The Memory: A Gripping Psychological Thriller With a Heart-Stopping Twist

by Lucy Dawson

  It’s as I reach the top of the stairs that I suddenly feel it. An alertness. I’m not alone.

  It makes no sense whatsoever, but the house is noticeably different; quietly wary, whispering, watching. It didn’t feel like this at all when Tim was in here with me a second ago. I catch my breath and swing round, staring over my shoulder, my heart starting to thump as I focus on the locked door leading to the other side of the house. In my mind, I see the door bang open. Isobel is framed in the doorway – she hurtles towards me, eyes wide, hair streaming and arms reaching out, fingers splayed, ready to push on my chest and shove me backwards down the stairs. I gasp aloud and blink.

  There is no one there. The door is still closed.

  ‘Isobel?’ I whisper and feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. ‘Are you there?’ I knew I heard him talking to a female voice earlier. Has she let herself in again after all? My breathing is so shallow I can hear everything as I wait… but the house is completely silent.

  I don’t know I’m going to do it, but I turn and run down the stairs, clattering down so quickly I am panting by the time I get to the bottom. In two strides I’m across the sitting room, flick the light off, bang the door shut behind me, turn the hall light off and escape back onto the forecourt, to find Tim talking to Adam, who has pulled up alongside our car in the van again.

  ‘Of course, mate, it’s really no problem at all.’ Tim is doing his jolly, confident chap voice. You’d think he hadn’t a care in the world. ‘We’d be happy to help, honestly. I’m just sorry you had to go to the trouble of moving it all out only to put it all back again!’

  ‘I don’t mind that at all. Thank you, Tim. This is really kind of you.’ He looks up to see me approaching the car, smiles politely, says ‘good night’, climbs back into his van and drives off.

  I’m still shaking as I pull the seat belt around my body.

  ‘Freezing, isn’t it?’ Tim says, noticing. ‘Got your phone? Hang on, let me check I’ve got mine, now I think of it.’

  As he fumbles around in his pockets, I glance up at the house again. Did someone – more accurately, Isobel – touch my phone? Is that what made it light up? Or is that a completely absurd thing to think? We pull away, and I look at the screen again. I do a second search: there’s not a single new message, or email. Nothing that should have made the screen light up – but have I missed something? Does a WhatsApp or Facebook notification make it light up, too? I’ve never thought to check before; I’ve never needed to.

  ‘What did Adam want?’ I chew my lip as the connection drops out and the screen freezes.

  ‘He was asking if he might use the barn to finish a painting and some prep he’s got to get done for an exhibition he’s self-funded. He used to rent it as a studio from Mrs Parkes, apparently.’

  I look up. ‘I know, I told you that earlier, remember? You said no, though, right?’

  Tim glances at me. ‘Well, I explained the builders were starting a week today, and he said that was fine, that’s all he needs. The space he was going to isn’t available yet and he’s not got any room at home, apparently.’

  ‘Tim!’ I exclaim. ‘You should have asked me first. I don’t want some bloke we don’t know coming and going!’

  ‘He’s not a bloke we don’t know, he’s an old friend who asked for a favour. It’s not like we’re using it. It’s just a week?’

  ‘Have you given him a key?’

  ‘He said the French doors in the barn don’t lock properly anyway, so he can just let himself in and out.’

  ‘Great,’ I say incredulously. ‘Well I’ll add that to the locksmith’s list.’ I begin an online search immediately.

  ‘He didn’t have to tell us that, he was being nice. Not everyone I know is a dick, Claire.’ He sighs sadly.

  ‘Fine.’ I put a hand up. ‘He can work there until the builders start. But that’s it.’

  I fire an email off to the only locksmith locally who boasts an 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. response window, entitled ‘emergency help required’. I’m getting that house secured first thing.

  ‘Are you listening? What did you say that phenomenon was called?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I look up from the screen to see Tim is waiting for an answer to something else. ‘The phenomenon? Oh – you mean the ideomotor effect?’ I respond automatically. Funnily enough, Tim, if you’d been inside a second ago, you would have seen it in motion – no pun intended – after my legs absolutely took off on their own.

