Leave This Place

by Spike Black

  The front door was swinging open, hitting repeatedly against the doorstop.

  How the hell…?

  He had locked it before bed, he knew that without a question of doubt. Turned the key and bolted it twice, as always. He’d been particularly careful about that, every night since they’d been here.

  “Oh, shit. Oona?”

  A bolt of fear slammed into him like a heavyweight boxer’s right hook. He was almost too afraid to finish his thought.

  “Oona…? It’s not the cat.”

  He closed the door. Turned the key. Pulled across the two bolts and the chain. Then a terrible thought: I’ve locked us in with whatever just entered.

  He looked around the kitchen. Marched through the hall to the living room.

  Nothing. He turned to leave.

  The cat was curled up, asleep on the armchair.

  Silas rolled his eyes. “You again…”

  At that moment there was a loud bang from upstairs.

  Oona. Why was she slamming doors?

  Or maybe…

  Maybe it wasn’t Oona at all.

  He raced back to the kitchen and bolted up the staircase, hurdling the tall steps. “Oona? Oona?”

  But his stride wasn’t wide enough for the last stair and he slipped, his legs buckling beneath his weight. He slammed his knee on the stone step and a jolt of pain coursed through his body.

  His screams echoed up the dark staircase.

  “Oona!”

  No response.

  His knee convulsing, Silas hobbled up the remaining stairs. When he reached the top he found the bedroom door closed.

  He was suddenly terrified at the thought of opening it, his heart thumping so hard in his chest that it made his vision pulse.

  He took a deep breath and turned the knob. The door swung wide.

  Oh, fuck…

  Oona was standing in the middle of the room, her eyes huge, staring orbs, her face a mask of undiluted horror.

  Silas limped inside, hesitant. “Oona?”

  His wife didn’t respond. She was frozen in position, a ghastly statue.

  “Oh Christ, Oona, what’s wrong?”

  He stumbled forward, wincing as his bodyweight pressed down on his swollen knee. He tried to catch her attention but her eyes were locked. A gurgled moan escaped her trembling lips.

  “What’s wrong, Oons?” He reached out a hand and touched her face.

  Her arm shot up and grabbed his wrist, squeezing it tight, her fingernails embedding into his flesh. The fear in her eyes was so intense that it churned his guts.

  A tear trickled down her face. “We have to leave this place,” she said. Her head turned and her eyes followed, fixing on him. “Now.”

  22

  The first thing Oona saw as she emerged from the mist was Aggie, waving enthusiastically from the kitchen window of the farmhouse. Her jolly demeanor was infectious, and Oona waved back, beaming.

  But something was wrong. Aggie’s hand stopped in mid-wave, her face turning sour. As Oona moved closer, she saw that Aggie was staring back the way Oona had come.

  There was something, or someone, behind her.

  Oona mustered the courage and turned around. Emerging from the mist was a tall figure. The figure of an old man.

  She glanced back at the window and Aggie was now beckoning her on, her hand waving frantically, her mouth silently repeating one word, over and over: run.

  Oona didn’t hesitate. She broke into a sprint, her legs pumping, her heart racing. She hurdled the gate and ran up the garden path. Impossibly, she heard footsteps directly behind her. How fast could an old man move?

  She turned around to face her pursuer, and…

  There was a loud bang.

  It took a moment for her to recognize that the noise didn’t belong in this dreamscape. She came awake with a jerk, staring up at the bedroom ceiling, feeling a strange mixture of relief and fear. Relief that she was not being pursued by the old man, but that noise…

  “What was that?”

  Silas snored next to her and she didn’t want to wake him. She thought about investigating herself this time. Just then the bedroom door rattled in its frame, making her jump.

  “Silas…”

  Of course, it had to be the cat. Bloody thing.

  Maybe I should kill it and serve it for breakfast. Silas, how do you like your cat? Fried, grilled or fricasseed?

  “Silas, wake up…”

  But a voice in Oona’s head told her that it wasn’t the cat, not this time. She sunk under the covers and raised her voice.

  “Silas, wake up. There was a bang.”

  His eyes popped open, startling her. “What did you say, hon?”

  “A loud noise. From downstairs.”

  He groaned as he slid off the bed. “Don’t worry, it’ll be the cat again.”

  “That’s what I thought, but…”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  Then he was gone, and as she looked around the empty room Oona realized what a terrible error she had made. She hadn’t thought this through.

  Now she was alone. She should have been the one to go, or at the very least she should have gone with him.

  “Wait—”

  She leapt out of bed and ran to the door. As she opened it, she heard Silas from downstairs, calling her name. Then something about the cat.

  “Sorry?” She walked barefoot to the edge of the steps and looked down. He was there, at the foot of the stairs, facing her, but she could only see his legs from her vantage point, the staircase ceiling blocking her view of the rest of him. He was wearing a pair of old shoes and trousers that looked nothing like his pajama bottoms.

  Her head swirled with confusion. When did he get dressed? And why is he just standing there?

  “Silas?”

  She descended one step, then two. His torso came into view. He was wearing a tweed jacket. Just like the one…

  Just like the one in the photograph.

