by Michael Bray
HOPE HOUSE CHRONICLES VOLUME ONE:
THE VISITOR
Michael Bray
Copyright © 2015 Michael Bray
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The moral right of Michael Bray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
EDWARD & JOAN MIRFIELD
1955 – 1962
ONE
October 7th, 1962
As soon as they saw it, the Mirfields knew Hope House was where they wanted to live. They were certain they would never be able to locate a property with the right combination of the solitude they craved and the oneness with nature they craved. Some of the homes they viewed had combinations of one or the other, but only Hope House had possessed both. When they had first viewed it, both of them instantly fell in love with the unique styling, the way it was almost like a secret buried in the depths of Oakwell forest, its white walls standing out in beautiful contrast against the surrounding greens and browns around it. There was no question of them not making an offer. The house was the perfect place they had been searching for to spend their retirement.
Both in their fifties, the Mirfields were ready to reap the rewards of the work they had done. Edward had spent his career working on the docks, moving crates and shipments. Over the years, he had worked his way up to supervisor, which meant more money and less physical labour. He had saved carefully, ensuring that when the time came to move on and retire, the financial backing was there. In the winter of ‘54, the time had come. He had decided that he had seen enough of dirty dockyards, and heard too much foul-mouthed chatter from the young men who worked under him doing the same physical tasks he had himself spent so long performing. Although they had talked about it for some time, it was the first time Edward had been determined to see it through. He had told Joan to leave her job at the laundry, and they set out to find the perfect place.
Finding and living in Hope House had been some of the best years they had experienced. They loved the nature, loved the isolation. It was as if they had their own world away from everyone else, and were finally able to spend some time with each other. Eventually, they fell into a routine. Joan would get up early and go into the kitchen, where she would bake cakes and bread. Edward would go out into the forest to hunt rabbit and deer, before returning at dusk with whatever he had managed to kill, ready to strip down for them to eat. He loved the isolation, loved being surrounded by the trees, their thick canopies enveloping him in their embrace. It was during one such walk when he saw the man.
He was lying on his side, curled up beside an overhanging oak. He could almost have been asleep, his head resting on a blue canvas bag. At first, Edward was sure he was dead. His face was pale and waxy, blue eyes vacant and glassy, hair, jet black like oil was a frazzled mess on his head. There was also blood. On the man’s hands, on his shirt, which was stained through and dark with it. Edward ran to him, dropping his gun on the floor.
“Are you alright? What happened to you?”
The man didn’t reply, he stared at Edward, blinking and numb.
“Can you hear me? Are you able to walk?” Edward repeated.
The man groaned and nodded, then tried to sit up. He winced, clutched his side, and lay back down. Edward moved the man’s hand. The shirt was torn, the flesh beneath it ravaged and split.
“How long have you been out here? How did this happen?”
The man blinked and groaned, and Edward knew it was pointless to keep trying to make conversation. It was clear the man was exhausted. He was also badly injured and dehydrated.
“My home isn’t far from here. I’m going to take you there and help you. Do you understand?”
The man nodded, and Edward helped him to his feet. The man groaned and pointed at the floor. “My bag…my bag….”
“I’ll get it, don’t worry about that.”
With his free hand, Edward scooped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder. He put the man’s arm around his own neck and walked him back towards the house, pausing to pick up his gun on the way. The man shuffled along, head low and muttering as they made their way through the trees. Edward wasn’t sure if he would make it, but he had to help as best he could
TWO
He was floating in a black emptiness, an experience which was not unpleasant. The pain in his side was a distant thing, something irritating more than agonising. Like scattered jigsaw pieces, memory came back to him. Who he was, what had happened to him. But not where. Where was still a mystery. He opened his eyes, light exploding into his brain and banishing away the darkness.
A face, lined and weathered by time.
A woman.
Kind blue eyes, silver hair flowing. A stranger.
He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. The woman brought him water, cool and soothing.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “Where am I?”
“Relax, young man. You’re safe now, here with us. You are in our home. My husband found you out in the woods. We didn’t think you were going to pull through.”
“Did you call a doctor?” he asked.
“No, not yet. We don’t have a car and the village is quite a walk from here.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Two days. I dressed your wounds as best I could. The bleeding has stopped now.”
“Thank you again.” The man said.
“What should we call you? Young man doesn’t seem appropriate.”
“Anthony,” the man said, smiling at the woman.
“My name is Joan. My husband, Edward is out on his morning walk, but will be back shortly. Do you feel up to eating?”
“No, I’m not hungry. Does anyone know I’m here?”
“We didn’t feel it was right to go through your things. The bag you had with you is over in the corner there. This bedroom isn’t used, so you have it for as long as you need until you are well. My husband will be heading into town tomorrow. He can get a doctor to come out to.”
