Conjure House

by Gary Fry

  The figure that paced across the junction ahead challenged this notion, but when Anthony squinted against a glow from streetlamps, he spotted only a cloud of flies in the shadows of the abandoned house, which was whitewashed by faint light from the stars and moon.

  While staring at his three evasive friends, a vague impression stirred in Anthony’s mind.

  “You guys sound nervous,” he said, understanding that antagonism might be his best option. He’d felt affronted by being told to get over the death of Simon. He was a psychologist, after all; his friends were merely artists. “What’s wrong with you? Why haven’t you all often come back to Deepvale in the past fifteen years? Your parents are upset about this, you know.”

  “We’ve been busy, Ant,” Lisa explained, running a thumb across her mouth, as if she was lying.

  Anthony wasn’t convinced by her explanation.

  “Busy? But you’re all freelance—you told me that earlier. You can surely work anywhere.”

  “Yeah, but time passes quickly,” added Andy, attempting to account for their negligence.

  Something shifted overhead, but nobody looked up; anything that big couldn’t remain airborne for long. It was just shadows, of course, thrown by the glimmering streetlight.

  Paul tried to bring the evening to a close. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Ant. It’s been a long day.”

  A yawn, as if decreed by higher forces than themselves, passed among them, and at that moment, Anthony was offered inspiration. As his friends began moving away to their respective homes, he stopped them dead.

  “You’ve all seen something, haven’t you? I mean, you know something.” He held out his empty hands, a final plea. “What is it? You have to tell me.”

  “Get some sleep, fella,” Andy said, but only averted his gaze. “We’ll talk in the morning when we’re more focused.”

  “That makes me think there is something to discuss,” Anthony replied, every bit as hurriedly as the figure passing from one garden and another just beyond his friends…But that hadn’t been an old man, his comportment jittering as if chuckling manically. If it had been Andy’s dad—the most likely candidate—the staccato movement would have suggested rage.

  “Yes, I’m very tired, too,” Lisa said, clenching her hands. “The drive from York nearly…killed me.”

  She’d regretted the penultimate word, but then Paul cushioned its impact.

  “And I need to get on with composing tomorrow. But I’ll be available in the afternoon if we all fancy meeting up.”

  Anthony now ceased his cross-examination. Perhaps his friends were right and it was just the darkness, as well as all the booze he’d consumed this evening, that contributed to his emotional state. The figure he’d seen in The Conjurer’s House had just been a child crawling on the roof, hadn’t it? It might even have been troublesome Suman, the boy who’d pitched his mind into unpleasant reflection. Anthony would certainly rebuke the lad if he ever laid hands on him.

  His tone calmer, he said to his friends, “I’ve promised to take Mel and Carl into the village in the morning. But yeah, sure, I’ll be around later. Let’s chat then.”

  Anthony suspected the grins he received in response were driven as much by relief as fondness, but then he waved all three away. Now he harboured a secret of his own: if they were unable to help him out so soon, he knew a man who could…

  Stepping back to his late parents’ house, he decided to pay Larry Cole another visit the following day. Anthony had earlier trawled the Internet for more information concerning the house at the foot of the grove, but had found nothing useful. But he knew the local historian had failed to tell him something and was resolved to discover what it was.

  He paced inside the bungalow and locked the door to keep his family safe. Then he retreated to bed, determined that all would soon be clear.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Mummy and Daddy had promised to take him into the village and buy him a gift, and so Carl wasted little time dressing before rushing into their bedroom and waking them with a shake.

  Daddy jerked upright, as if he’d had a bad dream, but Carl knew that was stupid. Only kids suffered them. When Mummy awoke to see what the fuss was about, Daddy thought for a moment, but then shook his head and said nothing. Carl knew what it was like to keep secrets, and thought Mummy also knew Daddy had just held something back.

