Belinda and Russ had been stunned when she reached a decision to sell the family home. But they had become increasingly supportive as Penny stuck to her guns and insisted that this was just what she wanted. “Maybe your father is right and I am just stuck in my ways,” she said, and the worry niggled at her that this was hardly a big step. Moving from the home she had shared with Peter for forty years, out into the country, to a hamlet where fewer than a hundred people lived, the house Grade II listed and an architectural oddity that occasionally attracted visitors... it was nothing, really. The sort of change some people welcomed every couple of years of their lives.
But to Penny, it was the world.
The house was incredibly quiet. So much so that as she strolled through its corridors and rooms, she heard a high, lonely aircraft passing over the landscape outside. You’ll never get me on one of those, she’d said to Peter when he suggested a simple flight to the Channel Islands to get her used to flying.
Penny opened the back door and paused, head tilted. She smiled. “One step at a time.” The garden was wild and overgrown, awaiting her attention. She probably wouldn’t have time to do much with it, and that made her sad. But she would make her mark.
The rooms inside were not decorated to her taste, but neither were they worn enough to require immediate redecoration. There was oak flooring throughout and she would have to get used to that, being more at home with patterned carpets. The house smelled unusual, and the sounds were strange – creaks, groans, taps – and she had no real sense of its shape and the space it occupied. It was nowhere near home, and she felt something like an intruder.
When the furniture and boxes arrive tomorrow everything will change, she thought. Everything she owned was packed in a lorry somewhere right now, ready to be transported across the country and deposited in this strange place. In her old house, her belongings had been a network of memories and safety, creating an environment she knew. Packed away, they were just luggage. Home is where you are, she’d said to Peter once, but he’d scoffed and gone into a quiet sulk. Later, he’d said, You’re rarely where I am.
“Everything I have will be here, apart from him,” Penny said. Her voice was loud. A bird sang somewhere in the garden, as if in response.
A steady tap, tap, tap came from somewhere that did not feel like part of the house.
Penny walked from the kitchen to the hallway, unconsciously matching the rhythm with her own footsteps. She paused at the staircase, one hand on the bannister, looking up. The sound was more distant than the bedrooms or bathroom on the first floor. More hollow, and sadder. She knew the sound. Peter, sat in his armchair with a glass of whiskey in one hand and his eyes distant, while she sat on the sofa and watched the next episode of some TV series she was already losing interest in, and his foot would tap against the wooden leg of his chair. Just a gentle impact, as if he were ticking away the seconds of his life. She would hear, but had never, ever said anything. He was always like this after an argument – a screwed up travel brochure beside his chair, and a dead dream floating in his glass.
He would usually go anyway, but never with his wife.
Tap, tap, tap...
“Peter,” Penny breathed. The noise ceased. She held her breath.
Keys in hand, Penny walked slowly upstairs. Each tread had its own feel and sound, and probably its own memories.
Spooking yourself, Peter says. You always worry too much, my rose.
Penny reached the landing and stood before the doorway that led to the tower. She had not looked inside on her first walk around the house. Had passed it by, truth be told, because it had felt like the last place she wanted to see. Too dusty up there, she’d thought, and she decided that was the one place she’d send Russ when he and Belinda came over the following weekend. Up into the tower, to clean those windows and see what else was there.
“Silly,” she said. She reached for the door.
“You’re just stuck here,” Peter says. “Don’t you see that?”
“But I like it here.”
“You used to enjoy travelling. All those weekends we spent down in Cornwall when we were courting. The tour of Scotland in the motor home. Don’t you want to do all that again? Don’t you ever think about how time just...”
It always goes the same way.
So Peter packs a bag and leaves. He says he is going hiking for a weekend in the Lake District, but he never comes back. His body is never found.
Penny persistently insists that Peter is still alive somewhere, and that drives a rift between her and her daughter. Because there was never any tension between Belinda and her father, and if he is still alive, she says, he would contact her.
“No,” Penny says whenever the subject is brought up. “He’s not gone. Not Peter. He’s out there somewhere, waiting for me to join him. And one day, I will.”
Belinda never believed that she would. In truth, neither did Penny. But discovering that she only had months to live had changed something fundamental about the way she viewed the world. Before, she had felt safe and secure in her own small bubble of existence. Now, she already sensed that everything else was moving on. Leaving her behind. She was a dead woman walking, and she had one more chance.
She paused with her hand on the door handle. It was metal, round, and vaguely warm, as if someone gripped it on the other side. It was only a tower, and a room. Perhaps there was a chair up there, and she could sit and look out over the landscape, watch the sun set over a hillside instead of her neighbours’ rooftops for the first time in –
Tap, tap, tap.
The sound was closer. Beyond the door, up whatever staircase might have been built within the tower. Peter, tapping his foot impatiently against a chair’s leg.
Penny gripped the handle tighter, but was suddenly convinced that there was someone directly on the other side of the door, holding the handle, ear pressed to the wood, smiling expectantly as they awaited her decision.
