The Ash House

by Cross, Amy

  “I thought you moved to London?”

  “I did,” I reply, nodding slowly. “That's kind of as far as I got with exploring the world, but at least it was something.”

  I wait for him to smile, or to laugh, or just to respond in any way. He seems very thoughtful tonight, and after a moment he looks over toward the window. He must have questions, but maybe he's scared of the answers.

  “Nana's kind,” I point out, still hoping to make him admit that being here isn't too bad. “She's a lot more fun than she might seem, too. Wait 'til you get to know her a little better.”

  “When are we going home?” he asks suddenly, still watching the window.

  “We'll see.”

  “Why did you make us bring so many things if we're only going to be here for a few days? You put almost all my clothes in the suitcase. And most of my books, too.”

  “Well, you don't want to run low, do you?”

  “Are you going to get sicker?”

  I force a smile, even though I'm struggling to hold back tears.

  “Am I going to have to live with Nana?” he adds, turning to me. There are tears in his eyes, too.

  “It's all up in the air, sweetheart,” I reply. “Nothing's been decided yet.”

  Suddenly my heart is beating so fast and so hard, I feel as if I'm going to faint. I've been searching for a way to tell Daniel about our change of plans; now that an opportunity has come up, however, I don't think I can go through with it. In fact, I think I might have a full-on panic attack if I spend too much longer in this room. I guess I'm a coward.

  “It's okay if I have to stay here,” he says.

  I feel a faint bump of hope in my chest.

  “It is?” I ask cautiously. “You don't hate it?”

  He pauses, as if he's thinking hard, and then he shakes his head.

  “You're a very big boy,” I reply, forcing a smile that I hope will disguise my tears. “Do you know that?”

  “Nana's not so bad,” he continues. “Her house smells funny. It's quite dusty. And it's weird not hearing traffic outside, but I don't mind that. So long as I'm allowed to play outside a lot.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “But how long will I have to be here for?” he asks. “Will it be more than a week?”

  He waits for an answer.

  I take a deep breath.

  I should tell him right now.

  “You're going to move in with Nana,” I imagine myself saying. “You're going to live here full-time, while Mummy goes away and...”

  How can I tell him?

  I can't even finish the sentence in my own head.

  I can't tell him that I'm going to be dead within a few weeks.

  “We're going to see about things,” I say noncommittally. “What you have to remember, though, is that Mummy and Nana are both going to put your needs right at the top of the priority list, okay? We're going to do what's best for you. Everything else comes second.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you should go to sleep now,” I add, leaning down and kissing his forehead before getting to my feet and heading over to the door. “I'm going to drive into town tomorrow and do some shopping for Nana. You can come if you like.”

  “Maybe.”

  I switch the light off and step out onto the landing, before turning to look back at him.

  “Sweet dreams, Daniel.”

  “Goodnight, Mummy.”

  “And Daniel...”

  I pause, wondering whether I can ask the next question. Wondering whether I should.

  “When you were out playing today,” I continue finally, “did you see or hear anything unusual?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don't know. Like anything that seemed odd to you. Anything at all. I won't laugh, I just want to know. Did you hear anything, or see anything?”

  I wait, but he's simply staring at me from the bed.

  “No,” he says finally.

  “Are you sure?”

  Another pause.

  “I'm sure.”

  “Okay.” I can't help feeling a pang of disappointment, but I guess there's still time. It was crazy to expect all the right answers on the first night. “Goodnight, honey. Sleep well.”

  With that, I gently bump the door shut and then I take a step back, leaning against the wall. For a moment, I feel as if I'm going to burst into tears, but somehow I manage to pull myself together.

  I'm such a coward. I should just tell him that we're closer to the end than he realizes. And just as importantly, I should stop using him in some kind of ghost-hunting experiment. Maybe there's a very simple reason why I never heard or saw anything in this house when I was younger.

  Everyone else was lying, and there's simply no such thing as ghosts.

  ***

  “Mum,” I say a few minutes later, as I head into the living room, “can I talk to you? I've been thinking that maybe I should just -”

  I stop in my tracks as soon as I see her fast asleep in her armchair. Her head is tilted to one side and she's snoring gently, and the Radio Times is laid out flat on her lap.

  Sighing, I step over and take the remote control, switching off Midsomer Murders. As I do so, I spot an empty wine glass on the table, and a two-thirds empty bottle that I'm pretty sure was unopened earlier this evening. I guess it was too much to hope that Mum might have laid off the booze, but it's not like she's a raging alcoholic.

  She just has her way of coping.

  “So I chickened out of telling Daniel,” I mutter, as I wander over to the table and pick the wine bottle up, taking a look at the label. “I had a wide open goal just now, and I totally blew it. I couldn't even begin to get the words out. Instead, I started going on about weird noises in the house. It's almost like I was trying to plant a seed in his mind.”

  I study the label for a moment, before turning back to see that Mum is still fast asleep.

  “You've got to look after him when I'm gone,” I continue, feeling another tightening knot of dread in my chest. “When I'm dead, I mean. I swear to God, Mum, you have to step up and do a better job with him than you did with me, 'cause he doesn't have anyone else in the whole world. And I don't think...”

