by Darcy Coates
“Well, thank goodness I skipped work, or my girl would be doing an impression of a Popsicle by now.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Mara grumbled. “And I’m putting my foot down. My house, my rules. I’ll see you tomorrow, after you’re finished at work, okay?”
Neil sighed and dipped his head to rest it against Mara’s. “Is there anything I can say to change your mind? Anything at all?”
“Nope.”
“All right, fine. See you tomorrow, beautiful.” He kissed her softly, his hand lingering on the back of her neck, then left to collect his equipment.
The anxious prickles started to develop not long after Neil closed the door. Mara rubbed them off her arms as she moved to the dining room window to watch his car disappear around the bend. That was the right choice. You can’t become too dependent on him… or let him become too dependent on you. It’s your house, after all.
“My house,” Mara repeated as she turned back to the building. “My home.”
A door slammed.
Mara glared at the ceiling then snatched Neil’s flashlight off the dining room table. “Not tonight.” She began circling through the building and checking its problem areas. “Tonight’s going to be peaceful and enjoyable.” She wedged the rocking chair even more firmly into its corner and made sure that the basement door was shut. Then she jogged up the stairs to work her way through the second-floor rooms.
As she stood on the landing, the master-bedroom door drew open with a tenebrous moan almost as though it were inviting her inside. Mara glowered at it then slipped into the room.
The twilight filtering through the window was strong enough to show the scratches without Mara’s torch. She approached the door and ran her fingers down the markings. Probably made with a knife by the same hooligan who thought it would be funny to graffiti my room.
The door, nudged by a breeze Mara couldn’t feel, ground forward. She knocked it back to the wall, pressed the footstool against it to hold it in place, then returned to the hallway. She checked that all of the other doors were secure in their latches and retied the length of cloth around the attic’s trapdoor. She made the knot tight so there’d be no way to undo it without snapping it, then returned to her bedroom.
As twilight slipped into night, the webcam’s image became grainier, and Mara had more difficulty in discerning where one piece of furniture ended and another began. Maybe Neil was right. Maybe I should have splurged on a more expensive model.
She pulled her alarm clock out of her box of possessions and checked the time. It was a little before six. The last two days, the footsteps hadn’t started until after eleven. I had hardly any sleep last night. I should catch a few hours while I can. I’ll get some dinner when I wake up.
Mara set the alarm for ten thirty then slid into her sleeping bag and closed her eyes. She was drifting in the place between sleep and wakefulness when she thought she heard the faint, slow groan of the master-bedroom door gliding closed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Cold Comfort
The red-haired woman cradled her child tenderly as she rocked him. She was middle-aged and plump with a sweet, matronly face. Mara imagined she would be the sort of woman who might spend the afternoon cooking treats for her family then have friends around for tea and to go over the latest gossip in delighted whispers.
The rocking chair’s struts creaked as the woman bounced her feet against the floor. She was murmuring a lullaby to the child. Mara didn’t recognise the tune, and she thought the words might be in a different language. The woman’s hair was such a vivid red that it suggested she could have come from Ireland or a Nordic country.
That wasn’t the only red on her. Blood drenched the front of her dress. It was smeared over her hands and up to her elbows in the same way that Mara imagined flour might get all over her from an afternoon of baking. Drops had sprayed across one half of her face and dribbled down to her chin.
Mara turned and saw the husband lying face down in front of the fire. The blue rug under him was turning purple from the blood that drained from his wounds. An axe sat embedded between his shoulder blades.
“Hush, my darling, hush. It’s all right now.” The woman, cooing to her son, shifted him in her arms. The child’s head lolled backwards. Mara saw its eyes, wide and empty in death, before his mother curled her hand through his hair and pressed him back against herself. “Hush, sweet one.” The woman closed her eyes, tilted her head towards the ceiling, and kicked against the floor. The rocking chair’s struts groaned as it rolled.
