Dream House Page 14

  Or, I should be able to.

  But when I try, something stops me halfway.

  I lift my hand up in front of my face and move it forward in the air.

  When it reaches the limit between our two properties, I can’t move it any farther forward—it feels as though I’m pushing against some kind of incredibly powerful wind, or a barrier of soft, ghostly feathers.

  An invisible wall is keeping me out.

  Amazed by this force, I spend a moment staring at it—or, rather, staring at nothing—before I realize that there’s something very wrong.

  I’m not going to be able to get over to Avery’s side of the gate, I think. And then I remember that I was able to meet him under the ground in the old tunnel.

  Growing more and more concerned about Avery by the second, I run back inside, pull open the trapdoor by the wardrobe, and—my fears of entering that sinister place once again forgotten—race down the stairs below.

  It’s so dark that I can barely walk properly, and I immediately curse myself for not bringing anything with me to light my way down here, but I leave all my fears and concerns behind. It’s just a long tunnel, and there’s no chance of my getting lost, so, feeling my way along the walls, I simply focus on getting to where I need to be.

  As I go, my eyes gradually adjust enough to make out just the barest outlines in the darkness.

  I finally reach the central chamber where the three passageways meet before stretching out towards their different points of origin and stand there for a second under that iron cross, struggling to decide where to go: straight on to Avery’s house, or right, towards the church?

  For some reason, my instinct tells me to choose the second.

  I head off along that long, gently sloping tunnel until I see a faint light growing stronger around the edges of an ancient door.

  When I reach it, I shove it as hard as I can. It doesn’t budge at first, but at the third try opens unwillingly, allowing me to see what’s hidden behind it: the Gothic chapel whose spire I saw behind the trees my first day here, rising high and narrow from the ground and surrounded by dozens of headstones scattered chaotically all over the graveyard, leaving just one clear path which leads right up to the entrance of the church.

  I walk along the old flagstones to the church door, which bears a large sign reading, “A Safe Place for All” in Gothic lettering.

  The church is built upon a hill, higher than the land where the Bloom house is located, and as I look around I realise how breathtaking the view is from here.

  Hoping to get inside, I step onto the church’s little porch, but the door is chained shut, and as the light of the sun is starting to fade, I take it as a sign to leave.

  I walk back down the hill towards the old wooden door which gives access to the tunnel. Almost hidden by the long grass, it looks like the entrance to an abandoned storm shelter. As I pass them, I gaze absently at the gravestones lining the path, all crumbling and half-buried in weeds and ivy, except for one which I notice is newer-looking than the others.

  I walk closer, almost thrust towards it, as though some kind of force were drawing me there.

  And when I’m standing in front of it, something inside my mind finally snaps.

  In loving memory of Avery Bradford

  24/02/1990—21/10/2010

  Rest in Peace

  I sink to my knees.

  Am I cursed?

  Is that what this is? A curse?

  Is everyone I meet dead?

  I stare at the words a little while longer, then raise my head to look up at the darkening sky. My eyes are streaming with tears, and my heart feels as though it’s been broken into millions of tiny, throbbing fragments.

  After crouching there by the gravestone for who knows how long, crying so hard that my eyes feel as though they’re actually going to fall out of my head, I finally start to come back to my senses. It dawns on me how late it has got—the stars are out, and the little graveyard is lit only by the small lamp by the side of the church door.

  I gather my energies, get to my feet, and pull the tunnel door shut behind me before walking back, alone, along the same tunnel I took to come here, trying to get a grip on myself as I go.

  After what seems an eternity of walking, I reach the chamber halfway along the tunnel and find somebody standing there, his head lowered.

  It takes me an instant to realise that it’s Avery.

  Still unwilling to accept his death, I run into his arms without saying a word, and he holds me, hugging me tenderly.

  I’ve cried so much that I’ve got no tears left, only an avalanche of things to ask, so after relishing an embrace that I wish never had to end, and with Avery’s arms still around me, I whisper my first question.

  “How?”

  He knows exactly what I’m referring to, and answers without hesitation. “I told you.”

  I lean back from him so I can look him in the face, my eyes wide open. “The fight?”

  Avoiding my eyes, Avery nods.

  “Why are you still here, after all this time?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer, so I press him. “Is it because of your mother? You don’t want to leave her on her own?”

  He still doesn’t make eye contact or say a single word.

  “She’s safe,” I say. “You shouldn’t have to be here. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

  “Stop,” he says at last.

  I stand there, looking at him in shock, desperately wanting to hear his reasons.

  “I can’t leave. Not yet,” he explains.

  “But why not? Tell me, please!” I beg.

  But he refuses to talk.

  My shock at finding out that he is dead still fresh in my mind, and now maddened by his evasiveness and unwillingness to open up to me—even after all we’ve been through, even with everything that’s going on—I’m suddenly overcome by a desperate, overwhelming need to get away from all this, to escape this nightmare situation.

  And so I run into the dark tunnel.

  Away from him.

  Without looking back.