  My voice trails off for a moment as I feel more tears in my eyes.

  “I don't think I'll be watching over him,” I add finally. “I mean, I'll try. If I can come back in any way, I will. But if I can't, he's only going to have you, so you've got to step up.”

  I wait, as if she might suddenly open her eyes and tell me she understands.

  Instead, she simply continues to snore.

  “I'm going to leave tomorrow,” I continue, shocking myself but at the same time realizing I have no choice. “I'll go get your shopping, but then I'm going to leave and I'm not going to say goodbye. I'm not dragging this misery out for the pair of you, not any longer.”

  I step closer.

  “I'll leave a note for you, and another for Daniel, but I can't do it any other way. I can't have a big goodbye, and I can't sit around here waiting until the morning comes when I just don't wake up. I can't put Daniel through that, I just can't, so it's better for him if I take off. That way, the last time he sees me, I'll be healthy-looking. Ish, anyway. I don't want him to ever see me when I'm dying, or when I'm dead. So for his sake, I have to go. And he'll understand, I know he will. If not now, then when he gets older.”

  Reaching down, I place a hand on her shoulder.

  “But if I can, I'll be watching over you both once I'm gone. If ghosts are real, I'll be one, and you'd better believe I'll come back and haunt you. If there's any chance at all...”

  I wait.

  The house is silent.

  I wipe a tear from my eye, as Mum lets out a faint snore.

  “There's no point asking you,” I add with a sigh. “You wouldn't notice a ghost if it ran up and screamed right in your face.”

  Chapter Ten

  Daniel

  I can hear
Nana snoring downstairs.

  Rolling over in bed, I look across the darkened room and see a line of light around the edges of the closed door. And then, a moment later, I hear soft footsteps out on the landing.

  A moment later, someone walks right past the door. And I hear a faint, brief cough.

  Chapter Eleven

  Diane

  This is it. This is the letter I'm going to leave behind for Daniel, the letter that's going to explain everything to him. The letter that hopefully he'll keep and read again when he's older, once I'm long gone.

  The letter that has to sum up everything.

  It has to be truthful, and hopeful, and honest and kind and loving.

  Maybe funny too.

  It has to offer a few words of advice.

  It has to be helpful to him, guiding him through tough times.

  In short, this letter has to do everything that I won't be able to do.

  And it has to say goodbye.

  No pressure, then.

  I've been sitting here at the desk in my old bedroom for hours, writing and rewriting this damn letter over and over again. I must have gone through thirty versions of the letter at least, trying to find some way to word things so that he won't be too upset. I need him to understand that I'm not abandoning him, that everything is for his benefit, but so far I haven't been able to find the right words.

  I'm not good at this.

  I'm sure most mothers would have no problem writing a beautiful, heartfelt letter that would make everything better, but for some reason I just don't have that skill.

  Checking my phone, I see that it's almost 3am. I've been here for four hours now, and all I've got so far is a pile of scrunched-up sheets and an empty page staring up at me. All I've managed is a bunch of false starts and several stupid little cartoon drawings of snails.

  Sighing, I decide to try again, although after a moment I glance over at the bed and see one corner of the red hold-all bag poking out.

  What if...

  No.

  I need to stay focused.

  I can get the bag out once I've finished the letter. Not before. I have to remember my priorities. Turning back to look down at the desk, I take a deep breath as I stare at the blank sheet of paper.

  Dear Daniel, I write finally, with the heaviest of hearts, I know -

  Before I can finish, I hear a faint shuffling sound out on the landing. I turn and look over at the door, which I left ajar in case Daniel needs anything, but the landing looks bare and empty. I wait a moment, just in case the sound returns, but after a few seconds I tell myself that there's nothing out there. Daniel certainly isn't out of bed, because that boy couldn't be quiet even if he tried, and all that wine'll keep Mum knocked out until morning.

  Turning back to look at the sheet of paper, I realize that maybe I'm allowing myself to get distracted.

  I have to do this.

  As soon as I press the pen's nib against the sheet, however, I hear another shuffling someone out on the landing, and I instinctively turn and look once again toward the open door.

  The house is silent again, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that both Daniel and my mother are in their rooms. Just as I'm about to turn back to the letter, however, I hear a faint clicking sound coming from somewhere near the top of the stairs, and this time I get to my feet. I tell myself that there's nothing on the other side of the door, but at the same time my heart is pounding.

  Is this it?

  Is this the confirmation I've been hoping for?

  “Daniel?” I whisper, just in case he somehow snuck out of bed.

  I wait for a few seconds, before making my way over to the door and peering out at the landing.

  There's no sign of anyone, and all the other doors are shut. I listen to the silence of the house, and then I head back over to the desk. Deep down, I think maybe I'm focusing on all these little noises because I want to avoid working on the letter. In fact, who am I kidding? Of course that's what I'm doing. It's not even subconscious.

  Sitting at the desk, I take a deep breath and pick up the pen again, and then I force myself to write.