My little rose, Peter says, sometimes you’re so scared of the smallest things, so fragile and sensitive. It’s a hard world, hardy and impartial. But I’ll look after you.
She let go of the handle and took two steps back until she nudged the landing balustrade. The tapping had stopped, but the silence was worse.
“Stupid woman!” she berated herself, and she started singing to fill the space. Still singing, she searched through the set of keys until she found one for the tower door. She locked it, then paused, listening for movement on the other side. But there was none.
“Of course not,” she said. “Just an empty room, and dust.”
Hungry, thirsty, a little angry with herself for being so easily scared, Penny went down to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. She’d brought everything she needed to make tea and cook a simple meal, but as the kettle boiled she opened the back door to the wild garden once more.
She walked outside, fiddled with the keyring until she had removed the key to the tower door. She threw it as far as she could, turning away so that she did not see where it landed.
“There,” she said. “That settles it. The house is way big enough for me anyway.” She entered the house again, not once looking up.
And not looking up meant that she felt watched.
Penny ate her fried egg sandwich. She’d speckled it with cayenne pepper, because Peter used to like that, and so spent the next half an hour sipping milk from the bottle and trying to lick the burn from her lips. And she tried to make sense of the house around her as the light outside changed.
She missed her little three-bedroomed home. She had always known where she was in that house in relation to every other room. Her awareness had filled the entire place, when Peter was there with her and, later, when he was gone. It had been more than a home, and sometimes she’d forgotten where she ended and the house began.
Now, the new house hung around her like something waiting to pounce. There was no sense of equilibrium. The first floor felt as though it sought to crush the ground floor
. The kitchen was too large, crowding out the dining room, storage room, and pushing into the corner of the quirky living room. Penny felt vaguely dizzy, as if every part of the house was constantly moving, just slightly. Even when she closed her eyes and hung onto the table, the feeling persisted.
And above it all, the tower.
Maybe Belinda was right. Maybe he was lying out there somewhere, gone to bones and dust. And he’d have died alone, perhaps with a broken leg or a heart attack, under lonely skies without Penny there with him.
Don’t be soft, Penny, Peter says, and she looked around, certain that she actually heard those words spoken. The natural direction for her to look was up. I’m fine. You know I am. Fine now that you’ve made the break, and taken the risk. And how does it feel, my rose? How does it feel?
“I’m not sure yet,” Penny said. Even the way her words echoed was unfamiliar. “I’m a little bit afraid.”
Don’t be, my darling, Peter says. Penny had not heard such love in his voice for many years.
Dusk approached. In the valley, it was a wild time. The breeze increased, rustling the trees along the edge of Penny’s new garden. Dogs barked from somewhere far off. Birds flitted overhead, and sitting on a stone bench outside, Penny watched them circling the tower. None seemed to land. She could not blame them. There was something so intrinsically wrong there, but she was doing her best to steer her attention away from its upright bulk. To give in to the tower would be to admit defeat.
“I might just as well go home,” she said. The overgrown garden dampened her voice, and her words quickly faded to memory.
She walked around the garden with a glass of wine. She never usually drank wine except on Friday evenings, and then only a glass or two after eight o’clock. Now it was Tuesday, barely six-thirty, and she loved the feel of the glass in her hand, the fruity taste of wine on her lips.
The garden was larger than she had thought at first. Either that, or the boundaries were poorly marked and she was strolling across open hillside. She always felt the bulk of the house to her left, but most of her attention was directed downwards, at the twisted vegetation, long grass, and exposed tree roots that sought to trip her. She stepped over and around obstructions, and thought perhaps tomorrow she would walk further into the hills. There was a famous trail up on the ridge, so Mr Gough had told her. Popular with walkers. Peter had been a walker.
“I was a sitter,” she spoke to the garden. “A not-doer. A nothing. A... waste of space.” She hated the term, because Peter had used it referring to her on more than one occasion. “Waste of space.” She looked across at the house, the looming tower, and realised that she now stood in its stretching shadow. The sun touched the hillside beyond, and cast a palette of reds and oranges around the tower’s stark lines. The glazed room was exposed to the sunset. There was a solid shadow within, as if a shape was standing in the centre of the room. And Penny wondered what would change were she to suddenly disappear, and what would fill the space she had left behind.
She began to cry. It was dislocation and fear, but also a growing sense that time had passed her by. She had never, ever thought like this before, even when Peter had angrily insisted that he only had one life, and he would not fritter it away waiting for her.
Don’t be sad, Peter says. His voice was stronger than the breeze, brighter than the sunset, and more meant for her than the hushing trees and calling birds. You’ve done well, my sweet rose. You know not to waste any more time, or time will waste you.
“Are you coming back to me?” she asked.
You think I ever left?
Penny stared up at the tower room, convinced that she would see movement there, or a face, or a sign that this new home was more than just her own. But still it exuded a weight of wrongness, as if the tower and room had been built onto the house long after it had first been constructed.
“I’m not going there,” she said. “The house is plenty big enough without me ever having to go there.” No one replied, and she saw that her glass was empty. She did not even remember drinking the wine.
