House of Fear

by Joe R. Lansdale

  He wasn’t the only one who needed the money, Jack concluded, as he emerged from the bathroom later that evening, clean and fresh and ready for a good night’s sleep. The house was much too large for one woman to manage alone – he’d peered around the end of his corridor and along with another room, which he concluded must be the other guest’s – there was another staircase that led up to a second floor. She wasn’t a natural landlady, so he wondered why she’d kept the house on. Surely, it would have suited her better to have sold and moved into something smaller?

  He glanced around again at the wallpaper, whose dark mauve colouring did nothing to dispel the gloom that hung heavily between the high ceilings, and the carpets, whose threadbare patches were carefully covered with rugs. Perhaps Mr Argyle, the fearless airman, had left her with too many debts to sell. It would explain the lack of photographs of the man. He’d known widows who’d hidden pictures of their dead husbands in the immediate aftermath of war – his own auntie Jean had done so when Fred had died in the Great War – but nearly ten years had passed since Hitler had been done with; Mrs Argyle’s grief must have dulled to a point where any photos would bring about a soft smile rather than a fresh bout of tears.

  Back in his room, he pondered on his new landlady. She was different, this one. How old was she? Younger than himself by a year or two, he was sure, although the manner she adopted, distant and cool, combined with her prudish clothes, suggested someone older. He turned the light out and let his mind drift towards sleep. Mildly curious as he was about Mrs Argyle, she could wait for another day, and for now the smell of fresh starch in the sheets and the thick warmth of the blanket was all he wanted to focus on. There was a comfort in a well-made bed and a firm mattress, and he was glad that after a long day, the Argyle bed and breakfast wasn’t letting him down in that department. He needed to be sharp for tomorrow. Arthur would be waiting.

  He woke with a start in the darkness. He sat up, allowing the unfamiliar surroundings to settle into recognisable shadows and then reached for his watch. He squinted as, slowly, the hands formed against the white face – quarter to three. A thud came from above him and he turned his head towards the ceiling. Footsteps paced up and down over his head, floorboards creaking with each stride. He swallowed his irritation. Who the hell was up at this time? Was it the other guest, Mr Marshall-Jones? He’d have a quiet word with him at breakfast. He couldn’t afford to be losing sleep. Especially not working with Arthur. He didn’t allow for mistakes, and tiredness created mistakes.

  The footsteps paused overhead, and the floorboards creaked more slowly this time, the echo of a cautious, surreptitious movement. Jack knew sounds. His ear was trained to listen to the tiniest of clicks over his own racing heart, and this sounded like someone crouching and looking at something on the floor. Eyes looking down as his were looking up. He shivered slightly at the thought, and wondered why it disturbed him so. His heart thumped. The tiniest shift from above mimicked him and then there was silence. Jack remained upright. What was the man doing up there? What was –

  The sharp and sudden knocking made him gasp and he reached for the lamp. Knocking on the floor? And so loudly? Surely he couldn’t be doing that with his bare knuckles? The noise was too solid for that. How could it pass through the plaster and be anything other than just the hint of a rapping? This was too loud. It was as if it was inside his head.

  After a furious few seconds, the knocking stopped. Jack’s heart was racing, mainly with anger, but also with a touch of apprehension. Was this Marshall-Jones trying to get him to leave the house? Were they both in the same game? They couldn’t be, surely. What were the odds of that? But still, it was the only explanation he could muster. Whoever was upstairs wanted his attention. And he wanted him out.

  Jack continued to stare up at the ceiling, but after a few minutes it became clear that the game was over. No more noises assaulted him. He turned the light out and lay back down.

  “Good to meet you. You’ve done well here,” Mr Marshall-Jones said, dabbing away a blob of egg yolk from his thick grey moustache. “Nice place. Always clean.” He smiled up at Mrs Argyle as she cleared away their plates. She half-smiled back, as if her body was functioning while her mind was elsewhere. She had pretty eyes, Jack thought. Blue with flecks of violet. He wondered how they looked when she laughed. When she used to laugh.

