by Gary Fry
But he refused to work out what this had meant. The only thing he could hold in his mind—a memory triggered with involuntary haste—was how his dad had commonly described hot spells of weather: “The sun is grand today.” His mom had often quipped in response: “He means you, Mark.” Then a familial tension had always assailed them…and was Mark beginning to realize why? Perhaps the words he’d half-heard had simply been the darker recesses of his mind at work again.
He walked alongside the house and didn’t cease moving until he’d reached the front garden. More progress had been made here since the night of the party, implying that a gardener employed by Justin had recently returned. The frivolous bastard, Mark thought, but suppressed his sour mood. He’d felt as if this thought had been elicited by something other than himself, just as he had last night, and he was determined to resist such pernicious influence. Pushing one hand in a pocket to grasp the spare key, he made hastily for the building’s front entrance.
Mark knew that Gayle would want to stamp her identity on every part of the property, but he was grateful she hadn’t yet changed the locks. Once the door yielded to a sweat-greased palm, he entered the hallway, which was as elegantly decorated as he recalled from the housewarming party. He locked the door behind him in case a neighbor called while he was here (his ex-wife had always told friends to let themselves into their previous home, despite never consulting him) and then reobserved the house’s interior.
Those weird steps climbed away, each riser tilted at a slight angle. He knew this was deliberate. Edward Miller, the man who’d constructed the building, had been a traditionalist, an advocate of nationalism and undiluted bloodlines. The staircase was an architectural joke or rather a serious statement of intent, suggesting that familial step-arrangements were unnatural. That explained the canted flights leading from one floor to another, from the dank cellar to sleep-and-sex-alone bedrooms. Illegitimate births were also off limits. That was why a previous owners’ granddaughter, the product of an affair, had been forced to choke on a confection. It was why the Johnsons’ natural-born son had been saved from falling from an upstairs window, avoiding certain death…But if all this was true, what should be made of the younger Hughes’ alleged accident? If he’d been his father’s son, his demise made no sense…unless he hadn’t been killed by the house. Mark recalled considering suicide while Nina told him about the boy’s unpleasant death, and this drew his mind back to the most important point concerning these grisly events: what did Mark’s own family have to do with them?
He’d begin his investigation upstairs. Although his arrival had prompted a flood of half-formed insights, he knew that there was much to learn and that only venturing deeper into the building would help him acquire this material. Then Mark put one foot on the first of the canted steps and started to ascend.
After reaching the landing, he couldn’t help feeling envious of all the space around him. What was his flat compared to a house, and such a large one? Strolling along the corridor flanked by four bedrooms and a bathroom, he reflected on his youthful ambitions to play drums or own a small gym. He also recalled discussing with Gayle the possibility of having another child. But the property in which they’d lived, with its large mortgage and spatial limitations, had dictated their decision not to pursue such things. And it was only now that Mark appreciated how a home could determine choices, defining what was possible. Its presence lurked behind many decisions and…
…now Mark realized what this one was doing to him.
He must guard against the insidious way the property wove itself into his thoughts. He was stronger and more knowledgeable than during his last visit, and he could resist the building’s malignant influence.
But while reaching for the door of the farthest room along the hallway—the one in which he’d spotted that illusion from the garden—he believed he detected a glutinous substance lapping out of view. This couldn’t be coming from the bathroom, because its entrance was wide open. Glancing that way, Mark noticed the sink and lavatory standing in silence. The liquidlike sound must be coming from the room up ahead.
He let himself inside and sensed something darting out of sight beyond the in-swinging door. Surely anything that rickety would struggle to sustain such a rapid maneuver. It must have been a surge of dust from the floorboards, despite resembling what little was left of a person moving under water or a similar substance…Ignoring these impressions, Mark paced towards the window, stepping around a pile of junk in the middle of the room. What he’d seen from outside were indeed just everyday objects: a paint-flecked stepladder, coils of electrical wiring, innumerable ragged cloths, and other useless detritus. He stepped beyond the unsightly stack and halted at the glass.
Looking outside, he wondered where—or rather, who—Justin had come from before meeting Gayle. Had he been in a relationship, and had another person been hurt by the affair? Much of Mark’s bitterness had returned, and after seeing something move in the greenhouse below, he initially thought this was a young woman, shedding tears, waving her arms in protest, expressing pain and rage in equal measure. But then he blinked and saw the conspiracy of objects for what it was: just stunted tendrils and wasted vegetation. He looked away and then exited the room, making quickly for the next.
The sight of his ex-wife’s and her lover’s bedroom only exacerbated his anger, however. The bed remained unmade, as if even while heavily pregnant, she and Justin had enjoyed many exertions upon it. And with Lewis in the next room, too…Mark’s fingers clenched into fists, perspiration running down his back like droplets of blood. This wasn’t right, he thought. The new baby was wrong, too. It was all…so unnatural. A proper family shouldn’t be divided in this way, particularly here, in a house of such pure heritage…
He quickly stepped out of the main bedroom and directly into his son’s. The large patch of red on one wall must be just a projection of escalating rage in his peripheral vision. But then he wondered why he couldn’t always be around for the boy? A true father should be. These facts caused anxiety to spread like poison in his mind. God, if Justin was here now, Mark would make him suffer and no mistake…
He turned away from the room and punched out at its doorframe.
