by Darcy Coates
“Come here.” Neil pulled her against his chest and rubbed her back.
Mara fisted her hands in his shirt and buried her face against him as she waited for the rushing, whistling noise to fade. The tightness in her throat abated, and she sucked in ragged breaths. “This is my house.” She was shocked at how broken her voice sounded. “I bought it so that it would be a space free from my past. So what’s he doing in it?”
“You said he was famous.” Neil’s hands continued to move over her back in a firm, reassuring motion. “And Blackwood was supposed to be haunted. What if one the owners hired him to talk to the spirits?”
“And… what? He left his photo as a parting present?” Mara laughed but was bordering on hysteria. “I bet he was the sort of jerk who would do something like that.”
“Shh, Mara. Can you walk? Let’s go downstairs.”
Mara let Neil lead her to the ground floor and settle her into one of the dining room chairs. She stared at the hole in the wall while he moved into the kitchen to wash a glass from the cupboards and fill it with water. Through the intact panes, she could see little squares of the weedy grass that surrounded her house. They twitched in the light breeze.
Neil slid into the seat at her side and nudged the glass against her hand. “Here. You’ll feel better if you drink something.” His hand brushed across her back again, but Mara hardly noticed.
As the shock faded, it was replaced by anger. She felt violated. Her home—her sanctuary—had been tainted by a hackneyed spirit medium, one of her own family, the very people she’d been determined to never again cross paths with again. How dare he enter my house?
“Did you want to paint any of the rooms? The natural wood look is really nice, but one of my buddies has some leftover off-white tins if you want them.”
Mara blinked at Neil, confused by the sudden change in subject, then chuckled drily. “It’s okay. I’m fine now. You don’t need to try to distract me.”
Neil sighed. His fingers lingered on her back, tracing patterns through her shirt. “Jeeze, Mara, I’m sorry about this. It sucks, huh?”
“It absolutely sucks.” She gulped the water then set the glass aside as the hot anger cooled into decisiveness. “But you know what? I don’t care. Just like with the murders. What happened in this building a hundred years ago has no effect on its ability to be a good home today. I don’t care if Victor built the damn place. He doesn’t own it anymore.”
“Was that his name?”
“Victor Barlow, yeah. He was my great-great-grandfather. My parents had a photo of him in the living room. Ugly fellow, isn’t he? But they thought he was the best thing since chai lattes. I think he was twisted. Apparently he had a bunch of—and this is in very sarcastic quotes, mind—‘groundbreaking spiritual theories.’ Which means he was especially efficient at hoodwinking the public out of their money.” Mara gave Neil a grim smile. “Sorry to drag you into all of my stupid history.”
“I’m just glad you’re not hyperventilating anymore.” Neil dipped his head to nuzzle Mara’s neck. “Want me to get rid of the photo for you?”
“That would be awesome. Thanks.” She nudged back. “For everything.”
“Any time, sweetheart.”
Mara turned back to the hole in the wall. The weeds outside were becoming more shadowed as afternoon merged with evening. “Want to have an early dinner?”
“That sounds good. I brought fresh food. Would you like to start preparing it while I clear the bedroom out?”
“Yeah. We should probably make use of the remaining daylight, huh?”
She found it surprisingly easy to put Victor Barlow out of her mind as she fiddled with the kitchen’s dated stovetop. The excited, happy glow from the afternoon had been dampened but not entirely extinguished. By the time Neil reappeared to help her assemble the burgers, Mara almost felt like herself again.
They propped a torch upright in the centre of the dinner table so that its light diffused over the ceiling, then set the table with freshly washed crockery. While they ate, Neil kept her entertained with a myriad of recent news, gossip, and stories about his neighbour’s cat. He was lively and happy, and Mara could almost believe he’d forgotten about her breakdown until he pushed his plate to one side and said, with impeccable casualness, “Is it okay with you if I stay tonight?”
