“Love you, Mum.” He pecked her cheek on the way past, dropped the box off, and moved to the attic’s entrance.
I’ve spent so many disturbed nights dreaming about a fresh start. And all the while it was hidden within twenty metres of where I slept. Guy clutched the papers close to his chest as he bounded down the stairs and snagged his car keys off the hook by the door. Fancy that.
Chapter Three
Where’s the driveway?
Guy looked from the papers in his pickup truck’s passenger seat to the cloistering woods around surrounding the long, rural road. He had passed the last driveway nearly ten minutes before. Potholes jolted him, and bare branches scraped at the truck’s sides. Paranoia had started to set in, and he was asking himself if the house even existed. No one he knew had laid eyes on it; he prayed the property hadn’t been swallowed up by the forest during its neglect or condemned and razed by the government for being a health hazard.
Dull metal stood out amongst the muted greens and browns of the forest. Guy slowed his car as he neared it and shuffled forward in his seat. The shape must have once been a wrought-iron gate. The rusted structure was built a little higher than a man stood, but age hadn’t been kind to it. One side of the gate had broken free of its hinges and hung at an angle, supported only by a gnarled tree branch and the chains linking it to its twin.
Guy jumped out of his truck but left the door open. He had to climb through brambles and vines that snagged his boots to reach the metal. Thick flakes peeled off where rust had eaten away at the structure, and a crumbling stone fence ran into the woods on either side. Guy tugged vines away from the plaque across the gate’s front to read the words there. 189: Rookward House.
The trees overhead were too old and dense to let much light through, and Guy shivered in the cooling breeze. He peered through the gate, trying to see past the leaves, but if there was a house there, the foliage shielded it perfectly.
If this really is ours, I can’t get in trouble for damaging it, can I? Guy planted one hand on the stone fence and put his boot to the upright half of the gate. When he applied pressure, the metal screeched. Two solid kicks had it bowing inwards, and a third broke the bolts and sent it crashing to the ground.
Weeds grew high, and the woods encroached on either side, but Guy could still see the remnants of a path leading through them. He appraised his pickup truck. She’s a tough girl. She’ll handle it.
Guy jumped back into the driver’s seat, turned the vehicle to face the gate, and began creeping it forward. The wheels dug into the groundcover then mounted the collapsed gate. A painful shriek escaped the metal as it was crushed. Guy sat on the edge of his seat, alternately pressing his face to the front screen and the driver’s side window to watch his progress. The metal shuddered under his vehicle, sending the vines and weeds trembling. Then the pickup truck dropped off the end of the gate and back onto solid ground.
“Good girl.” Guy grinned, patting the dashboard, then increased the speed as his vehicle forced its way into the long-forgotten path.
The crackle of crushed plants and the scrape of branches across already-chipped paint filled the truck. More than once, a sapling blocked the way. Guy eased his car around the larger growths and used his utility knife to cut down the smaller ones. As he pressed farther into the forest the connection with the outside world felt fainter. Birdcalls echoed from the canopy, and occasionally, small animals bounded across the path or disturbed the plants alongside the trail.
It was a long, agonizingly slow drive. Despite the air conditioning Guy started to sweat. He’d brought a water bottle but no food, and the niggling worry that his hardened pickup truck would become stuck grew worse as the ground began to slope downwards.
Why would anyone build a house so far from the town? Guy squinted into the dappled patches of light that managed to struggle through the overhead coverage. Mum didn’t inherit the place until twenty years ago, so it must be even older than that… was it a farm? Or maybe a holiday house on the edge of a river?
The distance from civilisation would make it harder to sell unless it had some natural features to make it attractive to city people wanting a vacation property. But if it had been built near a river, as Guy was starting to worry, the landscape could have changed dramatically in the time it had been abandoned. Rivers ate away at the ground and deposited sand where they had once stood, changing their paths over decades. It was even possible the house had been washed away during a flood or storm. The property would still be worth something without a building on it, but nowhere near as much.