Mara jolted awake, gasping and shivering. She clutched at the sleeping bag behind her, half hoping that she might find Neil there, and was crushed that it was empty.
She pressed her hands over her face and tried to slow her breathing. A creak—almost like a leftover phantom from her dream—reverberated from the ground floor. Mara’s heart jumped. Damn it!
Mara crept out of the sleeping bag and turned her torch on. The alarm clock said the time was a little after ten, and patches of moonlight, filtered through the trees, painted strange designs on the floor. She went to the laptop and shook the mouse to bring it out of hibernation. The webcam still showed the attic. Its night vision had turned on though it didn’t help much: she could make out the walls and one big cabinet, but the rest of the screen was a jumble of indistinct shapes. She watched it for a moment, but there was no movement. The creaking downstairs repeated.
What’s causing it? The rocking chair can’t be moving, and I checked that the basement door was closed. What else? Is there a person downstairs?
Mara moved out of her room. She turned her torch on the trapdoor at the end of the hallway and was relieved that the barely visible strip of white cloth was still intact.
The creak was so subtle that it almost felt like a part of the house, as though the building itself were breathing around her. It seemed to have a different timbre to the familiar rocking-chair sounds.
Mara crept down the stairs, her torch’s light flickering over the walls and furniture without finding any signs of movement. She stopped when she reached the foyer and waited for the noise to guide her on which direction to take. The house was quiet for a moment, then the creak repeated behind her. It felt close. Mara turned towards the dining room and edged inside. Her light shimmered on the polished-wood table and Neil’s spare tool chest, which he’d left propped neatly against one wall. I shouldn’t have sent him away. I could really do with company right now.
No, don’t be stupid. You’re letting the darkness get to you again. There’s nothing to be frightened of; it’s just an old house making the sort of noises an old house makes. The sound could even be wood flexing in the cooling air—
Again, the creak came from behind Mara. She twisted to face the foyer, and her light glanced over a dark shape hanging below the stairs.
Mara’s body moved against her will. She stumbled backwards, half choking in her attempt to draw breath and scream at the same time. Her light jittered over the ceiling and walls for a beat before she could redirect it towards the space below the staircase.
It was empty. Mara crept forward, her heart a frantic, pounding tempo in her ears, to skim the light over the foyer.
I imagined it. My torch must have caught a patch of shadow. There’s no one here, and certainly no one hung from the stairs.
A faint rumble made her turn towards the door. A vehicle was coming up the driveway. Mara pressed a shaking hand over her mouth to muffle her breathing. It’s the intruder; he’s come back.
She turned her torch off, crossed to the front door, and opened it a crack. Moonlight made the white pebble path glow through the weeds. The rumble gradually grew closer until a car came around the bend.
Mara recognised the silver people mover and slumped against the wall, breathing freely. Neil. Thank goodness. There’s something about night in this place that makes my imagination go wild.
Neil’s car ground to a halt and powered down. Mara watched him carefully as he got out of the
car. His face was set in hard angles, and a frown was fixed over his eyes. It suddenly struck her as odd that he would come back so late in the evening. She turned her torch on and hurried out to meet him halfway. “Neil!”
He moved to her with long, quick paces, reaching out for her as he did. “Thank mercy—are you okay? Has anything happened?”
The questions startled her. She took his hand and found his fingers were cold. “I’m fine. Is something wrong? Did anything—” An idea came to her, accompanied by a fresh wave of fear. “Oh my goodness—Pam—has something happened to your mother—”
“No, no, nothing like that.” Neil pulled her closer and leaned his head against hers, kissing her hair tenderly. His voice was strained. “You need to get out of this house, Mara.”
She blinked. “What? Why?”
“I spent this evening researching. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t want to know about its history, but I couldn’t—” He shook his head again, as though the memories were hurting him. “It’s really bad, Mara. You can’t stay here.”
