“Of course. Please. Help yourself.”
Terry practically ran up the stairs. Probably wanted to make sure he got his pictures before I changed my mind.
I stared at the roots. “What are you doing here?” I heard myself say. “What do you want?”
Something brushed my leg through my jeans. I looked down—one of the thinner roots had curled around my foot. But surely that hadn’t been so close. Had I somehow slid under it? I withdrew my foot and the root hung an inch or two off the ground for a few seconds before settling back on the floor. I stared at it and swallowed hard. I could ask Terry if tree roots moved like that, but I risked looking stupid. Or paranoid. No. I’d already done enough of that with the drama group. I didn’t need to become the laughing stock of the Arborists’ Association or whatever they called themselves.
Terry reappeared, complete with digital camera. He snapped away for a minute or two, capturing the growth from every angle.
“Would you hold these roots aside for me a second? I want to photograph where they’re coming in.”
In my present state of mind, that was the last thing I could do. “How about if you hold them back and I take the photo? I said.
“Okay, if you wish. If you could get in really close, that would be great.”
He pulled the roots aside and I bent down.
A whooshing noise, like a sigh, filled our corner of the cellar.
Terry jumped. I gasped and nearly dropped the camera. “What was that?”
Terry’s face had paled. “Haven’t a clue. Wind in the pipes or something?”
I snapped the picture. The flash lit up the wall, illuminating the strange, veined appearance of the bricks.
“Fuck!” Terry dropped the cluster of roots he was holding and clasped his wrist, Blood dripped between his fingers.
“Oh my God. What happened?”
“The damn thing scratched me.”
The way he described it made it sound like a willful act. His blanched face and open-mouthed expression told me that’s exactly how it had felt.
“Let’s get you up to the kitchen,” I said. “See how bad it is. I have a first-aid kit up there.”
It proved to be a superficial wound, deep enough to bleed profusely for a few minutes, but didn’t seem to have penetrated anything major. Terry ran it under the cold faucet until the blood stopped. I wrapped his arm in a clean tea towel before dressing it. His hands were shaking.
He glanced up at the clock. “I’ll have to go, Mrs. Chambers. I really must get to that other job. See what the surveyor says when you get one. But, as far as I’m concerned, unless I hear anything to the contrary from anyone in the association, my advice would be to leave well alone.”
I thanked him, told him to send me the bill, which he said wasn’t necessary, and saw him out. I felt sure he never wanted to hear another word about my cellar, or the tree. When Terry Watson left, he was terrified.
Chapter Eight
I can’t explain why I went back down to the cellar that day. Part of me wanted only to run away, as fast and as far as my legs would take me. Part of me screamed at my stubborn other self to leave that house. No more shillyshallying. Abandon it and throw away the key. After all, I had no ties anywhere these days. True I’d had some friends from my pre-inheritance days, but it was amazing how many of them had turned out to be less than friends, more like acquaintances. When I told them of my “good fortune”, some expressions changed from delight to greed. People I had known for years, and even trusted, were ringing me up, coming to see me, working the conversation around to telling me about some lost cause of theirs, some hardship they had never thought to share with me before. All cost money. I gave willingly at first until I realized that once the money landed in their bank accounts, they drifted off, with barely a “thank you”. We no longer had anything in common. So much for friendship.
When my last so-called friend joined their ranks, my disillusion with people hit rock bottom. She already had my change of address, but I didn’t inform any of the others. When I left my old life, I left it for good. Only Neil seemed to have followed me and he’d probably asked her for my address. Hopefully that one visit would be his last here, so now I could end my previous life altogether. As I thought about it, I realized I had no regrets about that.
I stood at the top of the cellar steps and stared down. A strange, tugging sensation drew me to place my foot on the first step. My rational side screamed at me to stop. It carried on screaming, louder and louder with each descending step.
The brick walls seemed to close in on me. My sandaled feet echoed on the wooden treads. The hollowness of the sound felt unnatural, as if I had entered some vaulted stone chamber, not this flat-ceilinged cellar.
At the bottom, the earthy, woody smell assaulted me, stronger than before. I had to go there. I had to go up to the tree roots. I didn’t know why.
They seemed bunched up even tighter than a few minutes earlier. One or two long, thin tentacles stretched out across the uneven dirt floor. I crept up to the wall at the farthest reach of the root span, where Terry and I had taken the photographs.
My fingers prickled and tingled. I rubbed my hands together, but I had to see the bricks behind the roots; that strange, vein-like construction I had glimpsed when the camera flashed. The warning voice in my head reached fever pitch, but the compulsion to find out what lay there proved far stronger. I stretched out my fingers. They trembled. I stretched them farther. I touched a clump of roots and licked dry lips. The roots rustled in my hand. I swallowed my revulsion as they squirmed like rough maggots, tickling my palm. Gently, I drew them away from the wall, but I couldn’t see clearly. Too much shadow. I cursed my stupidity in not bringing the flashlight. I could go back and get it from the stairs where it lay but I knew if I let go now, I probably wouldn’t have the courage to try again. I would have to make do.
