by S E Holmes
The evening proved long and arduous. Every creaked bough and skitter through the undergrowth jerked him from a restless doze to full vigilance. He tried to forget, to put aside silly visions of vaporised flesh and speared orbs. Angus had simply given up and headed home. It was the smart thing to do; this job sucked in every way. Jace had taken a pharmaceutical dive into the pit. He was spooked by Laini and her creepy admonition. That was all.
But rhythmic drips from a downpour soon after midnight echoed pattered feet. An awful smell lingered despite blowing his nose until it bled. And no matter how he tried, the eerie sawing of a cello would not let him forget. It was with bleary eyes and a tremulous grip on reality Jace exited his green-canvas cocoon to meet the day. He spent a fruitless hour combing the grounds of Grey Manor. And while he procrastinated, the house summoned like a chant in his brain.
He eventually cleared the forest. Washed golden by sunrise its shabby edifice appeared benign, overgrown gardens sparkling in a net of rain droplets. Jace stopped to stare, unconsciously picking at his bandaged palms until tackiness forced him to look at the mess he’d made re-opening wounds. Was Angus a mangled corpse inside? In stark daylight that conviction became a wispy, ephemeral thing.
The pile was simply a dilapidated testament to eras long passed. If it had been in the city, the stone would carry the layered residue of years of graffiti and not a single window would remain whole. Decay may have been less flamboyant in this lonely village, but ruin and neglect wrought their spell nonetheless. It was just a house. Except, the glass panes shone pristine, as if newly polished, not coated by abandonment for almost ten years. He blinked in the glare and ignored his fertile, over-stimulated imagination. Jace repeated the mantra. It. Was. Just. A. House.
Finally, he sucked a breath and braved the porch across a weed infested turning-circle. Moss burst several downpipes overhead and the stone beneath his boots was slimed in black fungus and lichen, giving way to a veranda of beams eaten by woodrot. The atmosphere reeked of mildew and ever-damp loam.
Jace cautiously trod unreliable boards. If setting foot on the house supposedly triggered ghostly vengeance, he was pleasantly disappointed. The only signs of life were muddied imprints of his soles. He squatted to examine the area in front of the door. Not a scrap of skin, fluid or tissue marred the entrance. It had all seemed so real. Maybe Reagan was right and those pills were dangerous. As soon as he made town, he’d call Angus, nail down his location.
Turning focus to the huge double doors, Jace suppressed a shiver. The knockers were ornately rendered eagle heads, razored beaks clasping serpents in the act of swallowing their tails. Visitors were forced to fondle nasty-looking snakes to announce themselves.
“Nice,” he muttered. “Very welcoming.”
Jace stepped closer. His arm extended in readiness to check the knobs were locked. He fought reluctance. What if it was open? Would he break his promise so easily and enter to quench curiosity? He didn’t know Laini and didn’t owe her honesty. On reflection, his commitment to a stranger seemed out of proportion. It was just a house.
And what if the cameo truly existed? There for the first taker? This was no bank vault requiring a gun and balaclava. He didn’t need to mug a little old lady with a purse stuffed for the grandkids. He’d keep enough to deal with student fees and give the rest to the twins, appeasing his new-found guilt and burgeoning expenses in one simple deed. A distasteful notion popped to the fore. Could it be he was merely an opportunistic thief like his brothers? Another blameworthy victim of the Bateman family curse seeking an easy way out.
Laini’s wide earnest eyes plagued the deliberation. Damn it! She was nothing to him. His fingers stretched defiantly. A breeze whispered his hair, carrying with it the mournful resonance of a cello. Jace swivelled to check the impenetrable forest. Someone messed with him good and proper.
“Who’s there?” he shouted. “Angus, so help me. If that’s you, you’re fired!”
But how could he know about the cello? Jace opted for a hasty exit. It was the wind in the trees, he rationalised. Laini’s tune from the party stuck in his head: a fractured figment of his mind on loop. He refused to acknowledge the inexplicable familiarity with either. Nor that she’d managed, with exquisite timing, to prevent a foray inside Grey Manor without ever leaving her sick bed.
***
Chapter Seven