Mara’s worry was being swallowed by irritation. She took a step back from Neil. “What are you talking about? It’s a good house. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
He let her move away but didn’t drop her hand. “There’s something horribly, fundamentally wrong with Blackwood. Please—come and stay with me. Or I’ll buy you a place of your own if you want. But you have to get out of here. Tonight.”
The irritation had become fully formed anger. “I like it here. I’m not moving. And if you think for a single second I would live in a house you’d bought me—”
Neil dropped her hand. His voice had taken on a sharp edge. “Why not? What’s wrong with that? No, don’t make that face—I want to know. Why won’t you let me buy you things? Why won’t you let me help? It makes me feel like crap to be rejected all the time.”
Mara couldn’t have erased her glare even if she’d wanted to. “Yeah, I bet you’d love that, huh? To have me reliant on you. Living in your house. Spending your money. Trapped—”
“Trapped! Seriously? Is that what you think I’m trying to do?”
“Oh, maybe not intentionally, but that’s what would happen. My house, my rules. Do you know how many times I heard that from my parents? I’m not about to put myself in that sort of situation again. I don’t want to owe anyone. As soon as you owe people, they have power over you. They can hurt you.”
Neil made a faint choking noise. “I would never hurt you, Mara. Never. Don’t you know that?”
“Oh yeah?” She waved her arm towards the building behind her. “What’s happening right now? You’re trying to dictate my life! You want to take Blackwood away from me. My home! Imagine what would have happened if I’d let you give me a loan like you wanted to. ‘Well, Mara, this house is technically mine, so now I’m selling it.’ But look at this: I own Blackwood. I get to decide whether I stay or not. No one else. Just me. And I’m staying.”
Neil sucked in a breath. She’d never seen him as angry as he was then. His face was blanched white, and his hands, clenched at his sides, shook.
Mara was suddenly, sickeningly aware of how vulnerable she was. The nearest town was hours away. She didn’t have the means to contact the outside world. And there were no neighbours to hear her scream. If he wanted to, he could kill me. It wouldn’t take much; he’s strong enough that one or two solid punches would do it.
Then Neil closed his eyes and relaxed his hands. When he spoke, his voice was low and careful. “I never meant to hurt you, Mara. But I’m starting to understand I might have unintentionally. All I want—the only thing I’ve ever wanted—is to make sure you’re safe and healthy and happy.” He sighed, and the motion seemed to deflate him a little. “I come from a family where gifts are signs of love. I didn’t realise they might have a different meaning to you… that they could make you feel at a disadvantage.”
Instead of speaking, Mara wrapped her arms across her chest. The anger had drained from Neil’s eyes. In its place were anxiety and regret, and the emotions cut through her own fury more effectively than any apology he could offer.
“You’re strong—far stronger than I am.” He kept his eyes fixed on the ground between them. “And insanely smart, and capable. I agree—I have no right to decide any part of your life. I was trying to keep you safe. But you’re capable of making your own decisions.”
Mara held her hands out to Neil and was gratified to see the unhappy expression dissolve. He stretched his arms wide, and Mara dropped the torch and snuggled into the hug. His arms enveloped her, and his breath was hot on the top of her head as he kissed her hair. He was shaking.
“I’m sorry I yelled,” she mumbled. “And sorry for saying those things about you. I know you didn’t want to hurt me.”
“I love you, Mara,” he whispered. “So damn much.”
She couldn’t reply but squeezed him tighter. He rocked her as he stroked her back. “I’m not going to try to insist on anything else. Of course it’s your choice whether you stay or not. But would you let me tell you about what I found?”
“Ha. If it made you race down here in such a panic, it’s bound to be interesting. Sure.”
“Want to look it over in my car? It’s heated.”
“There’s also a heater in my room.”
Neil hesitated. Mara could feel him raising his head to glance at Blackwood, and his hands held her a little tighter. Then he nodded. “Sure.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: History
Neil went to his car and retrieved a stack of papers from the passenger seat before they returned to Blackwood. Mara couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the space under the stairwell as they passed, but it was, of course, empty.