  After breakfasts of cereal and juice, they were ready to go outside. It was a chilly day with a hint of storms in sky directly overhead, but not at a distance, on horizons as far as vision could reach. Carl observed bulky clouds, their shapes like airborne creatures, hovering way above Deepvale, like some he’d seen in TV weather reports…But he was too excited to dwell on these images. He wondered what present his parents would get him from a local shop.

  At the foot of the bungalow’s path, Daddy asked, “Shall we take the car?”

  Mummy looked around, at the empty moors shimmering in morning haze. “No, let’s walk. It’s not far, is it? Not like in Leeds where we have to get a bus to go anywhere so pretty.”

  They began walking along the grove, Daddy strolling faster than Carl and Mummy, especially when they reached the house near the junction where Carl’s new friend had said he lived. Carl must have dreamed about the boy standing in his bedroom, as well as other nasty stuff about someone called Peter Suman…He certainly wouldn’t mention this name to his parents. They both looked as if they had more important things on their minds.

  “Hey, slow down, boy-racer!” Mummy called, and then Daddy turned on her.

  “What do you mean boy?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling like an old man’s.

  But any debate was prevented when a woman approached along a lane leading into the village.

  “Hello again, my dears,” she said, and Carl immediately recognised her. It was Mrs. Jenkins, a nice woman who’d been at his grandparents’ funeral. She was the Mummy of funny Paul, who’d come with the other two—pretty Lisa and energetic Andy—to the bungalow for drinks last night. Then she went on, “Are you going into the village, getting used to the place? It’ll be good to have you here.”

  Mummy shuffled on her feet, maybe because Daddy was now staring at her with a severe expression. But moments later, she replied, “We thought we’d have a look around, yes.”

  “It’s a lovely place…well, except for the occasional unrest.” She paused, as if what she’d said meant more to her and Carl’s parents than Carl could understand. But then she added, “Anyway, we’re very proud of it—all the residents, I mean. And we hope you’ll be very happy here.”

  Why did Mrs. Jenkins appear to speak for everyone else in Deepvale? And how did she know they were thinking of moving from the city? Had Mummy told the old woman their secret, or had Mrs. Jenkins guessed? She might be what Carl had once heard a teacher call “Claire Voyant.” Perhaps her first name was Claire, like one of the girls in his class in Leeds. But she didn’t look peculiar, not like a witch or anything…

  The older woman walked on, back towards her home, but while doing so, she added more words aimed at Daddy.

  “Thanks for getting our son to come back for a while. We won’t forget that. I’ve just been to buy him something nice to eat.”

  “You’re welcome,” Daddy replied, and a shadow gathered around him, which turned out to be only a cloud of flies. The insects swooped as if Daddy had spoken to them, and he swatted them away. As they seemed to vanish in midair, he, Mummy and Carl paced on beyond many quiet houses and towards the shops.

  The first was a bookstore, much smaller than any back in the city. The stock didn’t look as clean either, and when Carl read the sign above the wide front window, he noticed the words “Second Hand.” He giggled, imagining the shop selling human hands, but his amusement dried up when he pictured each hand lacking thumbs…

  Mummy asked, “Would you like a new book, Carl? That’s always a useful present.”

  He wasn’t sure. He certainly didn’t want any more fantasy stories; they wer
e too real. But he wondered whether the store stocked books about dreams. Daddy sometimes read one by a man whose second name had always reminded Carl of “friend”…But this thought made him think of Suman entering his room again, and even though he must have imagined that, he tried pushing aside the memory. Maybe the shop would have a version of Daddy’s book written for children.

  “Okay,” Carl said at last, and they all entered the shop, but only after Daddy had glanced up the street, as if looking out for someone he might know.

  * * *

  Melanie was glad her son had agreed to buy a book rather than toys he’d soon grow bored with. He’d suffered a bad dream yesterday, but surely fiction could help him understand such experiences.

