Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller

by Collette Heather

  “It is. She doesn’t know that I’ve been snooping, but she has told me, in passing conversation that she has some texts on Satanism, so it’s not like it’s a big secret, or anything. But, well, you know, we both know who her dad was.”

  “Do you think she’s following in his footsteps, with the occult stuff?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so. She’s talked about him to me before, and she said that she never knew him. She said that he walked out on her and her mum when she was little, so I know I’m probably just being paranoid here.”

  “But there’s still a small part of you that thinks she’s showing an unhealthy interest in her father’s association with the occult?”

  “Yes. That’s about the size of it.” He leans in closer to me, speaking in an ominously low voice. My skin tingles at his proximity. “And there’s more.”

  “What?” I gasp when he doesn’t elaborate, the word catching in my throat.

  He is silent for so long, his gaze dropping to his hands, staring at his twiddling fingers, that I don’t think he is going to answer.

  “I would probably be okay, if it was just the books, but it wasn’t just the books. It was more than that.” He looks shiftily around my kitchen. “I found…stuff.”

  “What do you mean, stuff?”

  “Occult stuff, like full-on Satanic stuff. I found a box in my old wardrobe, and it was full of thick, black candles, and this hunting knife with a carved, wooden handle. But these items were just off. The carvings on the knife were of screaming, mutilated figures, just, really crude and disturbing. And the candles just smelled wrong. Organic, somehow.”

  “Organic? How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, they smelled vaguely human, or animal. Just kind of rotten.”

  “Maybe they were just old and musty.” My heart is tripping now.

  He visibly shivers. “No, it wasn’t that.”

  “Did you find anything else?” Like that shoebox in her desk, I silently add.

  “No. Nothing else.”

  I figure that she probably moved the shoebox since the last time I was there snooping around. I distinctly remember that she told Mark her ex hadn’t been on speaking terms with his son, so if Mark had seen that photo of the three of them together, I’m sure he would’ve mentioned it to me by now.

  You really need to tell him about that photo, I realise.

  “I flicked through her books,” Mark is saying, “and I found a photo of her ex wedged in one of them. It was one of the books in English – a smaller, more modern one. Something about mysticism and ley lines and all that new age crap. The thing is, it was like Jasper’s grinning mugshot was being used as a bookmark.”

  At the mention of new age crap, Blythe pops into my head, and I wonder how she is and what she’s doing before I shove her away. I’ve got far more important things to worry about right this second. Like the bookmarked page I also found in the necromancy, Latin tome. I am shivering again.

  “What was it bookmarking? Do you think it was even marking a page? Or was it just random?”

  “Yes, I think she was using it as a bookmark.”

  “And? What was on the page?”

  “I can’t remember, exactly, and I didn’t have my phone with me, otherwise I would’ve photographed all these things to look at later.”

  I let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Great minds think alike.”

  He looks at me sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” I mumble, embarrassed that I almost gave myself away like that. Please just drop it, I silently beg. “I would’ve done the same thing in your shoes, that’s all. So, what was written on the page, that you can remember?”

  “It was about the power of ley lines and aligned planets and how chasms or rifts between realms are opened on All Saints’ Eve – or Halloween – when the various forces align. And when these forces are in alignment, and the walls between the living and the dead as at their weakest, rites can then be performed.”

  The blood pumps cold through my veins as I remember something that she said in passing once about Broadgate having great energy.

  “That sounds like a plot from one of her Sam West books,” I say dazedly.

  “Yeah. Except, why does she have a box full of stinky black-mass candles and a sacrificial knife?”

  “You don’t know it’s a sacrificial knife. I mean, what, exactly are you implying here?” I ask, then catch myself. I’m doing it again, standing up for her, and I don’t know why. Maybe I just don’t want to believe any of this.

  “Okay, maybe sacrificial is a little extreme, but I googled it, and the chances are its been blessed. Or cursed, whichever way you want to look at it. And one of the books – a Latin book – is on Necromancy. I took Latin at school; I could read the title at least. Do you know what Necromancy means, Claire?”

  “Of course,” I say defensively. Does he think I’m stupid, or something? It occurs to me that I am being defensive because here I am, not telling him that I translated one of those supposed rites from that Latin book…

  “Then you know that Necromancy is about raising the dead. And that book was a book of ancient necromantic rites. Rites that summon specific demons for that very purpose.”

  I have to tell him. “Mark –”

  “That’s not all,” he interrupts, clearly believing that I am going to rain on his parade. “The other books were all variations on a theme, and taken as a whole, they only suggest one thing to me – she’s planning something tomorrow night, on Halloween. The party, Claire,” he says, when he construes my look as one of blankness.

  “Mark, please, listen –”

  But he doesn’t. “Broadgate is built on ancient ley lines, right? She has a book of demonic rites. Tomorrow is All Hallows Eve and a full moon. Also, after yet another poke around on Google, it turns out that Grange Road is a hotspot. It’s built on one such ley line.”

  I stare at him incredulously. “My God, Mark, what are you saying?”