Mara led Neil to the bedroom. He started the heater while she settled cross-legged on the sleeping bag and waited for him to join her. His face was still pale, and a haunted look lingered in his eyes. He smiled when he caught her watching him then sat opposite her and unfolded his papers.
“How do you want it?” he asked. “Piece by piece or in one big lump?”
“Give me the lump first.”
“Right.” Neil clasped his hands under his chin. “With the exception of Chris’s, every single family to live in Blackwood experienced some sort of violent death. In most cases, the entire family died.”
Mara raised her eyebrows, but Neil’s face was serious. She cleared her throat. “Okay. I can see how that would make you worried. Want to tell me about them?”
Neil began spreading pages out. Many were handwritten, but some were printed. “Chris’s story this afternoon worried me, so I started researching as soon as I got home. What I found was really, really awful. I called Jenny to ask why she hadn’t told us—because there are laws about disclosing things like these to prospective house buyers—but her excuse was that you’d signed a form saying you were okay with the house’s history.” Neil shook his head. “Of course, you only signed the form based on the Robert Kant business.”
“To be fair, I did kind of scream at her that I didn’t care about the building’s past.”
“Even so—she should have told you. I think she was a little too eager to sell the house.”
Mara shuffled closer. “Okay. What’d you dig up?”
“Jenny gave me a list of all of Blackwood’s previous owners. There were eight in all.” Neil sorted through the papers and pulled out a handwritten list. “The first, of course, was your great-great-grandfather, Victor Barlow. He’d not long built the house when Robert Kant, travelling across country, murdered him. Yesterday, I told you Kant stabbed him, but it turns out he actually used an axe—his signature weapon.”
Images and voices flashed through Mara’s mind. The dream of the red-haired woman, cradling her dead child while her husband lay with an axe imbedded in his back. Run, run, run. The axe man is coming.
“I couldn’t find an accurate account of what happened to Victor’s body, but it seems Robert buried him somewhere on the property
. Robert then took up residence in Blackwood without anyone knowing. Over the next four years, he lured five children back to the house, where he butchered them with the same axe he’d used on Victor.”
Sweat stood out on Neil’s forehead. Mara sensed how difficult the discussion was for him and scooted around to sit at his side. She leaned against his arm. “Take your time.”
“Thanks,” he murmured. He took a deep breath then continued. “Robert’s last target, a girl, managed to escape. She ran back to town and alerted the police. By the time they arrived to arrest Robert, he’d hung himself from the bannister in the foyer.”
A chill travelled up Mara’s spine. She hoped Neil wouldn’t feel it. “It’s weird he didn’t try to run away. He would have had a great head start.”
“True. Maybe he couldn’t live with himself anymore.”
“What happened afterwards?”
“The house was cleaned, of course. Some people talked about demolishing it, but it was a sturdy, new building and was eventually bought by a large family. They lived there for a total of twelve years. During that time, all six children died. Two drowned, one cracked his head on a post, one was splashed with boiling water in the kitchen and died from a resulting infection, one cut her chest open on their gardening equipment, and the youngest climbed into the chimney and suffocated.”
Mara closed her eyes.
“The parents, grief-stricken, apparently killed themselves in a suicide pact. Their bodies weren’t found until a full month later. Again, there was talk of destroying Blackwood, but it was sold to a young couple instead. Their story is less clear, but it seems the wife went insane, and her husband locked her in their room to keep her from harming herself. There are records of doctors visiting her and trying to cure her. The couple lived in the house for a little less than two years before the husband also succumbed to insanity, possibly induced by the isolation and stress of caring for his wife. He killed her. Just like Robert, he used an axe. A doctor, on a routine visit, found the husband sitting beside his wife’s body in the master bedroom.” Neil cleared his throat. “She’d apparently tried to claw her way out of the locked door and left deep scores in the wood.”