At the sight of blood on his knuckles, Mark came back into his rightful mind. He realized that something in the building had again rendered him vulnerable to its persuasion. Clenching his bleeding hand, he closed his eyes to get a grip on his meandering thoughts. Then he stole away, back down that flight of canted steps, attempting to focus on his reason for coming here. Hadn’t he hoped to work out what the property wanted of him? Yes, that was true, and his tendency to succumb to its sinister strategies must be supplanted by logic. He tried hard to draw on this.
He and Gayle had separated. Now she had a new partner and he had Nina. Lewis lived with his mom, and Mark must be content with weekend access to the boy. This was far from an ideal arrangement, but millions of couples and their offspring made it work. And so must they.
There: the facts, each irrefutable.
In the lounge, which he’d hurriedly entered, a figure lurched towards him, but after staring that way, Mark realized that a breeze had blown through a window left open at a slight angle. This cold air’s tangible presence had arisen from corrosive recollections in Mark’s mind: Gayle’s late parents glaring out through an upstairs window…his dad pottering around in the greenhouse…the telephone call he’d received long after midnight from a speaker with a dead yet youthful voice…
Mark no longer had the luxury of telling himself that these episodes involved no supernatural activity; he possessed too much evidence to the contrary. Even his rational girlfriend had begun agreeing with this conclusion. Perhaps this had led to Nina’s recent ill health, an understandable reaction to a world with more in it than had previously been suspected in a philosophy focusing on human evil alone.
Mark knew he must move on, fleeing this poisonous place that had, only moments ago, striven to push him back to his e
x-wife, his son, and what it perceived to be a natural family. Indeed, maybe that was the house’s secret goal…
He’d just had the chance to absorb this latest insight when he heard a car moving out in Nester Street. Mark rushed for the lounge window and gazed out. Heading directly for the house was a Porsche—Justin’s vehicle—with two dark shadows in the front seats, perched behind smoked glass. Almost immediately, the car pulled into the driveway and its front doors opened. Mark’s ex-wife and the father of her imminent child had returned early.
Mark panicked, straying backwards. Why had the homeowners returned so early? A quick glance at his wristwatch revealed the time: ten o’clock. Surely doctors had had no chance to conduct an examination, even without including time to make the journey back from the hospital. But the truth was that the couple was about to reenter their property and Mark was unable to get out the front way. He had no key for the rear, either. And so what could he do?
As two pairs of footsteps outside made for the main entrance, Mark hurried into the hall and considered mounting those canted steps again. But then he decided against that and rushed into the kitchen. There was no reason to assume Gayle and Justin would think his presence required legal intervention—the police, legal action, even a restraining order—but he knew how difficult it would be explaining why he had a key to their house, and worse, making use of it. He’d be considered furtive, jealous, irrational…especially after his violent behavior in the early hours of this morning.
With these thoughts charging through his mind, Mark headed for the cellar in the far corner of the kitchen. Its door hadn’t been locked at the party and it wasn’t locked now. And as the house’s front entrance opened with a rattle of keys, he quickly stepped inside and pulled shut the door behind him, trapping himself in with the dark and whatever horrors he knew he was about to face up to.
17
“I can’t believe they got the times wrong,” said Justin, and must have just entered the kitchen, because his angry voice sounded hollow against the floor tiles. “Bloody typical of the NHS, that. I’m supposed to be collecting some stuff from the wholesalers at eleven and now we have to be back there.”
“Hey, if you don’t think your child is worth more than a boxful of produce for your restaurant, just say,” Gayle snapped back, her usual insecure self. The scraping sound that followed must be chair legs pulled away from the dining table. “Let’s not fret, Justin. We don’t want our baby to come along earlier than we’ve planned, do we?”
“Okay, I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s been a…hell of a time.”
Mark, listening in a blackness broken only by a line of light slipping through a gap beside the door, knew what the man referred to, but he didn’t let that prevent him from concentrating as the conversation unfolded.
“Just put the kettle on, Justin. We’ll have a cup of tea and then we can be away again. I don’t know why we couldn’t have just waited at the hospital, anyway.”
“I don’t like those places. They make me feel uncomfortable.”
“More like you wanted to see if you had any mail. Aren’t you expecting a letter from the agent—to see if your bid for that new restaurant has been accepted?”
“Yeah, well, nothing’s come, has it? Another bloody waste of time.”
“Look, relax.” Mark’s ex-wife paused, drew in an audible breath, and then added with a placatory tone, “Anyway, how’s your head?”
“Hurts.”
“Oh, diddums.”
“It’s not funny, you know. I didn’t realize your ex was such a psycho. I might have been at the hospital myself this morning if he hadn’t stopped attacking me and then vanished upstairs. I mean, what the fuck got into him?”
“Please calm down.”
“I am calm. But I want answers.”