“Huh?” Mara narrowed her eyes over her bun. “What about your mother?”
“She’ll be fine. And I didn’t get that wall’s hole patched after all. I thought I could fix it up tomorrow morning before work.”
Mara put her hamburger back on the plate, wiped her hand clean, then leaned across the table to stroke Neil’s cheek fondly. “That’s really sweet. But I’ll be okay. Your mum needs you more.”
His eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into her touch. “I’d rather you weren’t alone tonight. Especially after—”
“I’m a big girl. This afternoon was nothing.” Mara smiled and found it was a genuine expression. “Go home and get some rest.”
Neil wet his lips and tried a final time. “Come with me?”
“Nope. Relatives aside, this house is still way cooler than yours. And don’t forget—you promised me a fire tomorrow night.”
“With hot chocolate. I remember.”
Mara moved closer to press a kiss to Neil’s mouth. He met her halfway, and his hand curled around the back of her neck to hold her close. She savoured the moment then drew back reluctantly. “Now get out of here, you beautiful man. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The warm, comfortable glow Neil had lent her lasted until his car’s engine faded from her hearing. She stood on the porch for several long minutes after his vehicle’s silver roof dipped behind the trees. Then she shuddered and zipped her jacket up.
After four years of running from your family, they’ve come back to snap at your heels.
“No.” Mara ground her teeth as she re-entered the house. “They’re not here. They haven’t been for decades.”
But they were. And not just any cousin or quirky uncle, either, but him. What did your parents call him? ‘The greatest spiritualist of the century,’ wasn’t it? ‘An inspiration.’ They were hoping you’d follow in his steps.
“Neil’s right. He was probably just here for a one-night seance or something. Maybe he dropped the photo while he was staying in the spare bedroom. Or it might not have been him at all but someone who admired him.”
He’s tainted the house, though.
“This is my house now!” Mara’s voice rose until her words echoed through the empty building. “Mine! You can’t touch me here!”
A sprinkle of dust fell from the ceiling and drifted past her shoulder. A low, drawn-out groan came from her right, and Mara swivelled towards the living room.
The rocking chair, sitting below the window, rolled on its struts.
“Shut up!” Mara crossed to it in five long paces. She kicked the chair, but that only made the movements quicken. What’s it doing here? Why did Neil move it back?
Mara closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then grabbed the chair’s back and dragged it across the room. She pressed it against the wall so that it couldn’t move no matter how strong the wind was, then let her breath whistle out through pursed lips, slumped, and turned back to the stairs.
She went straight to the spare bedroom, and a small part of the happy glow returned. Neil had not just removed the splintered bed but had also shifted the bureau and wardrobe into a corner, swept the floor, and arranged the sleeping bag and heater in the room’s centre. He cares way too much.
Mara stretched. Aches radiated from strained muscles, and her limbs felt heavy from the day’s exercise. Better make it an early night.
She brushed her teeth in the fractured mirror, turned the heater on, then crawled into bed fully clothed. The dreams started as soon as she closed her eyes.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Intruder
The nightmare was frenetic and disjointed. She saw the axe, its tip darkened by long-drie
d blood, arcing through the air. Children’s voices laughed and chattered and screamed in the background. Their garbled noise was interspersed with the whistle and dull thud of the axe as it dismembered its victims.
Mara gasped and sat upright. Sweat drenched her and stuck her shirt to her back. The room was pitch-black and quiet, but she sensed she wasn’t alone. “… Neil?”
A creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. Mara’s mouth went dry. She fumbled for the torch she’d left beside her head, turned it on, and swung the light across her room. Everything looked the way she remembered it. No shadowy figures watched her from the corners, and the walls stayed free of scribbled messages.
The creak came again, this time nearer. Mara shuffled out of her sleeping bag and stood, shivering despite the heater. She raised her eyes towards the ceiling as the sound came closer, and watched as a small trickle of dust fell from where the boards were strained.