The path took a bend, and Guy pressed a hand against the door to brace himself as the truck tipped into an unseen pothole. He’d been driving for far longer than he’d expected. Concerns that he might have missed the house amongst the forest began to rise, but then he noticed a gap in the trees ahead.
He gave the truck another burst of power to push it through the gap. It rolled onto comparatively even ground and came to a halt. Dozens of tiny insects flicked out of the long grass it had disturbed.
Rookward House stood ahead of Guy, and he took a deep breath as the heavy anxiety fell away from him.
The building was beautiful. Two stories and made of stone, it had withstood the decaying effects of time with what, at first glance, seemed to be minimal damage. Thick, dark-green vines coiled around the house, completely covering most of the ground floor and climbing as high as the second-floor windows. They strangled the building, but Guy saw no sign of collapse or structural failure.
Despite the vines and mottled discolouration of age, the house had a regal, dignified air. Guessing it held at least twenty rooms, Guy thought it must have been expensive to build. The second-floor windows were tall but narrow, and the dark-slate roof appeared mostly intact. The house was dripping with a dark, mysterious kind of personality that made the suburban houses around where Guy lived feel bland in comparison.
The massive oak tree in the front yard showed signs of dying under the weight of its age; the leaves were thinning, and its bark was deeply furrowed and had absorbed a grim shade of grey. A swing hung from the behemoth. The ropes cut into its branch, creating ridges around where it cinched the tree. The cord was fraying, but the discoloured wooden seat still shifted a few inches in the breeze. Even inside the pickup truck, Guy heard a prolonged creak as the stiff ropes flexed.
Guy drummed his fingers on the wheel as he chewed his lip, then he leapt out of the truck to get a closer look at the building. Insects darted away from his boots with muted whirrs as he waded through the thigh-high weeds. A few of the second-floor windows were visible between the vines, and their dark panes promised to hold bountiful secrets.
He circled the building in a wide loop. As they had in the front, vines had grown up the stones, but the stone walls still appeared solid. A couple of black marks dotted the roof where tiles had broken off, but none of the holes were very large.
Sharp pain shot up Guy’s toe. He hopped back, muffling a curse, and realised he’d walked into a stone embedded in the dirt. He brushed some of the weeds back and found a stone garden border. Guy’s eyebrows rose. Tangled amongst the weeds were a handful of flowers, obviously descendants of the original planting. They’ve been hardy to propagate themselves for so many years.
Guy moved closer to the house’s back door. He could see two shades of wood beneath the choking vines. Wishing he’d thought to bring gloves, Guy grabbed at the plants and tugged. They were tough, but clumps of them came away under his pressure. Guy kept digging until half of the door was visible. It might have been painted a lovely shade of blue before age and grime had discoloured it, and a brass handle glinted in the low light.
Thick, ugly wooden boards had been nailed across the door to keep it shut. They’d been made from a cheap material and had obviously stood there for decades. Guy tried pulling on them, hoping they’d rotted enough to come away, but they stuck firm.
He moved back from the door and kept circling the house. A dar
ker patch amongst the vines caught his eye. He stepped up to it and found a hole in the wall. Vines had grown across and through the space, and it took Guy a moment to realise he was looking at a broken window. The wooden frame had been enveloped by the greenery, but when he looked closer he saw a couple of fragments of glass poking through the thready leaves.
It was too much to hope the building would be completely intact. Guy shimmied as near to the opening as the plants would let him and leaned forward to glimpse inside.
A hunched figure stood in the room’s corner. With a gasp, Guy jerked back then pressed a hand to his heart as the shape resolved itself. He’d been startled by a coat hung from the back of a door. The fabric was falling apart; shreds of it hung nearly to the floor, and thick dust had dulled its colour. It was sobering to think that it had once belonged to someone living in the building. Someone who had loved Rookward, possibly.