  ‘Have you still got a connection? Could you do a quick Google search on sleep paralysis if you’re looking at stuff? I want to know more about what you were just saying upstairs. You really think it can be simply explained?’ he asks a moment later.

  ‘Of course I do. “REM sleep can sometimes occur when you’re awake”,’ I read aloud. “REM is the deep stage of sleep when the brain is very active and dreams often occur. The body is unable to move, apart from the eyes and muscles used in breathing, possibly to stop you from acting out your dreams and hurting yourself. In many cases, sleep paralysis is a one-off event that occurs in someone who is otherwise healthy, but can be triggered by sleep deprivation, stress or trauma. It can also be accompanied by hallucinations, a feeling of pressure on the chest or the sensation of a shadowy figure entering one’s room or lurking outside one’s window. These hallucinations are driven by fear and REM-induced sexual arousal.” There, see?’ I glance at him. ‘You were just a frightened, slightly horny teenager who woke up too soon. Nothing to do with demons whatsoever – sleeping or otherwise.’

  He snorts. ‘Thanks. Succinctly put.’

  ‘“It can also be accompanied by hallucinations, a feeling of pressure on the chest or the sensation of a shadowy figure entering one’s room or lurking outside one’s window”,’ I repeat. ‘And that’s your person behind the curtain walking down the road a storey up, too.’

  ‘I have only experienced it that once,’ he concedes.

  ‘Coincidentally around the same time as you were doing acid,’ I remark, checking my mail again. Still nothing.

  He shifts awkwardly. ‘Yeah… it was a pretty messed-up period for me. I honestly didn’t do it loads though, I didn’t have a problem or anything. It was just a stupid school thing. Everyone was doing it. You all right?’ he glances at me. ‘You seem a bit preoccupied.’

  ‘Just waiting for a locksmith to email me back, that’s all.’ Regardless of anything else, she was in the sitting room earlier and I do not intend to find Isobel standing in my house unannounced, ever again.

  ‘Have you honestly never had any unusual experiences?’ Tim challenges me. ‘Never thought you’d seen something as a child?’

  ‘No! I haven’t. Tim, please!’ I look up from my screen, irritated. ‘Like I said, I’d love to know for sure there’s something more out there, call that whatever you want, spirits, ghosts, an afterlife. But it’s crap. There just isn’t, and that’s that.’

  Thirteen

  Eve

  I wake up with a jolt, confused by where I am, in the unfamiliar shape of my new bedroom. Turning my head on the pillow, I reach out to the alarm clock lying on the carpet and blearily squint at the time. 1.36 a.m. I drop the clock and automatically pick up the monitor instead. It’s completely silent, no flickering lights. I turn onto my left side, then roll over and out onto the carpet, before pushing myself first to all fours then stiffly up onto my feet, having to place my hands down on my thighs before I can straighten up. I need to make time to build my bed tomorrow. I can’t sleep on a mattress on the floor at my age – suppose I was to get stuck down here, unable to get to my feet – just lolling around like a Weeble until someone finds me? The shame.

  I stagger to the doorway and take the two steps across the small hall into the bathroom. Blinking in the bright light I promised to leave on all night for Izzie, should she need to come and find me, I sit down heavily on the loo for a wee, yawn and glance around the strange, warm and inoffensively bland, cream room. I feel as if I’m in a hotel an
d must be going home tomorrow. This is going to take some time to sink in.

  As I’m washing my hands and drying them, I wonder why I’ve woken up. I don’t normally, unless I’m disturbed. I emerge back onto the landing and look up the small flight of stairs in front of me to Izzie’s master suite. The door is closed at the top. If I go up and open it, I risk waking her if she’s actually asleep. I hesitate, shuffle back to my bedroom, sink onto the mattress and slide my legs under the duvet. I pick up the monitor again and hold it right to my ear. I can’t hear a thing. Not even her breathing. I place it down on the carpet, turn onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, one hand on my brow. It’s no good, I’m going to have to check on her.

  As I start to creep up her stairs, I realise how blissfully creak-free with newness they are; unlike my knees, which sound like beanbags stuffed full of silly putty and ball bearings… squishing and rubbing with every stair I climb. It would be impossible for me to sneak up on anyone these days.