  “And she’s a good woman,” Marshall-Jones added, noting Jack’s gaze. “Not a talker, and that’s rare enough, but she’ll look after you. I’ve been here a month and I’ve got no complaints.”

  Jack looked at the portly middle-aged man in the suit sitting opposite and wondered at his game. He looked perfectly respectable in this three-piece and pocket watch, his stomach starting to stretch the fabric, but you never could judge a book by its cover.

  “Did you sleep well?” Jack asked.

  “Like a log. But then I always do,” Marshall-Jones smiled to himself. “My Marjorie doesn’t, though. Says I snore like a train.” He leaned in slightly. “She likes when I’m away during the week, I think, just so’s she can get a good night’s rest herself.” Jack watched him for any hint of implied meaning, but there was nothing that was obvious. He pressed a little harder.

  “It’s just that I heard you during the night. Moving around. It woke me up.”

  “Me?” Marshall-Jones frowned. “I was out like a light by ten and didn’t wake up until six-thirty this morning. Couldn’t have been me, old chap,” he smiled. “And I’m at the other end of the corridor. Hopefully, even my snoring can’t reach you from there.” He checked his watch. “Good Lord, I must be going. I’ll see you at dinner, no doubt. Nice to have another guest here. I’ll be off tomorrow, of course – home for the weekend – but good to see you, all the same.”

  Jack smiled and nodded and shook his hand. If this was a game, then he couldn’t quite figure out what Marshall-Jones’s angle was. He watched the other man waddle out of the breakfast room and thought again of the footsteps. He was heavy enough to have made that noise, at any rate.

  “Would you like more tea?”

  He looked up to see Mrs Argyle standing beside him with the tea pot. Under forty, he decided in that instant, the sunlight coming through the front windows and cutting across her face. Too young for this kind of life.

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I’ve got to be off myself in a few minutes.” She was turning away when he called her back. “Mr Marshall-Jones. Is he on the second floor?”

  There were a slight reddening in her knuckles as her hand tightened around the teapot handle. “No. He’s at the other end of the corridor from you. Did his snoring wake you?”

  “Yes,” Jack said. “It must have done.”

  They looked at each other for a fraction longer than the situation required, and then Mrs Argyle retreated to the kitchen. He watched her go, his curiosity heightened. She was a queer fish, that was for sure. If Marshall-Jones hadn’t been moving around in the night, then it must have been her. He remembered the weight in the creaks of the floorboards and the angry power behind the knocking. Could he imagine her slim body creating those sounds? The image didn’t quite fit, but it was always possible. Unless, of course, she had a third guest who was keeping himself hidden. Still, hopefully there wouldn’t be any more strange noises waking him up. He’d need his wits about him for work, not mulling over the goings-on in his lodgings. He left her to clear the breakfast room, collected his hat from the hallway and stepped out into the crisp autumn air. He had people to meet.

  “Arthur sends his apologies, but he’s been held up in London for a few days,” Scrubbers said. Scrubbers was a weasly man whose suit didn’t quite fit and who was too old for the baggy line of his trouser. His hat was tilted back on his head and he smoked constantly. “But it’s all right, Jacko,” he added with a wink. “The job’s still on.”

  Jack felt his stomach sink. He’d heard good things about Arthur. He could put together a clean job with good planning. He didn’t rush things. He was a t
hinker. He’d never been caught. All these things might be true, but he wasn’t convinced by Scrubber’s presence. Why would a man like Arthur send a nobody like that to meet him? Jack wasn’t without reputation himself.

  “I haven’t decided if I’m part of the job yet,” Jack said, before taking another large swallow of his half of stout. He wasn’t thirsty, but the quicker he finished, the quicker he could get away from the man sitting opposite. He lit a cigarette of his own. “And my name’s not Jacko.”

  “No offence meant,” Scrubbers grinned. He had a tooth missing at the side. “It’s just the way I am. And as for the job? You’ll be part of it. No one says no to Arthur.”