  She’d also endured a nightmare last night, involving a creature she’d been unable to see in full detail…It was probably just nonsense, her mind’s symbolic way of coping with the upheaval that always accompanied major decisions like moving house. She smiled at her husband, hoping he hadn’t thought she’d been discussing this possibility with Mrs. Jenkins. Paul’s mother was clearly wise, and had guessed that Melanie and her family might become new neighbours.

  Anthony was too preoccupied with searching for a book to return the pleasantry. After nodding at the vendor whom he obviously didn’t recognise—an elderly woman who invited them to browse at their leisure—he headed for the nonfiction section. Melanie assumed he’d be keen to find a rare social science text, but then surprised her when he halted at a section marked HISTORY. He plucked a volume from one shelf whose tag read LOCAL, and began flipping through its pages before stopping somewhere near the end. He scanned a few passages of prose and then shut the book, returned it, and moved away, on this occasion to where she’d thought he’d begin.

  Now her husband was out of sight behind a display unit, Melanie examined what he’d discarded. The book, whose spine was stiff with age, was called Deepvale: A Potted History, and written by someone called Lesley Jones. It fell open at the pages Melanie thought her husband had been scrutinising, and the heading revealed the chapter’s contents: “The Nineteenth Century.”

  There was nothing noteworthy in the poorly written text. Perhaps Anthony had been trying to discover more about Peter Suman, whom the boy who’d befriended Carl seemed to know about. Melanie glanced protectively at her son, but he was happily paging through a children’s book called The Dream Maker. Then Melanie turned back the fragile leaves of the village history until all were fanned in a semi-circle, as if each chronological period was spaced out with appropriate time between. She turned to the earliest chapter and started to read with the ruthless speed she’d developed as an undergraduate.

  Deepvale had been founded in the 1400s and was originally a pagan community. For many years, it had resisted the Catholic church, which had conveyed its prescriptive doctrines during the Renaissance period. A deep-rooted atheism had survived the religiosity that dominated thought during the following centuries, as if the village existed in a cultural vacuum, sheltered from both organised faith and the “hyperrational dogma”—one of Lesley Jones’s rare adept phrases—of modern Western civilisation. Even today, the author asserted, few notions of traditional Gods occupied the community’s spiritual leanings.

  Melanie soon abandoned the prose, which had grown increasingly difficult to read, and concentrated instead on the illustrations. Drawings of shuttered houses of the late medieval era nestled alongside paintings of performing animals in the sixteenth century and photos of people strolling along roads during the 1800s. The women wore fabulous black dresses, the men top hats and tails. Melanie smiled; she’d always loved such material. It was what she hoped to research for a PhD. Eventually she closed the book and returned it to the shelf. Neither Anthony nor Carl wished to buy anything, and after bidding good-bye to the owner, they all exited.

  Their son was obviously growing to like it here, because he immediately ran to the next outlet, whose window displayed cream buns and cakes, all slightly crooked and deliciously homemade in appearance. Melanie had also begun to relax, believing that she’d like living in Deepvale, despite noticing the priest who’d conducted her in-laws’ funeral service emerging from the nearby church, take a single glance at the three of them, and then hastily reenter. What an odd man, she thought, reflecting on what she’d learned about the village from the local history book. Melanie was an agnostic, but privately believed that the worship of any God invariably resulted in duress. Still, why was the cleric bothered by her family?

  She glanced behind her, and someone darted out of view. Had this been anybody offensive to the clergyman? The appendage she’d half-spotted had appeared insubstantial, a fleeting impression of fingers without a thumb…Melanie snatched her gaze away. Whatever she’d observed in her peripheral vision must be just part of a plant or tree blowing in the breeze; it had been fuzzy with dark foliage, to such a degree that it had resembled hair.