  On the small landing, I reach out and turn the handle. The door pushes luxuriantly over the thick, new carpet and, peering into the gloom, I can see the outline of her bed, the doll’s house, her chest of drawers… but one drawer is hanging open as if someone has been having a good old rummage around. I deliberate for a moment – but walk into the room, padding across to the edge of her bed. It’s empty.

  My heart sinks with resignation but my adrenaline surges. It’s a horrible combination of sensations. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I must have disturbed because I heard her leaving the house. Oh Isobel! I hate it so much when she does this. I can’t stop her from coming and going as she pleases – she’s a grown woman – but she has no idea what it does to me when she disappears off in the middle of the bloody night. I won’t sleep now until she’s home and I am so, so tired. I want to weep with the unfairness of it all. Just one night? Couldn’t I have had one night? I reach out and rest my hand lightly on the sheet, in the dent where her body has lain. It’s cold.

  I should have tried harder to persuade her to let me lock her in. I thought the bruises on my wrists were impressive enough to have shocked her into contrition, but obviously not. I should have used a little more eyeshadow; I was too conservative with my efforts. It’s only when I am beyond exhausted and need to know that she is safe so that I can properly rest, that I fake them, or like tonight, embellish what is already there – because what if she gets confused and goes back to Fox Cottage by mistake rather than remembering she lives here now? I moan aloud at the thought and then almost pass out with shock as someone gives a little shriek of their own, right behind me. I swing round to see Isobel flattened back against the wall in her nightie, next to the now-open en-suite door, visibly shaking.

  ‘Mum?’ she gasps. ‘What are you doing? You scared me half to death.’

  ‘Oh darling, I’m so sorry!’ I’m appalled to have frightened her so badly. ‘I was just checking on you – and you weren’t there!’

  ‘Because I was in my bathroom!’ she says perfectly reasonably. ‘That’s all. Urrgghhh. I feel sick.’ She puts her hand on her stomach and half bends over. For a minute I think she might be about to pass out or actually throw up on the brand-new carpet we’ve had for less than twenty-four hours.

  ‘Of course you were, I’m so, so sorry. Here, come and get back into bed.’ I hold a hand out to her and she takes it. She’s breathing fast and feels warm to the touch – even a little clammy.

  ‘Are you all right, sweet?’ I ask. ‘You don’t think you’re coming down with something?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m OK.’

  Unless – have you just run home from somewhere and that’s why you’re hot and your bed is cold?

  I don’t ask her of course. Just think it privately as I help her climb back in and tuck the duvet round her as her head sinks back into the pillow.

  ‘That’s better. You go back to sleep now, angel. I can’t apologise enough for scaring you like that.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she says bewildered. ‘I only woke up because I heard you moving around downstairs.’

  ‘Well I’m so pleased you were getting some good rest.’ I beam. ‘That’s wonderful! Maybe things will be a lot easier for you in this house than they were before?’

  She nods and yawns. ‘I think so. Good night, Mummy.’

  ‘Good night, Isobel.’ I say softly. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  She has already closed her eyes as I creep back down to my own room and get back onto my mattress, picturing her picking her way across the dark, freezing fields behind the house in boots and her thin nightdress, wild hair flowing. Please God she didn’t go to their house to peer in at the windows.

  Or at the very least, let no one have seen her. And thank the Lord, she’s back in bed now – safe. I find I’m unable to debate the issue any more and as good as pass out myself.

  I wake in the morning to the sound of Isobel singing and the clatter of a cereal bowl and spoon as she makes herself some breakfast. I appear in the kitchen to discover she has in fact laid the table for both of us – she won’t have washed any of the stuff before getting it out of the packing boxes, but never mind. She turns round and flashes me a smile of heart-stopping beauty. ‘Hello, Mama!’

  Mama? ‘Hello, darling.’ I regard her warily. ‘You seem very happy this morning. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I really did!’ She beams. ‘And I am happy!’

  I don’t ask why. I don’t want to know the answer, or rather, I don’t want to hear the answer. Instead, I sit down and watch silently, sipping the tea she’s set down in my place, as she moves about the room with purpose. She has a high colour to her cheeks and her eyes are glittering. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was feverish, but she sits down opposite me and hungrily wolfs a bowl of cereal as if she hasn’t eaten for a week.