I moved in closer. There were the bricks—red, rough, and covered in a threadwork pattern of dark brown strands. I touched them, followed their trail up and down the wall. Some seemed to end, achieving no purpose. Others grew broader and thickened out into the roots I held in one hand. Every time I saw them, they had reconfigured themselves.
Something rough and sinewy gripped my hand and I cried out. I shook my fingers and the roots fell away. They settled back against the wall, as they had done before. The warning voice sounded in my head again. It was as if they deliberately arranged themselves. As if some sentient life was choreographing them.
Oh, for pity’s sake!
I shivered. It had grown colder, probably because the time was getting late. I moved away and turned my back on the roots. As I reached the stairs, a chill breeze behind me ruffled my hair. I spun around. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse. Something tall, dark, arms outstretched at right angles to its body.
A memory stirred.
What had Neil said he’d seen?
A scarecrow.
* * * * *
After Monday, my senses were finely tuned to any sign of pity or ridicule, however well concealed. But the drama group was charming, as before. They greeted me with warm friendliness and behaved as if nothing had happened. Only Shona showed any sign of concern.
“Are you all right?” she asked, as she arrived, alone.
I took her coat. “I’m fine. Really.” If I said it enough, maybe I’d convince myself. “I still can’t explain the girl Cynthia says she saw, but apart from that, I think I’m getting somewhere.” Really? Who was I kidding?
Shona smiled. Did she believe me? She put her hand on my arm and our eyes met. Why had I never noticed before? She had such clear green eyes. Like emeralds. Hypnotizing. “Well that’s good news,” she said. “Have you moved back in yet?”
“Yes. Today.”
Why had I said that? I still had a night’s booking at the hotel. Earlier today I had made m
y mind up to leave this house. The trip to the cellar had changed something. Even with the strange apparition I had thought I’d seen, the rational side of me had been quashed. Inexplicably, I experienced an overwhelming urge to stay. At least for now.
I made tea and added my last packets of chocolate digestives and gypsy creams to a plate. Another rehearsal tomorrow. I’d have to go shopping.
Upstairs, Shona was in full swing as Griselda Clement. I didn’t want to disrupt the flow so I hung around outside the rehearsal room, listening for a moment when the director paused the proceedings. I set the tray down on a table. The corridor was quiet, still and dark as the landing light only illuminated the first few feet. Farther along, a bulb was out and I made a mental note to replace it in the morning. Beyond that, the corridor was shrouded and shadowy.
Something dashed across my peripheral vision and a giggle sounded from close by. I peered into the darkness. Nothing. Another giggle. Behind me this time. I turned. Another bulb had burned out and I could see little in the gloom. Down the corridor a door opened, a shaft of light flashed across the floor in front of it. The door closed. The light vanished. And so had she. Veronica. For a split second I had seen her clearly—blonde plaits, yellow dress, happy smile.
And she had seen me.
My heart thumped. My mouth dried. I heard chatter from the other side of the door. The cast had taken their break. Without a word, I opened the door, picked up the tray, and took it inside.
“Oh, lovely,” said Shona, handing out the biscuits. “Gypsy creams. My favorites.”
The plate emptied in seconds. My hand shook a little as I poured the tea.
Shona whispered to me. “Are you all right, Maddie? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking though.”
She didn’t look convinced. And another look passed over her face. A strange look I couldn’t fathom. As if somehow I couldn’t be “fine”. Another symptom of my paranoia no doubt. Actually I amazed myself at how calm I felt. And at how I closed the door and left the drama group happily munching and sipping, while I walked steadily down the corridor to the door that had opened a few minutes earlier. I touched the handle and nearly lost my nerve.
I leaned against it, my ear pressed close, straining to pick up any sound, however slight. Nothing. I stepped back and turned the handle, meeting a little resistance at first. Had it been stiff like this before? I pushed harder and it opened, with a creak. Inky darkness met me. I reached for the light switch and pressed it. One dim bulb in the center of the large room did little to illuminate it, but I recognized it instantly. The white sheets, shrouding old, discarded furniture, boxes, pictures.
My nerve deserted me and I backed out of the room, switching the light off and closing the door. A second after I turned away, I heard that giggle again. Veronica’s giggle. I looked down at the floor. Light from a much brighter source than the dim bulb was seeping out from the room into the corridor. I struggled to keep calm as I stared at it. The light went off.
I half ran to the stairs. My resolve to stay in the house had evaporated in an instant. I couldn’t stay here tonight. I wouldn’t get a minute’s sleep, and I needed my wits about me. I would stay at the hotel and regain my sanity. Everything would look far clearer in the morning. For one thing, I could get Charlie to come over and fix more lighting in that room, and I’d get some local man-with-a-van to come and clear it out.
As for the cellar. I’d leave that alone. After all, it wasn’t doing anyone any harm. If anything, those roots were strengthening the foundation. Somehow.
* * * * *
I lay back against the plump, pristine pillows in my hotel room and poured a miniature of scotch I’d found in the mini-bar into a glass I retrieved from the bathroom. I sipped it while, on TV, an old film played. The Haunting.
