Dream House Read online

It’s getting really foggy this evening, and my surroundings are so blurry that it’s hard to see clearly. I walk barefoot down the path towards the gate and when I get there I’m relieved to find the paper I was waiting for wedged into one of its wrought-iron curlicues.

  I pull it out and race back inside, my feet freezing from the icy flagstones, and once I’m indoors again I hold up the front page of the newspaper. There it is, right there: the article I need.

  Feeling as though I finally have all the answers, I eat the last biscuit, wash it down with a swig of cold tea, and roll the paper up, tucking it securely under my arm as I head outside.

  When I reach the shed I twist the door handle, but it appears to be locked from the inside, so I give a few loud, rapid knocks on the door.

  It swings open immediately, and I gratefully bundle myself inside, out of the misty cold.

  Before I can show the article to Alfred, however, he speaks.

  “Sorry about that—it’s a habit of mine. Nobody ever looks in here.”

  “No worries,” I say, my mind on other, more pressing matters.

  “Have you got some more questions for me?” he asks gently.

  “No,” I reply, before adding quickly, as I see his expression grow sad, “I do believe that I might have some good news for you, though.”

  He waits silently for me to explain myself, and so I unroll the newspaper I’ve been holding under my arm and pass it over to him. He holds it up in his strong hands, the paper crinkling between his tense fingers. There’s confusion on his face, but it’s also full of hope, and I study his expression, watching as his eyeballs flit across the words, until a small, lonely tear emerges, falling onto the dusty wooden floor.

  When he’s done reading, he turns the page to check if there’s more, and realizing that that’s all there is, he looks up at me and says, “Is this real?”

  Suddenly gripped by worry about what his reaction is going to be, I step backwards, unable to reply to his question. Was I a fool to believe that just getting the paper to print an article about him would redeem him from the aftermath of such a life-altering tragedy? Is it possible that just reading the good things people have to say about Alfred Marshall won’t have been enough to make him comprehend how much people in the village actually admired him?

  The previous night I’d spent about an hour on the phone to a certain Miss Blake—one of the paper’s young subeditors—explaining why The Evening Hills ought to collect local people’s thoughts on Alfred and the Derfla legend. I’d managed to get her attention by explaining my point of view and pointing out a couple of things that hadn’t really been given due consideration before.

  She’d gone for the idea straightaway. She vaguely remembered the fire, she told me. In her early teens, she and her girlfriends had been terrified of the Derfla. Her grandmother had always said that it was awful to do that to somebody—turn him into a monster, even though the police had cleared him of any wrongdoing. Miss Blake hadn’t even known that Alfred Marshall had hung himself, but she agreed that it wasn’t right that the poor man’s reputation should still be tarnished even after his death.

  She’d agreed instantly to write an article based on the real facts about the man, and I was certain it would make him realize that by now people had moved on from the silly old legend which was holding him here in the mortal world, and that no one really blamed him for what happened—at least not anymore.

  For a moment, neither of us moves.

  Then Alfred suddenly launches himself towards me, arms wide open as if to attack me and a crazed look on his face.

  Caught off guard, I back away, trying desperately to defend myself by throwing my flailing arms forward . . .

  But before I know it, I find myself in the middle of what has to be the most awkward, yet probably the sweetest, hug I’ve experienced in my whole life.

  I hug Alfred back and we stay like that, unmoving, for a few seconds. His big arms are squeezing me tightly, crushing me without meaning to, almost in a fatherly way—the same way a man would hug his little girl after not having seen her for a long time. I close my eyes, let my body relax, and think about what’s coming next.

  Crossing over.

  I’ve read plenty over the last few days, all related to spirits, but not a single time have I stumbled across any details about the actual moment of crossing over itself. How does it happen? How can I possibly know if what I’ve done is enough to release a spirit?

  As if Alfred is able to read my thoughts, he backs gently away from me, freeing me from that warm embrace. He brings his index finger to his lips and, gazing at the roof of the shed, he exhales a puff of air from the small gap between his lips, indicating I should keep quiet. I promptly grow attentive, unaware of what it is he might have heard.

  His face is turned towards one of the small windows—the one that I stupidly broke during my irresponsible attempt to get inside—so I follow his lead and move closer to the other, which is still intact.

  Outside, a blustery wind is shaking the trees and bushes in the garden. The sky has turned very dark, and is filled with churning black clouds which seem intent on swallowing us up.

  There’s something else too—a harsh cawing noise, distant but rapidly growing in volume.

  I peer about worriedly, looking for its source.

  And then, in a whirl of shiny black motion which appears to comes out of nowhere, an unkindness of ravens—scores of them—is suddenly spinning in a frantic circle above the shed, turning the already chilling atmosphere even more sinister.

  The noise is absolutely deafening, but when I look over at Alfred I see that all his attention is still concentrated on what’s happening outside.

  One huge raven lands on the sill of the remaining window and, with a violent blow from its shiny beak, smashes the glass, sending me leaping backwards in fear. I run to take shelter behind Alfred—he doesn’t flinch, but I can tell that in his head he’s debating what to do.