There’s someone in the attic.
Mara was painfully aware of how loud her breathing was, but she couldn’t stifle the noise. She felt wholly different than the night before, when she’d brazenly stormed the attic, Neil at her side. Because I was safe then. I had Neil. And Neil would never let anyone hurt me.
She was ashamed of how panicked she felt. She turned towards her phone on the bureau, but it was, of course, still dead. No car. No phone. And now I have company for the second night in a row.
The footsteps reached the other end of the house, turned, and retraced their path. Mara shrank backwards as they passed over her, barely four feet above her head, and continued along the building.
Then the footsteps were joined by the rocking chair’s groans. Mara mouthed a swear word. All rationality seemed to have drained from her. Thoughts of the footsteps belonging to a harmless squatter or teenager had dissipated. A sane, reasonable person wouldn’t return to an occupied house after being kicked out.
A door slammed. As if in response, the rocking chair’s creaking sped up. Mara backed towards the window, desperate for more light than her small torch provided, but thick clouds covered the moon and left the outside world in nearly perfect darkness.
The footsteps stopped above Mara’s head. She turned her torch towards the ceiling as her stressed, panicked mind tried to guess where in the attic the intruder might be standing. I’m in the room next to the bathroom, which is halfway along the house. So this would be almost exactly under…
Motion caused Mara to swivel towards the window.
… almost exactly under the hole.
It had happened too fast for her to be sure, but Mara thought she’d glimpsed a tumble of limbs and hair plunging down the side of the house.
The rocking chair’s tempo was frantic. Mara stood rooted to the spot, not daring to breathe, her heart beating itself bruised against her ribcage. Then, with a gasping, shaking breath, she stepped closer to the window, leaned forward so that her forehead pressed against the icy glass, and pointed her torch towards the ground.
It was a bad angle. The light illuminated a circle of the long, weedy brown grass but not much more. Mara raised the torch higher and stood on her toes to see a few inches closer to the building.
A patch of the grass at the edge of her light seemed to be bent as though something large and heavy had landed on its base and pushed the tips outwards. She couldn’t see what that object was, though.
Mara swore again and lurched away from the window. Cold sweat trickled down her back. The rocking chair’s rhythm finally seemed to be slowing; each creak was longer and more deliberate.
You have to go down there and check.
Mara felt rooted to the floor.
If someone fell from the attic, they’d either be dead or close to it. They could be suffering; you can’t just leave them there.
She shook her head and clenched her fists. Tears burnt at her eyes, but she took a choked gulp of air and blinked them back.
You have to check.
The door slammed. Mara jolted as though she’d been electrocuted, then she burst out of her room, torch beam waving erratically. She took the stairs two at a time to the foyer and paused there, panting and swinging the light back and forth. To her left, the rocking chair creaked a final time then fell still.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Mara panted, willing herself to open the front door. The house seemed deliberately silent as though holding its breath in anticipation of her choice. She stretched her hand towards the doorknob and touched the cold metal.
The feeling that she wasn’t alone persisted. It was so strong that it sent prickles across her skin. She was convinced that there was someone standing behind her, breathing just a fraction too quietly for her to detect. She didn’t dare turn around to check.
Stop being such a damn coward. Someone could be bleeding out on your lawn. Mara twisted the handle. The unseen figure felt closer, as though it were stretching a hand towards her, its fingers a centimetre from the back of her neck. Mara lurched onto the porch and slammed the door behind her. The feeling of having company vanished.
“Crap,” Mara muttered as she flicked her torch over the yard. Heavy rainclouds had built across the moon so that she was only able to see what was in her small circle of light. The tall, sickly trees played tricks on her eyes as their shadows leapt erratically.
She followed the porch as far as she could then slid over its edge. The weedy grass grew halfway up her thighs. She was still wearing her jeans from the day before, but they were thin, and the sensation of the plants scraping against her legs made Mara’s heart leap into her throat.