  DAY 29

  I CLIMB OUT of the trapdoor and throw myself down, breathless and panicky, in the corner of my bedroom, my knees pulled up to my chin, my arms hugging my legs to my body as tightly as they can, and my head hanging down.

  When I open my eyes, I realise that I must have fainted from stress and exhaustion. It’s 2:50 in the afternoon—a new day has begun, and I’ve already wasted most of it.

  I stand up and in my mind run over all the things that I’ve learnt, wondering if maybe Avery isn’t stuck in the mortal world because of his mother after all, but because of somebody else who was dear to him.

  One person instantly comes to mind—his close friend Akiko.

  But if that’s the case, it wouldn’t make any sense—it was him who told me that Akiko had died, so why would he be here if she isn’t alive anymore?

  I think back to all the times that I’ve encountered—or thought I’ve encountered—that little girl and ask myself if just maybe they weren’t dreams. Maybe they were actually something more.

  Eager to understand, I head for the Blooms’ bedroom.

  The ladder is still where I left it, so I climb up until I’m high enough to reach the cord hanging from the ceiling and tug down on it, opening up my way to the attic.

  As soon as my eyes get accustomed to the dim light, I see the wooden chest in front of me, the framed picture still perched on top of it.

  I put my hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out the key I’d placed there for safekeeping. Sure enough, when I insert it into the lock and twist it, there’s a clicking sound.

  Yes.

  I clear everything off the top of the chest and open the lid, nonplussed for a moment by the jumbled mass of contents that is suddenly revealed. Thrown higgledy-piggledy inside are dozens of pictures showing the young Akiko with various family members through the years. I stick my hand in and pull one out at random. On the
left, there’s Akiko wearing a pretty collared dress, her hair up in pigtails, while on the right a taller boy is holding her hand and smiling.

  I turn the picture over and read Akiko & Avery, 2000.

  I go through as many of the photos as I can, until I see one that I didn’t expect to find: a picture of a teenage girl.

  It’s a close-up of her face—she isn’t looking at the camera but the subtle smile on her face makes it obvious she’s aware somebody’s pointing it in her direction.

  I know the person in this picture.

  I ought to.

  It’s me.

  I drop the picture to the floor and my heart begins beating so fast that it feels as though the already stuffy air in that cramped little space is turning solid.

  My confusion at the whole bizarre situation at this point is so total, so absolute, that I completely lose it and start rummaging manically through the contents of the chest for other pictures of me.

  Why would Marvin and Amabel have pictures of me in their house? Especially locked safely inside this box? And why would they act as though they didn’t know me when we first met if they’ve been taking pictures of me all this time?

  My mind is busily cranking out worst-case scenarios when I suddenly come across a picture that makes it go completely, totally blank.

  It’s the three of us.

  I’m in the middle, standing between Mr. and Mrs. Bloom. We’re all smiling, and I don’t look that different from now, except maybe a few years younger.

  I don’t remember them taking this picture. I don’t remember these people.

  I just . . .

  Don’t remember.

  The cramped attic is starting to make me feel extremely claustrophobic, so I grab a stack of pictures and, without bothering to clean up the mess I’ve made, get myself out of there and down the ladder as fast as I can, and race into the living room.

  Once I’m sitting on the couch, I spread the pictures out across the coffee table in front of me and start giving them a quick once-over. I recognise Avery’s face in a few, so I slide the others out of the way and hold one of them up in front of me.

  The composition is similar to the one I saw of him when I was upstairs, but this time he looks grown up, and the girl standing next to him is not Akiko, but me.

  I’m sitting there staring at it, dozens of thoughts flashing through my mind, when I realise that there’s something outside the picture distracting me. I lift my eyes from the photo to the windows overlooking the back garden and see that Avery’s light is on—only to go off immediately the instant I notice it.

  But I’m too engrossed in the photo between my fingers to care, so I ignore what’s happening outside and return to my own thoughts.

  Why don’t I remember anything about myself? Why don’t I remember any of these people who have clearly played a role in my life?

  And why do they act like they don’t know me?

  As I ask myself these questions, the thing that people have been telling me ever since I first entered this house, right since the very beginning, starts reverberating around the inside of my head.

  You should leave.

  The words keep echoing inside my head.

  So I decide to follow their advice.

  I look at the clock next to the fridge.

  11:39 p.m.

  I have to leave now.

  I snatch up everything I can find—my jacket, my shoes, the necklace, the key, some of those pictures—and I’m ready to go.

  I reach for the front door handle, turn it, and pull open the door, letting in a cold gust of wind.

  I pause there for a moment on the doorstep and look back at the interior of the beautiful house that I’ve loved so much.

  And then I’m ready to say my goodbyes.

  DAY 30

  TAKING A deep breath, I walk one final time down the pretty stone path that leads to the front gate.

  I lift the latch and pull the gate open, but when I raise my foot to place it over the threshold I feel something stopping me, resisting my efforts—something like a soft, invisible wall, holding me hostage.