  He lets out a gasp and starts to raise his left hand, moving it slowly towards the doorknob.

  I grab his arm, feeling my unease grow and becoming increasingly worried about Alfred’s intentions.

  “Don’t go out there,” I say, my voice trembling. “We don’t know what’ll happen.”

  “Well, we’ll never find out if I don’t,” he answers gently.

  I’m still holding tightly onto his arm when he turns to me, his face calm and peaceful for the first time.

  “Thank you, Amethyst.”

  Accompanied by a sinking feeling comes the sudden realisation that this is the last time we two will speak to each other, and I start trying to wish him farewell—but nothing comes out of my mouth. So I just nod and concentrate on trying to keep my composure and hide the fact that my heart is fluttering madly.

  He twists the handle, inviting the unwanted inside.

  I don’t move a single muscle, only watch intently as Alfred steps through the door, ready for whatever his destiny holds in store for him.

  The screeching of the ravens intensifies, the sky gets darker still, the wind blows even more wildly, and for one brief, chaotic moment, all of the worst possible outcomes of what’s happening start to play out in my mind—all the awful horrors that we might have released . . .

  Only to be halted in their tracks by the appearance of an unexpected ray of blindingly bright sunlight.

  It cuts through the clouds and strikes Alfred, illuminating his body, sculpting out its every contour.

  For a second I can see him properly—I can see the real Alfred: a proud, dignified, handsome man, freed from the weight of guilt and shame that have been crushing him all these years. Even after his death.

  At that very same moment, as though by some silent signal, the entire flock of ravens swoops down as one to perch, covering the ground, the tree branches, and the roof of the shed. The chaotic squawking and flapping noises vanish, and the atmosphere instantly grows peaceful.

  I watch incredulously as the ray of uneart
hly light gradually softens my friend’s form into nothingness.

  An instant before his body fades completely away he manages to turn around and look me straight in the eyes, and he smiles. I take a mental picture of his happy face, happier than I’ve ever seen it before, looking for the first time at peace—as though the weight of the problems that had been keeping him bound to the earth was now dissolving, allowing him to fly away and return to his beloved family.

  In what feels like both an eternal yet ephemeral moment of time, I feel as though I’m as light as the air itself.

  Then, as one, the ravens take to the sky in a blizzard of wings, beaks, and claws, and the entire flock of them flaps silently off over the trees towards the hills.

  I look at the lawn around me, strewn with inky-black raven feathers.

  It truly is the quiet after the storm.

  DAY 19

  AT LUNCHTIME, I eventually roll out of bed. It’s been a quiet, peaceful night—both as regards the weather and my mind. Right after Alfred crossed over, I seemed to just let go of everything, immersed in the happiness of the moment.

  Carefully avoiding looking in the mirror, I take a hot, steamy shower before picking up my not-so-clean clothes from the floor, combing my hair back, and heading in the direction of the kitchen.

  I walk calmly along the corridor, enjoying the sense of loneliness that comes from knowing that now it’s all just about me. No more ghosts creating confusion. No more creepy nightmares. Just me.

  I reach for the same bowl I ate from during my first few days in the house, fill it with some milk—which I notice is coming up to its best-before date—then grab the last few cookies from the jar on the shelf and finish them off as well, filling up my empty stomach nicely.

  But as I walk in front of the fridge to throw the milk carton into the rubbish and put the bowl in the sink, I notice something shocking that I would swear wasn’t there ten minutes ago.

  The Who are you? that I left on the fridge door a few days before—it’s changed.

  It now reads, Who are you, Amethyst?

  Unable to believe my eyes, I freeze in shock and the glass bowl slides from my limp fingers, smashing into smithereens when it hits the ground.

  There’s somebody here.

  I can sense it.

  I’m still not alone, after all.

  I spin around, in search of some clue that might help me understand what I’m getting myself into this time, but everything is as peaceful and still as usual. I feel light-headed, so I throw myself down on the couch for a few minutes while I gather my thoughts.

  Whoever left that message is in here with me—in the house. It must be somebody that knows me well enough to write my name, but then why ask who I am?

  Confused by the question, I stand up, walk back over to the fridge, and, in the blink of an eye, slide away the letters that were creating my confusion into a jumble by the handle, leaving only Amethyst.

  After changing the sentence, I stand there for a moment studying the room around me. I feel certain that I’m not alone—that there’s a presence there with me. But I can’t see who it is. And whatever it is, it’s not alive.

  Or at least, that’s what I suppose.

  I pull out a chair from under the dining table, move it over to the bookshelf, and climb up onto it to get Spiritual Relief again. It takes me a moment to find it, and when I do, it occurs to me that it’s not exactly where I’d left it. Never mind. I get down off the chair and open the book as quickly as I can. Remembering that I’d skipped the chapter “Talk to the Spirit,” I flick through the pages with my thumb until I find it.

