by Jim Ody
THE PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED
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Question Mark Press
For Tommy, Honey & Mittens
You are always at our side in times of need.
THE PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED
Prologue
T he windows were smeared with the dusty sands of time. Loving hands had ceased cleaning here years ago, and the walls held secrets of something that once was, but that time had now lost. The aura of a forgotten house that sat in such beautiful forest surroundings should be idyllic, but somehow there was an unspoken sinister presence that instantly put you on edge—a spine-tingling feeling aroused by one too many horror movies of deserted houses in the woods just like this.
“So what d’you reckon went on in this place?” Debbie said with a twinkle in her eyes, taking in everything she could see in the kitchen, her imagination running wild. This was the first room they had seen, having opened up the back door of what appeared to be an abandoned house and tentatively walking in.
Abandoned, the place was a complete mess. Debbie was torn between the excitement of exploration and the need to get outside and run back to their own cabin for safety. This felt nothing worse than naughty, but in truth they were trespassing, and breaking the law. This wasn’t everybody’s idea of a honeymoon, but then again, they weren’t everybody.
Paul shrugged, looking around at it all. His eyes finally came to rest on his tall blonde wife who looked consumed by the place. “It looks abandoned. But there is something slightly Mary Celeste about it.” He was drinking it all up, the mystery stirring his creative juices and almost overwhelming his senses. He was a graphic designer, so every detail was noted down in case a client wanted a website for eerie-meets-the-macabre. More than likely one of his author clients. They were all a little odd.
“Exactly!” Debbie clicked her fingers. “A family running for their lives, never to return!”
Paul grinned, “A guy with an axe walking quickly in pursuit!” They continued, the story growing legs and becoming something spawned by the minds of Stephen King and Tim Burton.
They stood there amongst cobwebs and dirty dishes, in a house in the middle of God-knows-where. A long, looping walk on their cheap-as-chips honeymoon had brought them there. A five-star hotel in the Maldives wouldn’t have offered them such adventure. Only the boredom of warm, white sands and a cyan-coloured sea lapping at their feet while holding cocktails—their own paradise. Speedos and bikinis, sunburn and coconut lotion, relaxing and reading the day away. Awful.
The back door of the house wasn’t exactly hanging off of its hinges and had at first appeared padlocked. Ever resourceful, Paul had noticed the weak hinges, pulled out a penknife, and was able to unscrew and literally take the door off of its hinges. That all said, it was plainly obvious this was a house, but it had been a long time since someone had considered it home. Spillages were plentiful, and some sort of wildlife had scavenged for food and generally caused mischief—if of course that was ever a conscious consideration to the local woods dwellers.
Paul picked up a magazine that felt brittle to the touch, the smell of the slowly rotting paper releasing into the air once moved. “These things have just been left?” A snapshot of time.
There was something eerie about the clock hands stopped dead on midnight, the batteries faded with energy and died at that exact time. And this train of thought seemed so very apt.
“We should buy it, babe. Let’s leave our lives and escape here!” Debbie grinned, though Paul knew that she was joking. It was possible that cleaning products and eggshell paint with the odd splash of accented colour would transform the place, unleashing the warmth that it currently lacked. However, the practicalities rained on any fanciful ideas turning them into just that, exposing it for what it really is: a lot of work stuck out in the middle of nowhere.
All around pots and pans darkened with stubborn stains sat haphazard on the worktop. There was a thick film of dust on top of everything, and even the pictures on the walls could barely be seen as the photos or paintings were hidden with age.
Despite her better judgement, Debbie was the first to leave the kitchen and search further into the unknown. She loved to push herself, entering marathons, and endurance races on almost a monthly basis. Her long blonde hair was often pulled back quickly and efficiently into a ponytail that was often seen bopping to her quick-rhythm behind. Her physical self-confidence gave her a devil-may-care attitude and also scared the life out of Paul. He happily went along with her adventures. A keen mountain-biker and occasional kayaker, he also played five-a-side football so was far from unfit. They were those annoyingly fit people that go to bed at night fully exhausted through physical exertion, rather than due to minor fatigue. Neither were twitchy or scared easily, and so their rational thought processes pushed them on when others may well have retreated and returned home.
This was perhaps their first mistake.
Paul was still looking in the drawers of the kitchen, almost obsessed with trying to timeline the mystery evacuation, when he suddenly noticed something at the corner of his eye. A blink of a small red light.
When he looked up, he saw a camera.
And then Debbie suddenly jogged back in, her eyes wide open.
“What?” Paul shouted.
Debbie turned quickly, grabbing his arm. “There’s a black van coming! Quick, let’s go!”
“Shit,” was Paul’s response, as they hastily retreated through the back door, glad they would not be visible from the front of the house. He glanced quickly at the door that he’d propped back up, and thought of the camera…
Outside, the garden was overgrown with a stone wall leading around the side like a half boundary. Together, they ran to it through a gap where it had begun to crumble. With hearts pounding, they ducked down, and hid.
