?
Various pages came up and my hand clicked on the first one – a Symbol Dictionary – there were so many symbols, including a reverse cross, like the ones in the graveyard, its long stem pointing upwards. A symbol for Baphomet, I read, although who or what he was, I had no idea. The star I’d seen too, it was
known as a pentagram. There was one on its own and one in a circle. I clicked on the pentagram in the circle and read the following description:
The pentagram is a five pointed star commonly associated with Wicca, Ritual magick, Masonry and Satanism.
Satanism – Satan – that was definitely another name for the devil! And the word ‘magick’ spelt the wrong way but for a reason perhaps, because it was exactly that – the wrong type of magic? But the pentagram I was looking at wasn’t quite right; the one I’d seen was the other way round – reversed. My hand travelled upwards again and typed in reversed pentagram. I clicked on another page to read:
… it represents Satan or the world of matter ruling over the Divine, or Darkness over Light.
That was the sentence that jumped out at me, that I was meant to see, that I remember so clearly. The reversed pentagram was a symbol used to encourage evil and it was carved into the very fabric of Blakemort, the grounds too – the house itself encircled, nature in league with whatever forces presided, encouraging the weeds and bushes to grow that way, to enclose us. Beads of moisture raced down my forehead. I had to go and tell Mum. Show her what I’d found – the evidence.
Snatching my hand back, I stood up, determined to do just that, and then heard a ping as an email landed in the reply box. After a brief pause, I sat down again. Was it? Could it be? Carol was answering at last? I swallowed hard, began to read.
‘Who is this? Why do you keep typing the same thing over and over again? Surely you must realise, Carol passed away years ago.’
Blakemort Chapter Twenty-Five
Psychic Surveys Companion Novels Page 14