  I keep pushing for a second, until the memory of what happened when I tried to get over into Avery’s garden returns and I realise something.

  I’m the one who’s stuck.

  In my mind, I replay my last meeting with that elderly lady—the time when she grabbed hold of my wrist. Her warning that I would rot here forever if I didn’t follow her suddenly takes on a whole new meaning.

  With my heart feeling like it’s about to burst inside my chest, I start kicking at the solid air, trying to break my way through the invisible obstacle that’s keeping me prisoner inside the grounds of the house.

  Yet despite the wild flailing of my arms and legs, I somehow manage to stay lucid enough to rationally consider what my options are. When I’m underground, I can touch Avery, and I can walk to the church. Is the tunnel a symbolic passage? Will the tunnel free me from this place?

  But the hopeful excitement that starts to grow inside of me for a brief second quickly fades at the realisation that there might well be a reason for my being able to get outside and to connect to spirits belonging to other areas: the tunnel, as well as the church, currently belongs to this house and is shared with Avery’s family.

  That’s probably why I’ve been able to do what I’ve done without coming up against the barrier—it’s all part of the same property.

  Exhausted and unable to come up with any other plan, I give up my attack on the invisible barrier and walk resignedly back into the house that just a few brief minutes before I’d said my farewells to.

  Once inside, I turn on all the lights, sit myself down on the sofa, and dedicate myself to thinking seriously about my situation.

  Hours pass.

  I watch the sun rise and then eventually disappear behind the fields. And I go over everything in my mind once again: the Blooms, the house, Avery, Akiko. Amethyst. Alfred—

  Alfred.

  The first ghost I’d ever met—but not the last, as it turned out.

  No one else could see him, but he looked like a perfectly normal person to me. I could talk to him, and I could touch him, even though he had no physical body. He could work, and he could pick things up. He could do all of these things, just like a real person.

  The author of Spiritual Relief, Miss Bisset, explained that spirits who have spent a long time in the world of the living can develop the power to interact with objects, and the same is true of the kind of ghosts who are not aware of their condition—the ones still clueless about their own death.

  Shivering at the dark turn my thoughts have taken, I walk over to the kitchen counter and stretch up to reach distractedly for a glass from the shelf.

  It must be right at the back, because I can’t find it anywhere.

  Standing on tiptoes, I see it there, and close my hand around it.

  But my fingers pass right through it.

  I can’t pick it up.

  I can’t even feel it.

  It’s like it’s not there at all.

  My mouth hanging open in an expression of pure fear, I back off until I’m standing in front of the shiny fridge, where I usually check out my reflection.

  But I’m not there.

  My hands go automatically up to my mouth, and my jaw drops even farther at the thought—

  the terrible thought—

  that I might actually be dead.

  It would all make sense. All of the weird things that have been happening, my ability to talk to spirits, my dreams, my memory loss.

  Everything would be explained.

  But it’s not the kind of explanation that I can accept.

  No, I know what’s happening, I really do—there’s only one possible explanation. This must be a nightmare.

  A nightmare!

  I repeat the word to myself as I walk down the hall towards my bedroom, trying to force myself to believe it, and I’m still repeating it as I turn off the lig
hts and curl up in my bed as though everything were perfectly normal, wrapping the blankets around me and hoping to wake up from this terrible dream.

  DAY 31

  A DELICIOUS AROMA of warm pumpkin pie in my nostrils wakes me up.

  A new day will fix everything, I tell myself—all I need to do is just somehow to find the strength to get out of bed and face all of the things I need to deal with. I can’t lie here and avoid them for the rest of my life.

  I put my wrinkly clothes on and look at myself in the mirror, relieved to find that my reflection has returned and that I’m able to touch things again.

  Maybe that really was all it was—a nightmare, nothing more.

  But as I start coming out of my stupor I gradually notice that, even though I seem to have gone back to normal, something else has changed. The room where I find myself, the lovely shabby-chic bedroom where I’ve spent so much time over the last month, now looks exactly the way it did that time in my dream, with cherrywood furniture replacing the creamy shades.

  Am I still dreaming? I stand in front of the wooden heart hanging on the wall, the only thing that remains unaltered, with the awful feeling that everything I’d started to believe is suddenly being thrown into doubt. Again.

  I lift my finger and run it over the thick, dry paint on the bottom of the little heart: this, all of it, must be real.

  I’m not dreaming, I’m sure of it.

  Despite my sleepiness, I rush out of the door and down the darkened corridor that will take me to the main section of the house, and as I get closer, the powerful perfume of baking pumpkin gets stronger and stronger and voices can be heard.

  “Sit down, sit down—she’s coming,” a woman’s voice says quietly, followed by the noise of a chair scraping along the floor.

  When I walk through the doorway into my favourite part of the house, I can hardly believe my eyes. Amabel is standing there in the kitchen wearing a striped apron and cooking lunch, while Marvin is sitting at the dining table with a book in his hands. Both of them have strained, forced smiles on their faces, which makes the atmosphere feel very much like it did the first—and last—time I saw them.