Back in the kitchen, the bottle was empty as well. Penny sat on an old stool and rested her arms on the worktops, her head on her arms. Her bones were full of aches, reminders of mortality. She closed her eyes.
Tap, tap, tap...
“You never call me your little rose anymore,” she says.
“Huh.”
“What does that mean?”
Peter looks across at her from the driver’s seat. They are stuck in traffic on the way home from the supermarket. She bought food, he bought a CD and a book about Eastern European cuisine and a cheap one-man tent light enough to carry on a hike or a bike. “That was a long time ago,” he says.
“So much just fades away,” Penny says sadly.
“Huh.” The car pulls forward some more, and Penny watches her husband driving. He remains silent, stern. She wishes he would just throw her a glance, a smile, a cheeky, My rose never fades. But the rot has set in years before, and now they are simply awaiting dead-heading.
She opened her eyes to darkness, and a cruel throbbing against her skull. The house sat around her, quiet, still, and she felt that it was observing her pained waking. The weight of above pressed down against her, almost crushing her into the stool and worktop. How could the tower have not tumbled long before now? How could it stand, so heavy and dense? Even though she could no longer hear the tapping sound, she could feel it through her hands and feet. Transmitted through the body of the house like a secret message from one room to another. All about me, she thought, and she slipped from the stool to the kitchen floor. She unrolled the sleeping mat and sleeping bag, climbed in, ignoring the pressure on her bladder, the need for a drink of water, the fear of what else might be sharing the floor with her in the darkness. She had not been this drunk in decades, but today she welcomed it. Her world swayed. She was protected by numbness, and still feeling that tap, tap, tap touching delicately against the flagstone floor, she was pulled back into the dark.
Dawn, and she had dreamed of Peter sitting upright on a chair in the room at the top of the tower. There was no other furniture. Just Peter, seven years older than when she had last seen him, walking boots and trousers and waterproof jacket still on, day pack propped by his side with the flask open and cup steaming coffee, sandwich box balanced on one knee. So you came? he’d asked, not sounding surprised. He had always known that Penny, his rose, would follow.
“I have to see,” Penny said. She glanced around the kitchen until she saw the set of keys, remembered throwing the tower key outside. Then she recalled the spares Mr Gough had given her. She emptied her bag and snatched up the keyring.
Her head pulsed with each stair she climbed. Her heartbeat matched her footfalls, reverberating through the house. She wondered whether her presence here would become an echo for whoever might own the building after her.
At the door to the tower, she touched the handle again. It was cool. It took a few moments to find the key that fitted the lock, and as she tried she looked around the landing at the closed doors. She had been into each room yesterday, but did not own any of them.
The key turned, and the lock tumbled open.
“Are you there?” she asked, expecting the tap, tap, tap. But there was nothing. She pushed the door open.
The circular staircase was made of cast iron and probably worth a small fortune. It did not make a sound as she climbed. She passed two windows looking out onto her garden, but it felt as though she was looking onto a world she had never visited. She saw places she had been, recognising none of them.
The stairs ended on a narrow landing with a single door. It was dusty and cobwebbed. She touched the door handle and it was warm, but she did not wait to think about why. She tried it, then unlocked it with another key, wondering only vaguely why the tower room should be locked away behind two doors.
“Open the door, my little rose,” she said, imagining the words on her husband’s lips, and she turned the ha
ndle. Peter was waiting for her inside, and soon she would hear his voice again.
As Penny pushed the door open she saw something flash across the small room beyond, dashing for cover, terrified of being seen. She gasped, hand pressed to her chest. Her heart beat the tap, tap, tap she no longer heard, and as it transferred through her other hand to the door, she saw a smear of light quivering in the room’s opposite corner. A window-shaped reflection, brought to life by her fear. She shoved the door a little more, and the reflection disappeared.
She entered the room. There was nothing there. The dusty windows caught the sun’s early light and filtered it, casting dust-shadows against the floor and one wall.
The door was closing behind her, and Penny turned to see herself in the mirror hung on the back of the door. Through the haze of old dust covering the glass, she looked nebulous, almost not there.
Also not there, Peter. There was no chair, no husband. The room contained old, old dust, and stale air, heavy with the aromas of age and seclusion.
“I’m here,” she said. “I’m here!” Louder. Dust floated down from the ceiling and flitted in pale sunbeams, like tiny flies startled at her presence.
A broken wooden blind hung down across one window, and one end tapped gently against the panelled wall. There were no broken panes, no breeze. Penny closed her eyes and felt a slight dizziness not connected to her hangover. The tower moved, or the world. Now that she was here it did not matter which.
Penny began to understand. She had not come here to die. Neither had she come to try and make amends to her absent husband, or to prove to herself that she was not as he had always portrayed her. She had come because this was another place where she belonged. This empty, barren room was her home, not the house down below. And there was no way she could leave here again, because everywhere else felt so terrible, threatening, and a million miles away.
House of Fear Page 36