I usually loved horror films, especially the old ones. I’d lost count of how many times I’d seen this one, but always enjoyed its scary twists and turns, the sudden shocks and hidden demons. But somehow it scared me more that night. And not in that delicious, hide behind the pillow kind of way.
I flicked the remote and found an old romantic musical. Ginger Rogers proving that she really did do everything Fred Astaire did—backward.
My mind wandered back to Hargest House. So much was wrong there. And what bothered me most was my reaction this evening. I’d been compelled to go down to that cellar, when any sane person would have kept the door locked, at least until the surveyor had added his—or her—opinion to Terry’s. But even more inexplicable was my decision to investigate that room. In the dark. After I’d seen…well, whatever it was I’d seen. Maybe, being on my own too much, my imagination had started to play tricks on me. That was pretty much the only explanation I currently had for the apparent manifestation of my childhood imaginary family. It almost worked too, except I hadn’t been the only one to see one of them.
Then there were all the stories about Aunt Charlotte. I racked my brain for memories of her. Most seemed to come from my pre-teen days, with flashes from later years and still nothing from the last year. Aunt Charlotte laughing. Singing with her around that piano. Picnics in the grounds; a red and white checked tablecloth spread out under the tree. The tentacle tree. When I was small enough, I used to climb into its semi-circular hollow. Flashes of conversation came back to me. My eight-year-old self asking question after question.
“When did the lightning strike, Aunt Charlotte?”
“Many years ago, dear. Before Mr. Hargest built this house. Before anyone who is alive today was born.”
“Is it as old as Priory St. Michael?”
“Well now, Priory St. Michael is at least a thousand years old. But I think it may be. Or even older.”
“Will it be here all my life? ’Til I’m your age?”
Her rich laughter rang out. “I expect so, Maddie. Even when you reach my great age, this tree will still be standing. It’s a very special tree.”
“It’s the tentacle tree. Does it mind me calling it that?”
More laughter. Indulgent this time. “I’m sure it doesn’t mind at all.”
“Why do you talk to it?”
My eyes shot open. I’d forgotten that. Aunt Charlotte used to talk to the tree. I had seen her—head pressed close up to it, hands outstretched along the branches. I’d never heard what she’d said; her words were whispered, hurried, indecipherable; maybe not even in English. I closed my eyes again and tried to recapture that sunny day, the picnic, her response. But the moment had passed. The memory faded. Somehow I knew I had to remember. The Aunt Charlotte I knew at that time had been different, eccentric even, but she never went in for general tree hugging, or talking to any of the plants in her garden. Not in my hearing anyway. Unless I had forgotten. No. It was that tree. I had seen her Book of Shadows. Willows were important to her and there was something about that willow in particular. It was as entwined into Aunt Charlotte’s life as its roots were to the house.
Now her house belonged to me. After so many years’ estrangement, she could have left it to anyone and no one would have blamed her. Her will had been dated only last year. A simple single sheet of paper the solicitor had read out to me while I sat, unable to believe what I heard.
To my niece, Madeleine Chambers (née Johnson), I leave my entire estate, including the house and grounds known as Hargest House. She will remember.
Remember what, Aunt Charlotte? And why is it so important that I do?
Chapter Nine
The chill in the rehearsal room hit me at the door. The cast would certainly need those heaters tonight. I rubbed my hands together, pulled my cardigan tighter around my body and flicked the switches on, turning the dials up to maximum.
I hurried out of the freezing room and shut the door behind me. In the distance, the doorbell rang. It should have been the house clearance man with a van. It wasn’t.
“Hello, Maddie.”
“Charlie. I wasn’t expecting you ’til tomorrow.”
He grinned and came into the hall. “I finished my last job early, so I thought I’d see if I could make a start now.”
“That would be great. I have a man coming to clear all the rubbish out of there, but I’m sure you’ll manage to keep out of each other’s way.”
The smile faded for a second. “You’re throwing all your aunt’s stuff out?”
“It’s only old junk. Broken furniture, that sort of thing. I haven’t a clue why it’s in there, to be honest. All the other rooms on that floor and the one above are pretty much empty, but that one’s a general dumping ground.”
The smile returned. “Well, we all need one of those, don’t we? Mine’s my cellar, but yours is already occupied, isn’t it? Thought any more about that tree?”
I followed him up the stairs. “I’ll get a surveyor in at some stage. But the arborist seems to think the roots aren’t a threat to the foundation.”
“Think you’ll keep the old place after all?”
We had arrived on the second floor. I hesitated. Had I mentioned my thoughts on selling the house to Charlie? I didn’t think so. Maybe he’d read something into my attitude at some stage. Perhaps Shona had told him. Every day found me more confused about what I did want to do. I was frustrated with myself. From being a decisive person, I had turned into a woman who changed her mind every day, and I had no idea why. It felt almost as if my mind wasn’t entirely my own anymore. For now, it seemed, I was staying here—but tomorrow could paint a whole different picture.
“I don’t know, Charlie. Some days I think I will, and some days I want to sell.”
“You should stay here. This house suits you.”
“What? You mean old and decrepit?” I laughed.
The Devil's Serenade Page 9