  She shrank back, her heels hitting cold stone.

  At that moment the man at the bottom of the stairs tilted his head around and looked up at her.

  Mr Weddup, head cocked to the side, pulled his narrow lips into a grin.

  No…

  A dizziness consumed her, her vision seeming to tilt and waver. She stumbled backwards, hitting the step and falling into a sitting position. She whirled, scampering up the remaining steps on all fours like a frightened animal. She picked herself up on the landing and hurried into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  She stopped in the middle of the room, gasping for breath, her brain mush, her reality unhinged. What now? Where could she go to be safe from the ghoul?

  Oona stiffened as she heard a noise behind her.

  Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.

  She spun around and there, in the corner of the room, was Mr Weddup. Sitting in his chair - the chair that she had helped to destroy. That she had watched burn.

  This can’t be.

  The old man’s fingers drummed on the arm rests. Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.

  Then, raising a long, bony finger to his lips, he mouthed a silent ssh.

  Oona was frozen in horror, unable to take her eyes away from the animated corpse fixing her in his sights.

  The door popped open and swung wide with a groan. At the corner of her vision she saw Silas step into the room.

  “Oona?”

  The chair that didn’t exist creaked as the old man climbed slowly to his feet. He shuffled forward, impossibly tall, his flint-colored, deep set eyes fixed on her. She wanted to scream but no sound came out.

  Silas was with her now. “Oh Christ, Oona, what’s wrong?”

  She tried to warn him that the old man was approaching, but her lips trembled, out of her control. A moan escaped her throat.

  Weddup appeared behind Silas. The old man was taller than him by a head, as if the afterlife had stretched his form, somehow.

  Oona watched, hypnotized, as
Weddup leaned over Silas’s shoulder and dragged his finger across Silas’s neck, all the while grinning at her, a disgusting display of shriveled gums and rotting teeth.

  Oblivious to all that was going on around him, Silas put a hand up to Oona’s face, blocking her view of the hideous apparition. “What’s wrong, Oons?”

  She reached up and grabbed his wrist, pulling it down.

  The old man had vanished.

  “We have to leave this place,” she said. The trance broken, she stared into her husband’s eyes. “Now.”

  She dressed hurriedly, wriggling into a pair of jeans and throwing on a top that didn’t really match, but what the hell did that matter?

  “We’re going to Aggie’s,” she said. “It’s going to be cold. I suggest you wrap up warm.”

  She pulled a suitcase from under the bed, threw it onto the mattress and flipped it open.

  “Oona, wait. Just stop a minute. What are you doing?”

  “Packing.”

  “Are you okay? You were totally out of it a moment ago.”

  “I’m fine. Now come on. Help.”

  He still stood there, staring at her.

  She opened the closet, grabbed an armful of clothes still on their hangers and threw them into the case. When she looked up, Silas was gone.

  “Silas?”

  She waited. Called for him again.

  Her terror of being alone in the room returned. But she had to push past that. She grabbed all the remaining clothes from the closet and stuffed them into the case, but they didn’t fit, not even close. She felt a rising panic and didn’t know what to do…

  What the hell am I doing?

  She went through the case and grabbed everything of hers, hurling it to the floor. She realized she didn’t want any of it. It was all tainted from being here, ingrained with the stench of this place, and she would never wear any of it again.

  The case shut fine now, and she zipped it closed.

  Let’s just get the hell out of here.

  She struggled with the luggage on the narrow landing, managing to carry the case in front of her as she navigated the stairs. Part way down she realized that she was overbalanced, and for a moment she thought she might topple forward and tip down the stairs. She wondered if it were even possible to survive a fall on such unforgiving steps.

  That worry flew from her mind as she saw Silas at the front door. She had much bigger problems.

  She watched in disbelief as he dragged the organ across the linoleum and pushed it up against the door. The armchair from the living room was already there, tilted back and wedged under the door handle.

  “What the hell?”

  “Don’t fret,” he said. “I won’t let them get to us.”

  “Won’t… who? What are you saying?”

  “It’s all under control.”

  “We need to leave, Silas. Now.”

  The smile that spread across his face then infuriated her. A patronizing smile that said you silly thing.

  “I mean it, Silas. We’re in danger.”

  “Oh, I know. That’s why we’ll be safe here, together. They can’t make us leave.”

  He reached for the bag. She pulled it away. He lurched forward and clasped his hands around the case.

  “Let go! Get off me!”

  She wrestled with him until she realized it was only his clothes left in the case. What did she care? If he wanted to stay here, he was welcome to them. She released her grip, leaving him holding the case.

  She barged him out of the way. Yanked at the armchair.

  His large hand landed on her shoulder and she elbowed him away. He grabbed both of her arms and she bucked, throwing him off.

  He persisted. She turned and slapped him hard.

  She thought that would surely anger him, but he was strangely calm. He took a stride forward, lifted his fist, and punched her in the face.

  Oona crumpled, the pain of being hit directly on the nose disorienting her as she flopped to the chessboard floor.

  The black descended.