They were deep in a large forest, and they could’ve made it well within the comfort of the trees, but without a spoken word to each other, they both wondered who the visitors were. Perhaps the house was going to be renovated. Cleaned up and sold at a profit.
Crouching as low as they could, they almost crawled following the wall around the side to a gap. There huddled, they could both look through without fear of being seen.
The van was a large, dark Ford Transit. Three men got out. The two from the front of the van ran to the back to open the doors, and the other one, who looked slightly older with receding white hair, stood erect surveying the surrounding area. Like a lookout.
He knows, they thought. That was such an illogical thought, but he looked like he was almost sniffing the air. Wondering whether or not to go after the prey.
“What is he looking at?” Debbie said in a whisper. “He couldn’t look any more suspicious if he were to pull out a gun and unload bags of money.”
What came out of the back of the van was not bags of money.
With one man on one end and the other stockier man on the other end, they pulled, and then carried what looked like a stretcher.
A stretcher with a sheet-covered body on it.
“That looks like a body,” Paul said, aware of how obvious he must’ve sounded.
“Shit, babe. What if we were still in there?”
The lone man had rushed in front of them presumably to open the door. But not before pulling something small and black from the back of his jacket.
“I don’t like this,” Paul added.
“Me neither.”
A small part of them both was curious to know what was going on, but they once again decided that they shouldn’t be there.
And then they heard a scream.
It came from within the house, but it was loud and piercing. It was almost an audio illusion as it sounded much to
o loud and clear to be from within the house, but there was no one around.
There were definitely three men. So who was the woman?
Was she under the blanket, or was she in the house with them?
Paul and Debbie ran away into the forest like their lives depended on it, but Paul couldn’t forget the camera.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
The pulsating red light.
Batteries still with charge. And recording their faces…
THE PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED
Chapter One
A few days earlier
T he wedding day had been amazing. A celebration filled with excitement, nerves, and overwhelming happiness. It was now coming to a close as the evening crept towards midnight.
Inside the hall, the faint sound of Dexi’s Midnight Runners could be heard with the out-of-tune drunken accompaniments of the inebriated wedding guests. Not one of them willing to stop the party or alcohol indulgence, just as long as the DJ played the music and the barman served drinks. The DJ was the bride’s odd brother called Jez, and the barman was a family friend, Eddie, so the likelihood of this coming to an end any time soon, seemed unlikely. The town hall had never had such a knees-up—well, not since the local WI group accidentally booked an evening with a poor-man’s version of the Chippendales, called Dick’s Swingers. Old Margaret Bothersby assumed that the gentlemen were dancers to swing music, and an entertainment that they could dip in and out of while sherry-tasting. The story goes that once juiced with alcohol, the normally conservative group of spinsters, widows, and People’s Friend readers got somewhat rowdy and unnecessary, building into—what was described by some—a frenzy bordering on molestation. Pawing at the innocent young men as they swung their members out of harm’s way and escaped naked. The local constabulary were called, but opinions seemed divided as to what the offence would be; the ladies all remained tight-lipped, and the gentlemen were too embarrassed to press charges.
Paul and Debbie were now married and sat outside, having finally grabbed their first moments alone. For a minute or two they didn’t say a word—sentences formed and spoken could not relay the emotions they both felt. Paul had lost his tie hours ago, and his sleeves were now rolled up to show muscular forearms, and Debbie—even with slightly smeared lipstick and smudged mascara—was still a thing of beauty. Her hair curled up onto her head with a tiara that sat there like it truly belonged. To take it off would end the day, and that was something right now she did not want to happen.
“What a day,” Paul finally said, holding her tightly and feeling her smooth skin slowly cool down. The words seemed careless and throwaway but meant as a conversation starter. It was a cliché, but they both wanted to remain in that moment forever.
She smiled. “It’s nearly over. But what memories, huh?”
He nodded slowly as he leant in for a kiss—one of the first they had enjoyed alone without family and friends pointing, mates heckling, and photographers posing them unnaturally. This one, however, was as natural and as tender as two people in love could be. They had both drunk all day, but there was too much formality to the day—being on their best behaviour amongst elderly members of both families, and so careful not to over-indulge in alcohol as the deep voices from inside had done (and were currently booming out “It’s Raining Men” like a football chant and nothing like the 1982 original by The Weather Girls).
“Thank you for letting my brother DJ,” she said. “And for inviting him to your stag do.”
Paul smiled at that. Her brother was a complete idiot. A harmless idiot, but still a complete idiot nevertheless.
“What?” she grinned, reading from his expression there was more to it than a pensive smile.
“Your brother is unique.” Paul then put on a thick Indian accent. “Excuse me, sir, but your friend cannot drop his trousers there!”
Debbie laughed. “No! He didn’t.”
“Yep,” Paul said before continuing. “I must ask that he cover his buttocks immediately, and cease swinging his manhood around! There are innocent people trying to eat!”
“Stop it!” She laughed, tears escaping from the sides of her eyes she had to quickly wipe away. She loved her brother, but at some point he lost his ability to act normal, probably the disco side of 1980, she thought.