  Jack smiled. “We’ll wait and see then, won’t we?”

  “Arthur says I’m to ask where you’re staying. So he can get in touch when he’s back.”

  “Tell you what,” Jack leaned in, “why don’t we just say we’ll meet here at midday every day? When Arthur’s back then he’ll know to find me here at that time, won’t he?”

  Scrubbers let out a short laugh, but there was a hint of nervousness in it. He was out of his depth and he knew it. He wasn’t one of Arthur’s boys. Jack didn’t know who he was, but the real faces wouldn’t show themselves without their boss. Scrubbers was just a lackey.

  “You’re cautious, aren’t you?” Scrubbers said. “But if that’s how you want it to be…”

  “It is.” Jack drained his glass and stood up from the table. “So unless you’ve got anything more for me, I’ll be on my way. Oh, and one other thing. As Arthur told me to be here today, I shall let him know my lodging costs for the days until he gets back from London. It can come off the expenses. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  Scrubbers nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “No,” Jack shook his head. “I’ll come here and have a half alone. The only person I want to see here is Arthur. You and me making small talk isn’t on my agenda.” Jack knew men like Scrubbers. They attracted trouble and attention. He didn’t want either.

  Still in his chair, Scrubbers shrank into himself slightly. “If that’s how you want it.”

  “That’s how I want it.” Jack was pleased with Scrubbers’ change in manner. Their exchange would no doubt be reported back to Arthur later, and if he was half the brain Jack had been led to believe, then he’d read between the lines and know that Jack wasn’t to be messed with.

  He spent the rest of the day wandering around the town and taking in its various attractions, namely three jewellers and two banks. The job that had brought him here would be one of those five businesses. Studying the fronts, he felt the first frisson of excitement, and was relieved. After the meeting with Scrubbers, he’d started to have a bad feeling about the trip, but now he could see that it might be very much worth his while. The jewellers all catered for the wealthy – no cheap trinkets on show in the display cases – and for many of the pieces there simply had small cards alongside them instructing interested parties to ‘enquire for the price.’ Jack didn’t. Instead, he treated himself to a fish and chip lunch in one of the few fish bars open along the front in October, read the paper, and then went for a long, refreshing walk along the beach.

  It was a prettier town than he’d imagined, but then maybe that was just because he’d been in the cities too long; Liverpool last and Birmingham before that – grainy, grey places where both the buildings and the people looked miserable and worn. Here, the air was clear and sharp and his eyes stung with the wind blasting across the salty water. The houses, even those closed up for the winter, glinted pleasantly in the afternoon sun. It was a place where people stayed, he decided. An unusual place for a job, however. Perhaps it was Arthur’s home town, but he doubted it. No one stole in their own backyard. Certainly not if you lived in a place like this. People would know you. In and out and invisible, that’s what they needed, to be doing a job like that here. Catch them quietly unawares. In the summer, when the money was rolling in from those making the most of a Saturday or Sunday on the front, then the banks and the jewellers would be on their guard, but not now in the sleepy run up to Christmas.

  As the afternoon slipped into early evening, Jack wound his way through the side streets and headed back towards the house. He walked slowly to allow the wind burn on his cheeks to fade and pulled his overcoat tight. He thought about the town, and Scrubbers, and then Arthur. His money was on one of the jewellers being their target and he was long enough in the tooth to know that he’d probably be right.

  He let Marshall-Jones do most of the talking over their dinner of shepherd’s pie and peas followed by a very good apple pie, prompting him with questions when the conversation looked as if it might turn his way. Marshall-Jones didn’t notice, and was quite happy to talk about his shoe manufacturing business in Northampton and how he was setting up a factory here to serve the south of England. The meal was good, too, and he found he was mildly surprised. Mrs Argyle didn’t look like the kind of woman who savoured her food. That was unusual in itself – now that rationing was finally completely over, most people were indulging a little, if they could afford it. Mrs Argyle had the look of a woman who ate to live, not lived to eat. As he finished the last of the pie, he felt a little sorry for her. Life offered so very few indulgences, and a good meal was one that was available to all.