  ***

  The woman who unlatched the low picket gate was young, pretty and reminded Oona of Silas’s first girlfriend - based on the one picture she had seen of her, anyway - with her willowy figure and long dark hair and infuriatingly sweet little face.

  She passed under the arch that was now heaving with summer flowers and approached the farmhouse, a building that looked so flawless and desirable with the sun setting behind it that it could have been an image from a series of jigsaw puzzles called Scenic Yorkshire.

  The woman rapped the knocker on the door and it was opened immediately.

  “Why, hello dear!” Aggie exclaimed, only this time she actually was Mrs Doubtfire, or Oona’s approximation of what Aggie would look like under heavy latex, anyway. “How are you settling in?”

  “Oh, great, thank you,” the woman said. Her shifting eyes and nervous smile contradicted her words. “There’s just… one thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “The people in the photo.”

  Aggie raised an eyebrow.

  “On the wall in the bedroom. Who are they?”

  Aggie laughed. “Oh, you mean Silas and Oona?” She leaned forward and whispered. “You’re not the easily spooked type, are you?”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  “Okay, then I’ll tell you. Sweet couple, they were. Rented the cottage, many years ago. But they loved the place so much that they refused to leave. When we asked them to go, they…” She put a finger to her throat. “Well, anyway, I’ll spare you the gory details. But that’s why we keep their picture on the wall, poor dears. So that they can stay in the cottage forever. So that they never have to leave.”

  ***

  Oona’s eyes popped open and she jerked up onto her elbows. To hell with that.

  She scrambled to her feet, clutching her tender cheekbone and wincing. Silas - sweet, gentle, loving Silas - had punched her in the face, and she still couldn’t quite believe it.

  She dashed into the hallway and grabbed the shiny black receiver of the rotary dial telephone. The line, she wasn’t entirely surprised to discover, was dead. She followed the cable from the back of the phone and saw that it had been severed from the wall.

  She patted her pockets for her cellphone and remembered that she’d left it on the coffee table. When she entered the living room she saw her phone straight away, still in its leather case, melting on the fire alongside a blackened shell that was most likely Silas’s phone.

  Her husband had finally cracked.

  She turned to leave and he was standing in the doorway, grinning. It was not an expression that she recognized as being in his repertoire, and that terrified her.

  It was Weddup’s grin.

  She grabbed the poker from the fireplace and held it out like a sword.

  Silas held up his hands as he approached. “Pack it in, flower. There’s a good ‘un. No need for any silly business.”

  He kept coming but she stood her ground, the poker shaking furiously in her grip. The look on Silas’s face was one of absolute confidence, as if he knew that she would never hurt him. And he was right - she would never hurt Silas.

  But Silas would never call her flower.

  She screamed and charged forward, sinking the tip of the poker into his belly. Silas gasped and looked down. Oona stood there a moment, reeling from what she had done, then released the poker with a quick tug and a rip of flesh that made her toes curl.

  A circle of blood expanded out from the puncture hole in his shirt.

  He screamed and fell to the floor, his face a mask of agony. Oona wanted to apologize so badly the word sorry almost slipped out, but instead she ran.

  Through the hall and the kitchen to the front door. She grabbed the organ and shifted it out of the way. The armchair was heavier, and wedged under the door handle, but she got a good grip and dragged it, surprising herself with her own strength.

  She snapped across the top bolt, then panic
ked as the bottom bolt got stuck and wouldn’t come. The thought ran through her mind that maybe he’d glued it, and she was never getting out. She glanced behind her, convinced that he would be standing there.

  But he wasn’t, and then the bolt popped open and she jumped up, wrestling with the door, still expecting a fist to impact her head at any moment.

  I must have got him good with the poker, she thought, and the surge of joy soured quickly as she thought of Silas in pain, his internal organs damaged.

  The door flew open, the cold wind battering her as she made it outside. She barreled toward the car, but she knew instantly that something was wrong. As she moved closer she saw that the vehicle was listing to one side.

  The tires were flat.

  Her heart sank. She had still harbored hopes that they would be home by morning, and then this whole sorry episode would be over. But what now? They were stranded in the middle of nowhere. Or more to the point, she was stranded, with a husband who had turned psycho on her.

  As she trudged back to the cottage something made a crunching noise underfoot. She glanced down and saw pieces of glass glinting in the moonlight.

  She was standing on the photo frame.

  She stepped off and picked it up, brushing away the remaining glass. Tilted the photograph into the light emanating from the open cottage door.

  The old man glared back at her. He had one of those faces that made it easy to see what the underlying skull would look like. She suspected that she’d be able to recognize him from his skeletal remains alone.

  She pinched the top of the photo and twisted it between her fingers, waiting for the satisfying tear, wanting to rip the picture all the way through his hideous image. But then she stopped.

  She thought about all the things that had happened since she’d thrown the frame from the bedroom window, and she couldn’t bring herself to do it. What further horrors would rain down upon her if she did?

  She dropped the photograph, and as it hit the gravel a shadow was cast upon it. She looked up and there, in the bedroom window, was a figure.