“The waiter didn’t know what to do with him! We may struggle to get a table there again.”
They made eye contact again as their giggles ceased, entwining their fingers together so that their new rings touched. Their familiar hands now with new additions—a token of love and a symbol of change, interlocking themselves as one.
“I’m so looking forward to just getting away from it all, Paulie.” She half smiled, and of course he knew exactly what was on her mind.
Or rather who was on her mind.
“She was never going to spoil our day, Debs,” he started, almost not wanting to breach the subject. The very thought of her put a dampener on things. “It wouldn’t have mattered what stunt she’d’ve tried to pull, we were always going to get married.”
Debbie’s pained acknowledgement said many silent words, but the bottom line was that she believed him. It had been a long rocky path that had led them to this day, and the outcome could’ve been so much different. But they had each other for support. And of course they were very much in love.
He grabbed her left hand and brought it gently to his lips before adding, “That’s why Tony and Big George were on the door of the reception room. They wouldn’t have let her speak up and stop the wedding. They were under strict instructions to grab her and throw her out. That’s why they had free drinks all night.”
After a beat, Debbie grinned. “Everybody had free drinks all night!”
“Yes, but they didn’t know that beforehand, did they?”
“I love you, Paul.”
“I love you, Debbie.” They kissed again as the chill of the night whipped up a little just to let them know that it might be time to go back in. They didn’t want the evening to end, but they were also looking forward to getting back to the hotel room and cuddling up together in the blissful knowledge that they would wake up the next morning as a married couple.
Just then, the tattooed barman, Eddie, came purposefully out. “Hey Paul, sorry to disturb you both. The bar is just about run dry and, er, your DJ is having issues…”
“What is my brother doing now?”
“He’s playing ‘Smack My Bitch Up’…”
“His wife has just turned up again?” Paul guessed. She had been there earlier but had disappeared at some point, as was her way, and as a token of his love and humour, Jez had slipped on the song by The Prodigy.
“Correct. His wife has a face like thunder,” Eddie added. “Having them as neighbours, I know how they get!”
“Wives, eh?” Paul grinned winking at Debbie.”
“Nothing but bitches, us!” Debbie grinned back as they all went back in to see what was happening.
A few people were sat down finishing off their drinks, even though it was plainly obvious that no one would die of thirst tonight. Plastic cups, paper plates and streamers were either discarded on tables or lay defeated on the floor.
“Come on, DJ Billy-Big-Balls,” Jez’s wife said loudly, heavy with sarcasm. She was a stern-faced sturdy woman at the best of times. Even wearing a well-cut dress, and perfect make-up.
For a second, Jez looked rattled, but then a little fiddling with the buttons on his computer-decks, and The Prodigy was replaced with Guns N’ Roses singing “November Rain”. Paul was then wondering whether or not a song with an accompanying video depicting a tragic wedding-to-funeral story was a bad omen, when old Jez was suddenly on the dance floor swaying gently hip-to-hip with his wife; she was grinning wildly as Axl Rose was telling us how nothing lasts forever, not even cold November rain. Paul felt Debbie’s arm slide around him. He saw Eddie swigging a shot of something then catch his eye and nod the glass in a silent Cheers! He was certainly a good guy to have in
your corner. Tony was impersonating Slash with his air guitar, and he spied his old work colleague, Mike, looking a little worse for wear but still here, even though his teenage son, Conor, had disappeared a week ago, or just left home, as most people concluded. Of course that was a story for another day.
Paul’s parents had left an hour earlier, with his father now unable to stay out anywhere late, another depressing mark of time; gone were the days when his father would drunkenly argue, “Just one more drink,” and they would laugh, the drink turning into two and a couple of long-winded stories people would gather around to hear.
His teenage cousin, Tina, was there frantically texting on her phone. Her mum was in deep conversation with Debbie’s mum, who momentarily looked up and winked at the married couple.
This would be another of those snapshots that Paul would always remember, for so very many reasons. There was a semblance of relief they had made it over the finishing line, and he took a moment to yawn then, squeezing his new bride, ready to whisk her off and ravish her in an overpriced hotel room.
Outside in the car park, a woman sat alone, furious with the circus this wedding had become. Tears spilled silently down her cheeks.
She was furious.
This should’ve been me, she thought, hitting the steering wheel hard, her empty vodka bottle rolling around in the foot well.
She looked down at the picture of her and Paul together. Her dark exotic complexion was complete with a sly little smile, wearing a small swimsuit that left nothing to the imagination, and Paul stood proud with his lighter skin tone turning red from the hot sun on their holiday.
This was the perfect couple. Not those two pretenders in there. That was some awful show. A put on, before he fucking understood what his heart was telling him.
This ends here. If I can’t have him, then nobody can have him, she silently thought, grinding her teeth.
She looked into the mirror at the little face in the child’s seat and said, “Don’t cry, Susie. Daddy will come home soon, he’s just being a silly man!” But it all got too much. She cried loudly and hysterically, unsure whether there was an ounce of truth behind the words.