“No.”
“I mean, there is really no need. You’ve done a great job with my injuries. I wouldn’t want to waste the time of a doctor when it’s not needed, thank you anyway, though.”
“Are you sure? It might be best if you had a doctor come out. I’m no expert.”
“No really, I’ll be fine. Thank you for the hospitality. I’ll be on my way in just a few days.”
Joan hesitated, watching Anthony carefully. “Alright, if you insist. You get some rest now. I’ll bring you some food later.”
“Thank you, for everything.”
Joan smiled as she headed for the door. “Not at all. You get some rest now.”
THREE
He dreamed.
There was fire and screaming.
Anthony stirred in his sleep and murmured as the terrible imagery continued to play out in his psyche.
He saw a man, brutish and heavily muscled. He wore a necklace of shrivelled human tongues, and his eyes burned behind the white makeup streaked on his face. The man said nothing, but a single word projected itself into Anthony’s mind nonetheless.
Gogoku.
The man walked to the head of the line of terrified villagers. They were on their knees, heads bowed, hands bound behind them. The village at their back hissed and spat as it burned and the Gogoku elder’s people
raped and pillaged, eating the flesh of the villagers, and indulging the rage and lust which lived within them. The massive elder simply paced in front of his terrified captives, eyes glassy as he waited.
The surrounding trees swayed, singing their secret songs. A steady hiss, a sly whisper of foliage decipherable only by him.
It was the signal he had been waiting for. He walked to the start of the line, where he unhooked the primitive axe from his side. Its handle was smooth with wear, the blade sharp and encrusted with matted hair and dry blood. He smiled, his teeth filed to miniature daggers adding to his already horrific appearance, then he walked, swinging the axe, each cut with the blade true and severing the heads of those who cowered in a single devastating blow. Hot arterial blood sprayed his legs, yet he didn’t break pace. When he reached the end of the line, the river of hot blood running over his feet, he turned his head to the skies and listened to the secret song of those demonic things which inhabited the trees.
They were pleased with his work, yet he knew he was not done. This, he knew wouldn’t be enough. They would want more. It was always the way it had been.
Anthony woke.
He almost screamed, but swallowed it down, instead uttering only a short yelp. It was night, and his sheets were twisted and tangled around his legs. The wound on his side ached, and he could see a few spots of blood seeping through due to the thrashing of his nightmare.
He lay in his bed, staring at the shadows of the trees where they danced on the wall. Unlike most dreams that faded, this one had stayed with him, the imagery fresh and vivid. Although he wasn’t a man easily scared, the dream had disturbed him. He listened to the house, to the sounds it made. The creaks, the groans.
He half smiled, a gesture born more of nerves than amusement. He could imagine that given enough time, those sounds could easily be mistaken for voices.
A creak of tired footsteps on the wooden staircase snapped him from his musings. He presumed it would be the old woman, perhaps coming to see what all the thrashing and noise was about. He waited as she approached, feet padding on the creaky boards. They stopped outside his room. He waited, staring at the door, hoping she had brought the food she promised.
Nothing happened.
He lay there, staring at the door, waiting for it to open, but there was nothing but silence.
“Hello?”
It came out as a whisper, a croaked half said thing. The atmosphere was such that for him to make a sound was almost sacrilege. The house was making its own noise, speaking its own language, and he was afraid to interrupt.
“Hello?” he said again, unable to ignore the bunching of his skin, the icy terror that brought out ripples of goose bumps across his arms.
Silence again greeted him, and he felt a shift in the atmosphere. It became heavy, charged like the air just before the onset of a wicked storm. The air felt clammy, dirty, even. He knew then that whoever stood outside his door, it wasn’t the old woman. He was convinced that whatever waited for them wasn’t human at all.
He got out of bed, bare feet cold against the floorboards. He felt incredibly exposed, incredibly vulnerable a he inched towards the door. He had heard no more sounds. Whatever stood outside his door hadn’t moved. If it had, he would have heard the floorboards creak. It was still there.
He wanted to pull the door open quickly, but couldn’t will himself to do it. He glanced at his hand, limp by his side and couldn’t force himself to open the door. He convinced himself it was because the whole idea was stupid, but the truth was he was afraid of what he might see. The shadows of the trees dancing on the wall seemed to have increased in intensity, adding to the already hostile atmosphere. He didn’t like it. The way those shapes danced across the walls made him think of narrow, clawed hands reaching for him. He could even imagine how it would feel as those cold, stiff fingers curled around his warm flesh and dug into the skin.