  He said his good-night to Marshall-Jones and retired to his room, to read for an hour before taking a bath. He kept to the instructed fill line but found it provided adequate water depth to soak for a while and relax. He looked up to the ceiling. There were no footsteps above him now. Hopefully the rest of the night would remain as quiet.

  His hopes were ignored. He was woken suddenly once again by noises from upstairs, and this time he put his light on straight away, flinching at the sudden brightness, even though in reality the lamp gave out a soft, yellow glow. He checked his watch. Quarter to three. He looked upwards and followed the path of the creaking footsteps. Pacing. Someone was pacing in the room overhead, first up and down, and then round in circles. Just listening to those steps made his heart race. There was an anxiety in their uneven movement. For a moment the feet stopped, and in their place came a low moan. A sob. What was that?

  He pushed the covers back and stood up on the mattress, hoping to hear more. Music played so suddenly and loudly that he almost lost his balance. It poured through the ceiling as if the plaster and floorboards were nothing but air. It couldn’t be the wireless, not at this time of night, and it was too tinny, too metallic. A music box? A jewellery box? He searched his memory to find a name for the music. ‘The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’? That was it. The notes washed over him, eerie as they slowed and stretched, as if someone hadn’t wound the key tight enough and, so soon after starting, it was slowing to a stop. The moan came again, and more footsteps creaked this way and that above his head. The music stopped. Something smashed. Jack stared. This was ridiculous. What was going on up there? He climbed down from the bed and reached for his dressing-gown. There was only one way to find out.

  The air in the corridor was cool and without his slippers on he could feel the cold floor working its way through the thin carpet and into the soles of his feet. He shivered slightly. He looked to his left, but the end of the corridor and the stairs leading down to the hallway and breakfast room had been swallowed up by the gloomy night. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he crept carefully in the other direction, laying his feet heel to toe, spreading the weight evenly and listening out for the hint of a groan from the ceiling and ready to shift his position if necessary. He did this out of habit rather than a fear of getting caught. Or rather, he did it out of the habit of the fear of getting caught.

  A clock ticked somewhere against the wall. He passed a small side table that barely pierced the night and then, as he rounded the corner, he heard the music again. Softer this time, as if each note were creeping down the far stairs to meet him. They carried heartache and pain on them, and it hit him in such an unexpected wave that he pau
sed for a second. A sob and a moan followed them down, and as he stood, still and suddenly nervous, in the sleeping house, he was sure a sigh brushed against his cheek. He gritted his teeth. He was behaving like a child. He wasn’t scared of the dark – in his line of work, the darkness was often his ally – but there was something about the sounds coming from upstairs that set him on edge. They were sounds that didn’t exist in daylight. Hidden noises. The music grew louder and he wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination, but the notes seemed to have lost some of their softness, now slightly off-key and jagged and angry.

  He moved forward, passing a door, from behind which came the far more ordinary sounds of grunts and loud, rattling snores. Marshall-Jones’s room. How could the man sleep through the music and sobbing that were so loud in this corridor? Was he just so used to his own nocturnal disturbances that he didn’t notice any others? A burglar’s dream client. Not that Jack had been a burglar for a lot of years now. He’d started that way, but creeping around through other people’s homes had left him feeling like a ghost, and as soon as he could, he’d developed his skills and climbed the ladder.

  A ghost.

  He shook away the sudden superstition that gripped him as another aching sob made the house shiver. Was that a man? Or a woman? Surely it had to be Mrs Argyle, but there was something in the tone that was wrong. It was too deep, too resonant to have come from her. It was followed by a whisper. Words that couldn’t quite be heard, spoken in a rush. How could a whisper be loud enough to hear from a floor below? Jack frowned and began the climb up to the second floor. There must be a flaw in the house. A hole in the floorboards that the sound was carrying through. He gripped the banister.