  This section contains a description of the various ways to communicate with a spirit, a common one being through a Ouija board—also known as a “talking board”—which is supposed to act as a point of connection between the world of the living and the world of the dead. The book has a part which provides a detailed explanation of how to make your own: all you need is a flat surface bearing the letters of the alphabet, the numbers from 0 to 9, and the words “yes,” “no,” and “goodbye.” It says that an effective substitute for the planchette, the heart-shaped little pointer with wheels on the bottom which you’re supposed to use to let the spirits talk, can be a small glass placed upside-down on the surface, so I take one from a cupboard in the kitchen and get to work on making my own Ouija board.

  Remembering the old Bakelite telephone on the console table by the front door, I make a leap of imagination and pull open the little drawer in the table—and in fact, inside there are a pen and some large sheets of plain paper, which I grab. Following Ms. Bisset’s instructions to the letter, I write down everything she says is needed and place it all on the kitchen table, with the upturned glass in the middle.

  When I’m all set, I put my right index finger on top of the glass and ask out loud:

  “Is there anybody here?”

  I wait, but there’s no sign of anything.

  “Is there anybody here?” I repeat, this time sounding less afraid.

  Feeling a slow dragging movement under my finger, I close my eyes for a second to try to hold my fear in, and then open them again to look at where the glass has ended up.

  “Yes.”

  At this point, I decide to come out with my main question right away. No more beating around the bush.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  It takes about three seconds before the glass starts to move again, and as I watch, it changes position over the letters, first sliding across to Y, then to O.

  And then to U.

  And that’s when I let it go. I take my finger away from it as soon as I have put the letters together.

  It spells the word “you.”

  Suddenly extremely frightened, I leave everything where it is, forgetting all about Vivien Bisset’s warning to always end a session properly, and, despite knowing that no wall or lock would present an obstacle to a spirit, I run down the hall to my room.

  As soon as I’m inside, I realize how dark it’s already grown, and for some unknown reason I find myself opening the wardrobe door, climbing in, and closing myself inside as though it were the most natural thing in the world to be hiding in a cramped little space that smells of mothballs and lavender.

  I try to keep as quiet as I can. Covering my mouth with one hand, I breathe slowly through my nose while the scene that I just experienced keeps replaying itself over and over in my head.

  Feeling totally impotent and jumping in terror at each of the little noises that come from every corner of the house, I sit there in that dark space for a long time before eventually falling asleep.

  “Through the wind and through the clouds, we will rise up from the ground. Over hills, above the trees, we will ride the breeze like bumblebees.”

  I open my eyes and hear this strange ditty coming from somewhere within my room.

  I push one of the wardrobe doors open slightly and peek cautiously though the narrow crack. Sitting there on the bed is a girl with long black hair, her back turned to me.

  “Hand in hand, exploring the seven seas,” she sings, “you and I will forever be at our ease.”

  Despite my efforts, the wardrobe door makes a loud creak as I push it open, but the girl, who seems somehow to be already aware of my presence, doesn’t turn around and says, “You’re safe. You can come out now.”

  My eyes widen, as if she knows my secret—a secret that I still have to discover myself.

  I open the doors to reveal myself, taking a better look as I do so at Akiko, who appears more serene than ever before, as if suddenly our roles had been reversed, turning me into the fearful little girl that she was the first time I met her.

  “Did you know I was in here?” I ask.

  She ignores the question and begins to sing her song again from the beginning.

  “Why are you here?” I break in.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she answers, her eyes staring into mine. “This is my room.”

  I don�
��t reply but simply walk over and sit down next to her on the bed. She has pale green almond-shaped eyes, and her dark hair is straight but thick, framing an innocent-looking face. In her hands she’s holding a wooden heart, and when I look up at the white wall in front of me I see that the heart-shaped painting which made such a nice contrast is no longer there, suggesting that the object in Akiko’s hands is indeed the one that used to hang in that empty space.

  “Did you make that?” I wonder aloud.

  “We made it,” she says, moving her eyes from the object to me.

  I feel my cheeks going red, unsure as to why but feeling a sense of embarrassment, as though I should remember about doing something with her, until she quickly adds, “Avery and I—don’t you see?” She turns the wooden heart over, pointing at the letters painted on it.

  I feel relieved to know that I am not part of all this, but at the same time I want to know more. Avery said that Akiko died not too long ago. Is she a ghost? Is she stuck here because of her connection with Avery? Maybe she doesn’t want to leave him on his own?

  I stretch out a hand and ask, “Could I take a look at it? It’s very pretty.”

  Akiko tightens her grip on the frame, as though it’s too important for anybody else to hold, but then relents and hands it over to me.

  I study the front once more, feeling the thick paint under my fingers. When I turn it over, I see the word “forever” written in marker pen in the same handwriting as the letters on the front. I must spend a moment too long examining it, because Akiko reaches over and snatches it out of my hands, slipping it into the safe little pocket on the front of her collared dress.

  “So are you and this Avery close friends?” I ask, pretending not to know who she’s talking about.

  “Of course!” she answers defensively.

  “Where did you meet?” I ask, despite already knowing the answer.

  “He lives right there,” answers the little girl, pointing towards the wall behind my back.

  “So when did you meet?”

  She thinks for a moment before finally coming out with an answer.