He reached out for the brass doorknob, hand trembling, that awful heavy atmosphere weighing down on him. His fingers brushed the cold metal, and he pulled away. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Instead, he put his ear to the door, straining to hear through the thin wood to try and get an idea of what was on the other side. He was sure his mind was playing tricks on him. Part of him could hear only oppressive silence, yet beyond it, buried somewhere within it, he thought he could hear something else. A small child’s giggle, perhaps enjoying how easily he was unravelling. Anger flashed through him, and he grabbed the doorknob and yanked it open.
The hall was deserted. There was just the faded yellow wallpaper in front of him. He looked down the length of the hall, half expecting to see something there in the shadows, but it too was deserted. He walked to the top of the steps, wishing that awful feeling would go away. Any thoughts of it being the old woman who had been outside the room were immediately dispelled. He could hear her downstairs talking to her husband. Anthony turned back towards his room, trying to make sense of what had happened, trying to rationalise what he had experienced. No explanation seemed to make sense, and the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that something unnatural had happened. He returned to his room, gently closing the door. Those shadows were still thrashing against the walls. He walked to the curtains and pulled them closed, banishing them from his room. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, still thinking, still trying to find a solution that made sense. Eventually, he lay back down, staring at the ceiling and the ugly glass light fitting. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep, but his exhausted body gave him no option. He drifted into a restless dream-free sleep.
FOUR
For the next two nights, they plagued him. Those creaking sounds those whispered voices. Blocking them out had proved fruitless, so he opened himself up to those creaks, those groans and whispers. He let them in, allowed them to explore the furthest reaches of his brain with their long black fingers. As a reward, they took away the fear and soothed him with their words. They had a job for him. Something important. He lay in the dark, murmuring in response as the house spoke to him.
FIVE
Joan stood at the kitchen sink, washing the breakfast dishes. Autumn was her favourite time of year. It was a glorious morning, bright sunshine tinged with the chill of winter. Golden leaves were already carpeting the ground, and with each gust of wind more would fall like a beautiful rain shower. Edward had headed out early as he always did. Soon, when winter arrived, it would be too dangerous for him to go on his hunts in the woods, and so he was making the most of his opportunity. She put the plates onto the drainer, and pulled the plug, letting the water drain away. She needed to head off into town later and wanted to check with their guest if he needed a doctor. They had asked him numerous times, but he had flatly refused. He seemed withdrawn, changed, although she presumed that could be simply due to the pain of his injury. He had told her he would be ready to move on soon, and although she was a church goer and tried to be a good citizen, she was glad.
It wasn’t so much that she had grown used to her and Edward being alone, it was because there was something she didn’t quite like about Anthony that was making her feel uncomfortable. She glanced at his bag in the corner of the kitchen, his bloody shirt screwed up on top of it. If he was going to move on, it would need to be clean. It was, she thought, the least she could do to help. She walked over to it and picked it up, intending to head back to the sink, when something caught her eye inside the bag. She stared at it, torn between curiosity and doing the right thing. Eventually, the former overcame the latter, and she reached into the bag, taking out the book.
It was a journal of some kind, its pages worn and old. She set the shirt on the table, then opened the book.
It was filled with newspaper clippings. Some, near the start, were old and yellowed. Others towards the back, only a few weeks old. She let her eyes drift over the print, each word filling her with dread and telling her she had made an awful mistake.
2 SLAIN IN TWIN PINE ROBBERY
LONE BANDIT ESCAPES WITH
$2,000
An unmasked man walked into Twin pine bank this morning and shot two men, before escaping with almost $2,000 in cash. Witnesses said the man showed no remorse for his callous actions and seemed to take great delight in his murderous activities. He escaped on foot shortly after 1 pm. The man is described as medium height, with dark hair and blue eyes.
He is to be considered dangerous and should not be approached.
Mary turned the page, looking at the reports, each eerily similar to the last. The last entry was smeared with blood and was dated two days before Edward found Anthony in the woods.
NOTORIOUS BLUE EYED BANDIT KILLS FOUR, WOUNDED DURING ESCAPE
Last night, the notorious blue eyed bandit, believed to be responsible for more than fifteen bank robberies and the murder of sixteen people, was foiled in his attempt to rob the First National Bank. Despite killing four innocent bystanders, the bandit escaped only with three hundred dollars and is believed to have been shot during his escape.
This is the latest in a string of robberies attributed to the bandit in the last seven years, with many calling on police forces to step up their search and bring him in. Residents of the towns of Bremplen, Meadowvale and Oakwell are asked to remain vigilant, and report any suspicious activity to the police immediately.
Below the article was a police drawing of the bandit, the likeness uncanny. The same eyes, the same hair and prominent cheekbones. Joan felt nauseous but still had to be sure. She had to be certain. She set the journal down and peered into the bag. The money was at the bottom and smeared with dried blood. On top of it was the gun, several loose bullets around it.
She stood, realising that she was alone in the house with him.