  At that moment, her attention was drawn by a group of thugs rounding a corner up ahead. Each member wore heavy boots and was clearly influenced by some popular band. One of the four carried a can of spray paint. She wondered whether this young man had been the one who’d added graffiti to that standing stone in the hills…A number of disparate experiences drew together in Melanie’s mind. Hadn’t Paul said his group was called The Cthulhooligans? Melanie had failed to make the connection the previous evening, mainly because she’d been uncertain about how the word she’d observed during her walk was pronounced…But could there be a connection here? She wasn’t sure her husband’s friend would be pleased if he knew what kind of behaviour his work was inspiring.

  The gang blundered past Carl, and when Anthony rushed protectively forwards—presumably suspecting that the thuggish young men might have been involved in what had happened to his parents—the quartet laughed and then stumped on beyond Melanie, who refused to make way on a pavement not wide enough for them all to walk.

  There were certainly aspects of the village to be carefully considered while deciding whether to move here. She perceived the same concern in her husband’s posture. He appeared distracted, as if he needed something clarifying. Melanie went to him, offering a silent hug that conveyed far more than mere language could achieve. And as they advanced towards a toy shop, into which their son had already made his way, she decided to give Anthony more time. He’d sort out everything soon; he always had…

  * * *

  The young man at the till must have recognised Anthony. How else to account for the way his eyes widened? Anthony reciprocated the expression, and after several treacherous images had flitted across his mind, he reached a conclusion.

  This was the guy who’d always run the store, who’d served Anthony and his friends as children, when they’d all been obsessed with plastic models and sporting equipment. But how was that possible? That had been fifteen years ago, and the shopkeeper should be much older, shouldn’t he? Unless of course this was his son—Mark Henley, one of the lads Anthony and the gang had played with at school. The shop might remain a family business.

  Whatever the truth was, Anthony was quick to offer his hand.

  “Hey, mate, how’re you doing? Long time, no see!”

  Mark also appeared to have registered Anthony’s identity. “Ant! My God. Good to see you. Hey, how’s tricks?”

  “Ask a magician,” he replied, using the phrase someone had invented in the village years ago.

  From a doorway at the shop’s rear, a boy stepped into the showroom and exchanged a mutually wary glance with Carl. He was around the same age and his eyes were as dark as his father’s.

  For a moment, Anthony grew disoriented. He sensed his wife offering a supporting hand. But he soon shrugged off the feeling, realising that the newcomer must be the store-owner’s son. Anthony turned back to face the man at the till and immediately spotted a framed photo on the wall behind him: it was Mark’s father, the younger Henley’s granddad, the guy who’d originally run the shop.

  Here were three
generations of the Henley clan, together under one roof. But perhaps the eldest was now dead…Indeed, during an enthusiastically brief chat, Mark told him this was the case. Anthony offered his condolences and then, hoping his own parents wouldn’t be alluded to, turned to a less morbid issue. “I see we’ve both sired male heirs.”

  The phrase sounded dated, not to mention sexist, and he received a well-deserved poke in the ribs from Melanie as she moved away with Carl to help him chose a gift.

  At that moment, an idea occurred to Anthony, but before he could pursue it, Mark spoke to his son. “This is James. James, say hello to Ant Mallinson. I used to beat him at football every game we played when we were your age.”

  “Are you the man whose mummy and daddy died?” the boy asked with forgivable innocence.

  The news, stated so plainly, made Anthony feel miserable. Nevertheless, he was keen to pursue another matter, but one not unrelated to his parents’ demise. Making sure his wife and son were out of earshot—they’d halted along an aisle to examine goods in glossy boxes—he stooped to James’s side.

  Mark seemed reluctant to consent to this engagement, holding his boy with both hands, the thumbs gripping his shoulders. This was a strange reaction and made Anthony feel…tainted in some way. But once he’d shown he meant no harm by holding up empty hands, the shopkeeper relented with a nod, permitting whatever might follow.

  Anthony swallowed awkwardly, but at last said, “Hi, James. I bet you’re better at football than your daddy ever was, eh?” The joke elicited no laughter, and then he switched to his concern. “Tell me, do you go to the local school?”

  “Yeah. I’m captain of the team.”