Guy moved forward to see the rest of the space. It was some kind of family room. A couch nestled against the back wall. Its blue-print fabric had rotted into its frame, and the cushions had split, spilling their stuffing. Water had come through the open window and made the floorboards bulge across half of the room. Dark mould spread from the corners to climb the wallpaper, and a sickly smell emanated from the space. Guy pressed one sleeve across his mouth and nose.
A handful of small animals—mice, birds, and what might have been lizards—had found their way into the room and died there. Their bones and matted fur stuck to the floor.
Guy wished he could see farther into the house, but both of the room’s doors were closed. He contemplated jumping through the window but resisted the impulse. It wouldn’t be easy to get over the glass shards still stuck in the frame. Besides, the sun would set soon; if he wanted to examine the property’s insides, he would have to come back another day and bring supplies to get the door open. He didn’t think he could wait long, though. The need to see inside the building and explore its rooms dug into him like an itch he couldn’t quite reach.
He stepped back from the window and continued around the corner. A tree had collapsed against the side of the house. Judging by the bleached, dried wood, it had come down at least a decade before. Guy had to climb over the fractured trunk to get to the house’s front. A few of the house’s stones were chipped, but the wall still seemed sound. Guy guessed the tree had only clipped the building on its way down.
This is remarkable. He ran a hand across some of the vines wrapping around the building’s corner. It must have been abandoned for a long time—longer than the twenty years Mum has owned it—but it’s in good condition. No graffiti, no sign of vandalism or squatters. Some parts would need repairing, like the water damage to the floors, but the house wouldn’t need to be knocked down. And with the furniture gone, it could be liveable again. I should be able to fix up the worst of the damage in a couple of weeks if I dedicate myself to it. It shouldn’t be hard to find a buyer.
Guy stumbled onto the front porch. Vines had fully overrun it, criss-crossing the space like a giant, living spiderweb, but when he peered through, he caught glimpses of the same boards that had been nailed to the back door. Rather than trying to force his way through to them, he stepped back into the weedy yard to admire the building.
It’s large. There’s got to be twenty, maybe twenty-five rooms in there. No power, of course, and probably no plumbing. But it’s a good house, one that will be valuable when it’s cleaned up a bit.
Motion pulled Guy’s eyes towards one of the upstairs windows. Vines covered the frame but left the glass clear. Guy could have sworn he saw a woman turn away from the glass and retreat into the shadows. He blinked, and the figure was gone.
That couldn’t have been a person. He’d been right around the house—the broken window was the only way in, and the dust on the family room’s warped floorboards hadn’t been disturbed in a long time. It must have been the shadows playing over the glass.
Guy stared at the window for a long moment. When he finally looked away, he shivered. The day was cooling as the sun set, and he needed to start the arduous trip through the overgrown trail if he wanted to be back on the main road before dark.
He slid back into his pickup truck and fit the key into the ignition. For the first time since Savannah’s accident, he had a purpose. The Rookward house could be sold as-is, but it would fetch more if the vines were cleared away and at least some basic repairs were done. Guy wasn’t licensed, but he was handy and didn’t mind hard labour. Working on the house would be a way to pay back at least a part of his mother’s kindness. And it would keep him occupied for at least a week or two while more job rejections trickled in.
Guy pointed the pickup truck toward the path leading home. As he eased out of the clearing and into the tangled woods, he gave the house a final parting look in his rear-view mirror.
It’s strange that the vines grow across the building, but not in the yard or the forest. A thought struck Guy, and he smiled at how absurd it was. It’s almost like they’re feeding off the building.
Chapter Four
“I don’t feel good about you staying at that house all by yourself.” Heather tried to scoop more pasta onto Guy’s plate, even though he’d only half-finished the first serving. “It’s so far away.”
“Three hours, which is why I’ll need to stay there.” Guy shovelled more of the dinner into his mouth and chewed quickly before continuing. “If I drive there and back every day, it’ll take forever to do the repairs. Never mind the fuel costs.”