She followed the wall and rounded a corner to reach the back of the house. Then she stopped, one hand pressed against the worn wood, the other pointing her torch towards the grass that clustered close to the building. Now that she was still, she became aware of the animal noises that surrounded her. Crickets and bats competed with each other to be heard, their calls rubbing Mara’s nerves raw. The trees shifted in the light breeze and scraped their branches together.
“Come on. Keep moving.” Mara took a step forward then stopped again. What if they’re already dead? What if their head burst on impact and scattered brain pulp and skull fragments across— “Keep moving,” Mara repeated then staggered down the back of the house and towards the dark patch where the grass had been indented.
She didn’t allow herself to stop until she was right beside the area. Then she bent over, hands on her knees, to gulp in dry, shaky breaths. She felt as though she might throw up.
There was a definite indent in the grass. Something heavy had crushed the stalks. But whatever—or whoever—had been there was gone.
Mara felt relief, but not enough to overcome her fear. She stepped away from the patch of grass and focussed her light on Blackwood House’s face. She could see her room immediately above her. She’d left a light on, and the golden window stood out in sharp relief against the dark, hulking building.
Mara moved farther back, pressing deeper into the yard until the weeds and shrubs became too dense to move amongst them easily, and pointed her torch higher. Above her room was the roof’s hole, dark and gaping. Mara traced the path from the hole, over her window, and to the patch of ground. It was a perfect line.
Someone did fall, then. But they’re no longer here. Did the grass pad their landing enough for them to walk away? It’s a two-story drop. They should have broken bones at the very least. Even if they were able to walk or crawl somewhere to hide, they wouldn’t be well enough for the walk back to town, especially in the dark. What does that mean? Would they hide in the forest? Or go back into the house?
Mara panned her light across the building a final time. A splash of colour in the master-bedroom window caught her notice. It slid out of sight before Mara could train her torch on it, but she could have sworn she’d glimpsed sunken cheeks and crazed eyes set in a pale face.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Shadows
Mara stayed in Blackwood’s backyard, mouth open and mind blank, for a long time.
She kept her light directed at the window, but there was no further motion.
Did I imagine it? The glass might have caught and reflected the torch’s light. I’m so keyed up it would be easy to think I saw a face.
Mara swallowed heavily and began skirting the building, continuing in the same direction as before. As she walked, she kept flicking her torch’s beam between the land ahead of her, the woods surrounding her home, and the windows of the house, but she saw no signs of life.
The air inside Blackwood was a few degrees warmer than outside. Mara closed the door behind her with a relieved sigh. She held still and listened to the building. There were no footsteps. The rocking chair stayed quiet. She could make out a bat’s screech coming from the woods, but the house was almost perfectly silent.
I have to search it. Damn, but I wish I had Neil with me. Mara edged her way through the dining room and into the kitchen. She’d cleaned all of the surfaces the day before, but the cutlery and plates still needed sorting and washing. She opened a drawer, cringed at the sight of five dead cockroaches among the implements, and fished out a long, serrated knife.
With just one person, it was impossible to search the rooms and watch the exits at the same time. Instead, Mara moved slowly and stealthily, pausing often to listen. If another person tried to sneak through the house, she knew she would hear them. The building was too old to move more than a few paces without straining the wood.
She started upstairs, beginning with the master bedroom, where she’d thought she’d seen the face, and working her way down the hallway. She searched in wardrobes, under beds, and behind curtains—any place that was large enough to hide a human. Her new bedroom was the most welcoming out of all of them; the heater had left it warm, and the light she’d left on was comforting. Mara wished she could huddle in the room, close her eyes, and pretend the remainder of the house didn’t exist. She left it reluctantly.
The graffitied room made her pause again. She reread the message—this is our house—and turned away with a grimace. Once she reached the far end of the hallway, Mara turned around and surveyed the row of closed rooms.