  “No, Claire, not God. I’m an atheist as much as you are, but God doesn’t come into this. The Devil does. It’s like, she’s planning on performing some kind of ritual tomorrow. A ritual to bring back Jasper.”

  The sensation of falling crashes over me and I grip the table edge in an effort to control it.

  “But that’s insane. Can you hear yourself?”

  She has the knife and the candles. She has bookmarked a specific, demonic rite in the Necromancy book and if she has been reading those books, then she is well-versed in most aspects of the black arts. Not only that, she keeps a photo of dead husband hidden in one of those books, bookmarking a page about the forces that are uniting on Halloween to possibly bring him back.”

  “That’s quite a stretch,” I say. Inside, I am stressing over the fact I managed to photograph the page he is talking about. I really have to show him the translation…

  “I always knew, deep down, that she was still madly in love with him, but I chose to ignore it. She never got over him, and she wants him back.”

  “But that’s insane.” Not only that, but it also completely turns what I originally thought on its head – that she only married him for his vast wealth.

  “No shit,” he replies dryly.

  I think of the knife, and my chest tightens. “Do you think she plans on killing something? Like an animal, perhaps?” I take a deep breath. “Or a person? Like you, for instance?”

  His pale blue gaze locks with mine and I see despair etched there. “I love her, Claire, that hasn’t changed. But I’m so torn. Bloodletting is a big part of your average Satanic ritual, but that doesn’t equate to murder. I suppose you could compare it to taking communion in a church. The drops of blood shed – and they are just drops – are part of the ritual and ceremony. But I do believe she might try to summon Jasper’s spirit – sort of like a more sophisticated version of a Ouija board.”

  “You really need to confront her about this,” I say. “Tell her what you found
and ask what it’s all for.”

  “But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m letting paranoia get the better of me?”

  “But you’re not, are you? She’s the one hiding a creepy old knife from you. And the Satanic books and black-mass candles; they’re very much a thing, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah. Potentially innocent things. What if the knife with the creepy carved handle is a family heirloom, or some such thing? And the books are just for research? And plenty of women have a thing for candles, don’t they? Maybe Holly just has a penchant for ugly, smelly black ones. And as for the photo of the dead husband kept inside a book – that could be just coincidence. I mean, how many random things have you shoved in books for safekeeping over the years?”

  “Who are you trying to convince, you or me?” I counter. “Maybe you should listen to your gut instinct. What does that tell you?”

  “That’s the thing – I honestly don’t know anymore. I get anxiety and mild depression; maybe I just have PTSD from my parents’ deaths, or something.”

  This is news to me. But then, the past few years he hasn’t been opening up with me like he used to.

  “I wish you had talked to me about it,” I say sadly.

  “Yeah, well, it’s kinda personal, you know? And I don’t want to burden you with my crap.”

  “You could never be a burden,” I say.

  “I’m just so tired, Claire,” he says miserably. “I haven’t been sleeping, and I’ve just been feeling really paranoid lately. Like I’m being watched, as nuts as that sounds. Even in Germany, I felt like that. And this is gonna sound out there, but the paranoid part of me – this tiny, irrational part – thinks that Holly is having me followed to keep an eye on me.”

  “What on earth for?” I blurt out.

  “To stop me from finding out.”

  “Find out what?”

  “I don’t know! That’s the whole point. The fact she’s a Satanist, for one thing. And whatever it is that she’s plotting. Don’t look at me like that.”

  “I’m not looking at you like anything.”

  “Yeah, you are. You think I’m crazy.” He laughs, and it’s a horrible, brittle sound. “You’re not the only one. And the nightmares I’ve been having the past month, or so. God, I just feel like I’m losing my mind.” He pauses, as if unsure whether to continue or not. I don’t utter a word in case I interrupt his flow of thought. “And I’ve been hearing things at night. I don’t just mean that I’m having nightmares, although that too, but I feel like the house itself is waking up. Or gearing up for something. I didn’t hear things when I was in Berlin, but I still had the nightmares. Sometimes, late at night, it’s like I can feel a presence in the house. Like there is something in the house waiting for me.”

  I stare at him, unsure what to say. He sounds crazy, alright. Although, I clearly remember my own experiences with similar occurrences. Like, the handful of times I was so sure that I was being watched, both on the streets of London and on Broadgate Sands. He is also not the only one to be getting nightmares, lately.

  And let’s not forget how scared I had been when I was snooping in Mark’s old bedroom. I had felt something then, too, like someone – or something – was in the house with me. It wasn’t the first time I had gotten spooked at Mark’s place, either…

  No, stop, I tell myself. His paranoia is catching.

  You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he says to my silence. “It’s okay, I think so too.”

  “No, I don’t think that,” I say, probably none too convincingly. “You’re allowing yourself to get spooked. I think it’s more a case of your subconscious is stepping up to tell you that Holly is bad news.”

  “Maybe,” he says, nodding his head vigorously. “I hope so. Which is why I need your help. I think we should get a codeword in place for this party tomorrow night. If things go rat shit, you need to get the hell out of there. Act like everything is tickety-boo, say you just have a headache or something, and then call the police as soon as you get in. As soon as. Even if you think I’m overreacting, or flat out imagining things, I need you to call the police and tell them that you saw someone getting gangraped next door, or there’s an armed robbery taking place – anything to get the police there immediately, do you understand? Can you do that for me? Do you trust me?”