“Well…” Heather sighed and sat back in her seat opposite Guy. She wasn’t happy, and Guy thought he knew why. In her eyes, he’d never grown up. He was still a ten-year-old who needed hugs and biscuits when he scraped his knees, and wasn’t truly safe away from her watchful eye. He wished there was something he could say to give her comfort.
“I’ll keep the first trip short. Two nights, how about that? If everything goes well, I can return for a longer visit.”
She gave him a tight-lipped smile and nudged at her pasta without picking any up.
A few white lies wouldn’t hurt, would they? “It’s a lovely house. There’s lots of nature around it, so I’ll be getting plenty of fresh air, and it seems really solid and secure. Besides, it’s not that far to get to the local town.” Only an hour’s drive. “Think of it as a vacation house… one I’m doing a bit of maintenance work on while I’m staying there.”
Heather’s expression brightened. “Maybe I could stay with you! I’m good at painting.”
“You are. But I don’t think you’d enjoy it as much as I will.” Guy didn’t want to tell her just how remote and grimy the building was, so he opted for a half-truth. “There’s no running water, so you wouldn’t be able to have showers.”
She took her glasses off and wrinkled her nose. “But won’t you start to smell?”
“Oh, definitely.” He scooped more pasta into his mouth and watched his mother fiddle with her glasses, her lips pursed. “What kind of bee’s in your bonnet tonight?”
“Nothing.”
He leaned forward. “I can see there’s something. Go on, tell me. Maybe I can help.”
She made a muttering noise in the back of her throat as she put her glasses back and picked up her napkin to fidget with instead. “I did some research into the house while you were away. I’m not sure I want you staying there alone.”
Guy lifted his eyebrows. “Research? How?”
“I called my aunt Patty—”
“Mum, Aunt Patty died four years ago.”
“Yes, of course she did.” The napkin was fraying as she continued to twist it around her fingers. “I forgot when I called, but I spoke to her husband, George, instead. His memory isn’t very good these days, but he knew a bit about the house. No one has lived in it since the sixties.”
“Huh! It’s older than I thought.” Guy took another bite of his meal. “Did George have anything else to tell you?”
“No…” She hesitated then spoke a
little more forcefully. “No. He’d never been there, of course. Apparently, neither had my father. He inherited it as a young man but left it be. It hasn’t been opened since the last family left.”
“That’s weird. Why didn’t he sell it?”
“He never told me, honey. Maybe he couldn’t find a buyer. Or maybe he forgot about it, like I did.”
Impossible. Grandpa’s memory was impeccable. “Or he could have been planning to retire there.”
“I suppose so.”
Guy chewed on the inside of his cheek. Even that explanation didn’t make sense; if his grandfather had been intending to live in the house, it made no sense to abandon it completely. He should have rented it out, or at the very least, visited it a few times a year to keep on top of the maintenance.
He watched his mother for a moment. She’s still hiding something. “Why don’t you want me staying there?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” The napkin finally tore in half. Heather stared at it for a second then threw it onto her plate. “I suppose I just worry.”
“You won’t need to this time. I’ll take care of myself. It’s a solid, sturdy house, and I’ll bring plenty of supplies. The whole thing probably won’t take more than a few weeks to fix up.” As long as the insides aren’t too damaged, at least.
She rose and carried her plate to the kitchen.
Guy felt a sting of guilt; somehow, unintentionally, he’d upset her. He grabbed his own plate and followed. “Mum?”
She’d stopped by the window overlooking their small backyard, where Guy’s swing set, his favourite toy as a child, still dominated the space. Guy pressed a hand to her shoulder.
She laughed, though the sound was faintly choked, and turned the tap on to rinse her plate. “You really want to go, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah. I’ve been cooped up for so long. It’ll be good to have some work again—especially if it brings in some money.”
The Haunting of Rookward House Page 2