  ‘I need to go,’ she remarks glancing at her phone. ‘I’m working today.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I don’t want to sound sceptical but I think I would have remembered if she was. ‘I thought you weren’t in until tomorrow?’

  ‘No, it’s certainly today.’

  I don’t argue the point any more and can’t help but brighten at this unexpected gift of a morning to myself. I might have a nice bath before I start the rest of my unpacking.

  ‘Text me if you want anything from town while I’m in there – for tea I mean – and I’ll bring it back with me later.’ She stands up and carries her bowl to the dishwasher before turning and coming to give me a kiss. ‘Have a good day. I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too.’ I watch her walk from the room and listen to her start singing again as she puts on her coat and shoes. Pick up something for tea? She has never, ever said such a thing. I hear the front door open.

  ‘Byeeee!’ she calls cheerfully, but before I can answer, it bangs shut again.

  I put my tea down carefully.

  Well now, this is all wrong. Yes, last night she saw Timothy, but with Claire. I told her they have Rosie – that Tim hasn’t returned for her. She should be devastated, not euphoric.

  My mind returns to the bed I caught her out of last night and I push my chair back slowly, walking into the hall and sliding open the sideboard drawer to retrieve the horrid little boy doll. Whatever is now gathering pace – she’s planning something for sure and it seems to all be coming together from the way she’s behaving – I’d really rather not have a voodoo doll constructed from Timothy’s T-shirt, DNA loaded to the hilt, lying around the house. That’s not paranoia, just common sense.

  Only, what to do with the ghastly thing? I turn it over in my hand.

  Bathe it in salt to remove all associations to the living person.

  I hesitate, but then tut crossly at myself. As if I don’t have enough to do without bulk buying table condiments and then finding something deep enough to submerge it in. This is absurd – I will just throw it away. She’ll never know. I pick him up to shove him in the kitchen bin, but pause and find myself deviating off to the downstair
s loo. I roughly remove a much larger pinch of the head stuffing than last night; as good as leaving it empty and floppy. Perhaps I will flush away the contents first, then decide what to do with the skin? I release the herbal powder into the bowl, casually watching it land and then float on the surface of the water. I’m reminded suddenly of scattering my father’s ashes on top of a cliff, only for the wind to suddenly gust and blow it all back in our faces. Michael laughed and said that was just like my father; I was less amused. I shudder at the memory of struggling to shake him from my hair – much as I did when he was alive, in fact – then jump guiltily as someone knocks on the front door behind me.

  Dusting off my hand on my dressing gown, I shove the boy doll at the back of the drawer in the sideboard as I pass – but the whole thing jams in trying to close it; the shoebox I keep the bills in always catches on the frame. I need a better storage box. Cursing under my breath, I’m forced to leave it ajar and open the front door to find Adam on the step in his large parka. Too big, really. It swamps his thin frame and is hardly appropriate. If he was seventeen, perhaps – but not at his age.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, surprised. ‘You’ve just missed Izzie, she said she was walking?’

  ‘But she’s not working today, I didn’t think?’ he looks confused. ‘I’ve just come to tell her I can’t see her this morning as planned. She’s not picking up so I thought I’d pop in.’

  From within the kitchen my phone starts to ring with her ringtone. ‘That’s her now, hang on.’ I hurry through to pick it up.

  ‘Hello, darling, is everything OK?’ I return to the hall where Adam is waiting patiently, hands in his deep pockets, having closed the front door to stop the heat escaping.

  ‘You’ve forgotten your purse and your book?’ I repeat aloud and Adam rolls his eyes at me good-naturedly. ‘The book is on your bed but you don’t know where the purse is. OK – no, don’t worry, I’ve got some pennies you can have to buy lunch. Adam is here; I think you were supposed to be seeing him today?’ I tut and mouth ‘sorry’ to Adam. ‘Can I ask him to bring the things to work? I don’t know – hang on.’ I look enquiringly at Adam and he nods. ‘He says yes. All right, sweetest. Have a good day.’