  And it works.

  Somehow, the words flow and I write a letter that I know is perfect.

  There are tears in my eyes as I get to the end of the second side, but I can tell that I've done a really good job. I never thought I'd manage, but by some miracle I've actually managed to write a letter that I think will make Daniel feel better once I'm gone. This letter is sweet, and caring, and wise and helpful, and honest, and powerful and all those things I was aiming for. Hell, I think it's even a little funny in places.

  I write my name at the bottom, and then I sit back and read it all through again.

  It's perfect.

  I feel a flutter of hope in my chest as I imagine Daniel reading this letter once I'm gone, and I know that he'll feel better. That he'll understand. And then I imagine him reading the letter again when he's older, and again I feel certain that he'll take great solace from my words. Somehow I've managed to distill all my thoughts and feelings and set them down on the page in a manner that I think will really help my son. I read the letter again and again, but everything's truly, honestly perfect.

  I did it.

  And then, as I get to the end of the letter for the fourth or fifth time, I hear the bumping sound on the landing again.

  I look toward the doorway and listen for a moment, before setting the letter aside and getting to my feet. As I do so, I hear the sound again, and this time I'm certain that someone has to be out there at the top of the stairs. When I reach the doorway, however, I hesitate for a moment and listen to what seems to be a continuing creaking sound. I can see from here that Daniel's door is shut, and I know damn well that Mum wouldn't be messing about out there in the middle of the night, and after a few seconds I start to wonder whether some kind of wild animal has maybe managed to get inside the house.

  A fox, maybe, or a wild cat from the forest.

  The creaking sound continues, and finally I lean out and look toward the top of the stairs.

  My heart freezes as soon as I see a little girl sitting at the far end of the landing, with her hunched back turned to me.

  At the same time, the creaking sound stops dead.

  I watch the back of the girl's head, convinced that this has to be a hallucination, but as the seconds tick past I come to realize that she's really here. She doesn't seem to be doing anything, either. She's just sitting there, and I can't even tell whether she's noticed that I'm watching her. For a moment, I consider just going back into my room and shutting the door, but deep down I know that I have to go closer. I have to know if she's really a ghost.

  Finally, despite the fear in my chest, I take a step forward.

  A loose board groans under my feet, and the girl's head twitches slightly. The creaking sound returns as she turns to look at me, but she stops as soon as I can see the side of her face.

  She's so pale.

  “Hey,” I whisper, for some reason still trying to keep from waking anyone else. “Who are you? What are you doing in my mother's house?”

  The girl turns her head a fraction more, accompanied by the creaking sound, and now I can just about see one of her eyes.

  “Did you come in through an unlocked door?” I whisper, stepping all the way out onto the landing. “This is a private residence, I'm afraid you can't just come in here like this. If you're from town, you really ought to go home.”

  A shiver passes through my chest as I realize the air out here on the landing is so much colder than anywhere else in the house. Reaching down, I brush the back of my hand against the radiator, which to my surprise turns out to be on high. Still, the heat isn't spreading at all, as if some immense coldness is pushing back, and I'm almost shivering.

  “My name's Diane,” I say as I step closer to the girl. “Diane Mercer. I used to live here when... Well, when I was about your age.”

  The air is even colder now.

 
; “Can you tell me your name?” I ask, finally stopping just a few feet from her. “Can you tell me where you come from?”

  She's still not looking at me. Instead, she's sitting completely still as she stares down at the top step of the stairs.

  “Have we met before?” I continue, trying not to let myself sound too freaked out. “I know this is gonna seem crazy, but you look slightly familiar.”

  I don't see how that could be true, of course. It's years since I was last here at the house, and this girl looks to be barely any older than Daniel. As I watch her, however, I can't help feeling that something seems slightly wrong with her face, as if her cheekbones are a little too low and her eyes are too dark. I tell myself I'm imagining things, but a moment later I notice that her hands look odd too.

  Some of her fingers are fat and plump, but a couple look very skinny and loose, almost empty. And all of them are dirty, with mud caked across the flesh and black little scratches running between her knuckles.

  “Do you want to come downstairs with me and get a drink of water?” I ask, trying not to startle her too much as I look back at her face. She still hasn't actually turned to me yet. “It's pretty cold up here, isn't it? Why don't we go down to the kitchen and -”

  Suddenly I hear the creaking sound again, and while the girl doesn't turn to look at me, something seems to shift beneath her face, as if something's moving under the skin. Before I can ask if she's okay, I realize that her cheekbones have moved, and I swear I can see something shifting beneath the flesh that covers her jaw. At the same time, there's a faint crunching sound now.

  And her eyes are empty.

  Her eyelids are hanging like loose flesh, and there's a hint of bloodied bone where she should have sockets.

  It's almost as if her head turned inside, but her skull is no longer attached to her face.

  And then, slowly, she reaches up and presses a razor against her cheek, cutting through the flesh in two spaces to create a pair of slits. Then she uses a fingertip to pull one of the slits apart, and I'm horrified to see a dark little eye staring out at me.