  He is speed-talking now, and for the first time ever it occurs to me that maybe Mark has mental health problems. It does go hand in hand with being an artist, after all…

  “Sure, Mark. I trust you.”

  And I do. Of course I do.

  “It’s raining again,” he says.

  “Is it?” I say, my head spinning at the sudden tonal shift in the conversation. Maybe he really is having a breakdown.

  “No, that’s our code. It’s raining again. If I say that, get out the house and call the police.”

  “Maybe we should call the police now? We have evidence.” I pause. “Sort of.”

  Mark huffs sad laughter. “And say what? My horror writer girlfriend, who is currently writing a book on Satanism, has some books on the subject in the house? And she has some black candles and a knife? I have nothing, Claire. Besides, I want to believe that the problem is me, not her. I want to be the one who is paranoid here, rather than the alternative.”

  I get it. His words hang in the air between us, weighing heavy on my conscience.

  “Who’s coming to this party anyway?” I ask.

  “That’s another thing. I haven’t really given this party a second thought, purely because I’ve been so busy with the exhibition, and everything. The party is all her, not me. She’s arranging everything, from the guest list to the food. I don’t even know who’s coming. She knows I hate organising stuff like that, so she took over.”

  “So you don’t even know if any of your friends are coming, or not?”

  “Well, I know my closest friend in London won’t be because he’s currently in Australia with his girlfriend. Look, Claire, this is why we have a code word in place, right? If I feel like things are just weird at this party, you get out of there, call the police and scream blue murder, okay?”

  The worst feeling twists in my guts, a feeling that I can’t quite pinpoint.

  “Okay. Listen, Mark, there’s something I really need to tell you –”

  The doorbell goes, and we both flinch in our chairs.

  “Jesus,” Mark laughs, although there is little humour in the sound. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  “No.”

  His face has turned even whiter than usual, his blue eyes gleaming with what can only be described as fear.

  I scrape back my chair and get to my feet. “Best get that.”

  Mark grabs my wrist when I stand up.

  “It’ll be Holly. Promise you won’t breathe a word to her what we’ve been talking about?”

  “Of course not.”

  My skin tingles where he is touching me and my heart aches. I hate how I react to him, body and soul. I wish I could be free of it, once and for all.

  “Thank you.”

  “Come on,” I say. “Put on your best face and try to relax. We’ve just been talking about your exhibition, okay?”

  He nods, looking pathetically grateful. “Okay.”

  Together we troop to the door, Mark loitering slightly behind me.

  I paste on a bright smile when I fling it open, knowing exactly who will be standing there.

  Sure enough, Holly smiles back at me, looking as stunning as ever in a pair of skinny jeans and skin-tight, flesh-coloured pullover.

  “Do you have my boyfriend in there? Ah, there he is,” she says, on spotting him behind me.

  “Hey, baby, how sweet of you to come and dig me out. I was just coming back.” There isn’t a trace of the fear and anxiety he displayed a second ago.

  Holly watches him, her smile not especially warm.

  “Can I do anything to help with your party tomorrow?” I ask innocently.

  “No, it’s fine,” she says, her
gaze never leaving Mark. “Everything’s under control.”

  “Do you want to come in?” I ask. “Have a cup of coffee?”

  It only then occurs to me that Holly hasn’t once set foot inside my house. That’s because I mean less than nothing to her. Maybe that’s a good thing, I reason. I’d hate to be the person that would ever dare to get in her way…

  “I’d love to, but I’ve got a ton of stuff to do,” she says. “But I can’t wait for a proper catch up tomorrow.”

  Sure you can’t, I think, smiling at her.

  “See you tomorrow, then,” Mark says as he goes to join Holly on the doorstep.

  He wraps his arm around her shoulder and I watch them leave.

  Only when I shut the door behind myself do I slump against it and give in to the trembling that racks my body.

  FORTY-TWO

  It is not even ten o’clock when I pull out my sofa and climb into bed. After that bizarre encounter with Mark earlier, and that uncomfortable exchange with Holly on the doorstep, I’ve had enough for one day.

  I’ve been feeling anxious since they left, unable to read, or even to do the simplest of house chores. All those emotions, mostly negative, that I had pushed to one side over the past week or so with a reasonable amount of success are back with a vengeance.

  And still I never got the chance to tell him.

  Sighing, propped up against a stack of pillows behind my back and Bertie curled in a ball at my feet, I once more read the offending text that I have written down on a piece of paper:

  Hold us in the power of the dark,

  Command the light to extinguish,

  The cries come from beyond the gates

  Do as thou will,

  The entirety of the law,

  Call furth those from the darkness to do our bidding.

  Live on in flesh anew,

  Carried forth in the mortal vessel.

  Cast out the soul,

  To the fiery pits.

  Now your soul carried,

  Reborn, in your abomination.

  Accept our offering of flesh and blood,

  The mutilation and the consumption,