“What can I say? It was all new to me. Mark was never violent when we were…well, when we were together. After what he said last night, I can only assume he’s got some crazy idea about this house. Maybe Lewis’s bad dreams have made him worried. Lewis told me all about them after Mark left last night. And remember, Mark’s his dad—he’s concerned. It’s only natural. You’ll see that yourself once you’re a father.”
“You mean that one day you might leave me and make me every bit as angry?”
“No, I’ll never do that. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Think about it: you and I shacking up together in a new place, and taking his son with us. It’s bound to take some adjusting to.”
Mark had never heard Gayle sound so understanding about what had happened between them, and despite her culpable role, he appreciated her concern. This made him feel even worse about what he’d done the previous evening to her new partner.
There was a break in the chat as the kettle gurgled and cups were clunked down for filling. Mark tried to remain silent, his breath coming in a steady rhythm…But what lurked beneath him in the cellar’s cloying dark made no such effort to disguise its labored exhalations. This rasping sigh was surely just the property’s plumbing or electrics at work, however. Mark returned his attention to the couple’s talk.
Drinks had obviously been delivered to the table and after simultaneous sips, Justin said, “I hear what you’re saying and I am trying to be sympathetic. I thought I acted very reasonably last night. But really, Gayle, he assaulted me. It was as if he was obsessed…or possessed…or something. It wasn’t nice getting punched and then head-butted. And while his own son was in the house, too.”
Was the man referring to the boy to make a more forceful complaint or because he genuinely cared for Lewis? But Mark would never discover the truth because that was when his ex-wife spoke again, her words capturing his attention.
“I’m going to tell you something now I’ve suspected for a long time. But you mustn’t breathe a word of it to anybody. Not to Lewis, not to any of your friends, and certainly not to Mark. I don’t care what he does in the future or however much you might end up disliking each other. It goes no further than us two. Okay?”
A short, intrigued pause followed, and then Justin said, “Yeah, sure. I promise. What is it?”
Mark was also eager to learn, but that was when he detected a resumption of that wheezy noise from below, at the foot of more of this building’s canted steps. This time, the sound resembled a child choking…on a confection, Mark thought, but quickly eliminated the foolish suspicion and tuned in again to the discussion in the kitchen. His heart was beating fast; right now, he felt as if he was being threatened from two sides, and couldn’t be certain which was the more fragile: his physical or his mental self.
Then Gayle went on.
“I’m not saying this accounts for what Mark did to you, but it might help you understand that things are not always as straightforward as they seem with him.”
Something was undoubtedly crossing the cellar. Mark heard laborious footfalls shuffling on the concrete floor. Nevertheless, he shunted aside these impressions and paid undivided attention as his ex-wife continued.
“After he and I first met, the thing I dreaded most was the old meet-the-parents routine. And in Mark’s case, I had good reason. His mom didn’t like me from the start. I expect she thought I was a bit flighty, a bit flash. But I got along well enough with his dad, who seemed less troubled by who Mark knocked about with. And that’s the nub of it really.”
“What is?” asked Justin.
“Well, Mark didn’t get along with his old man at all.”
“But that’s hardly front-page news, is it? That’s just boys and their dads. I mean, I was never my father’s greatest fan, nor me his. When I chose catering college, he practically disowned me. The stupid cunt.”
“Hey, less of the language. That’s most unlike you.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. But you were about to say…”
“Oh yes. About Mark’s dad. Or rather, his mom. Let me tell you what I suspect.”
Someone or something had just mounted the bottom step amid all the blackness churning bene
ath Mark. The noise accompanying its motion sounded wet and languorous, and grew steadily closer and closer…But what could he do? If he fled, he’d never learn what Gayle was about to reveal. And if he stayed…But he’d rather not think about that. Instead, he pressed his body so close to the door it was a marvel it wasn’t nudged open by his heavy breathing. His enforced stillness concealed him as effectively as the dark did, allowing him to hear more.
“Mark’s mom is basically a down-to-earth sort,” Gayle explained, her tone unusually affectionate given her subject. “She speaks plainly, and perhaps that’s why we never hit it off: because I do, too. Anyway, unlike me, she always had a weakness for a drink or two—well, you saw how much she put away at our party the other night. And believe me, when she was fresh, she could flirt with the best of ’em.”
“How do you mean?”
“Let me put it this way. Although I’ve known her only about ten years, I have seen photos from when she was younger, and even if I say so myself, she was quite a looker in her day. Petite, big brown eyes, largish chest. I’m reliably informed that she had her fair share of male admirers, particularly as her husband worked in a factory with many other guys. You know, work functions, Christmas parties when the wives get out their glad rags, that kind of thing.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. I run a business myself, you know,” said Justin, a little stiffly. “But what has all this got to do with your ex?”
“I’m just about to get to that, Mr. Impatient,” Gayle replied, and then Mark heard the entity shambling up the stairs becoming more insistent in its cumbersome movement. He was put in mind of a tortoise, its limbs pumping slowly yet surely…but which tortoise had ever boasted such a moist sound? It was as if the thing approaching was wading through something denser than water, but what liquid could remain about its person as it climbed higher and higher?
Mark sensed his terror building in the form of a scream, but he somehow controlled himself while listening again to the talk in the kitchen.
