Dream House Read online

  But by the time I’ve run over to the window, the shadow has gone. It doesn’t mean that whoever is inside has left, though.

  Frightened, I dump the umbrella on the ground and run back round to the front door, pushing it open to find myself standing in the self-same room as the shadow which had seemed to be watching me. I switch the lights on, and the chandelier immediately illuminates the parlour, but nothing seems to be out of the ordinary in any way: everything is just as I left it.

  I know I saw something.

  Or at least, I think I did.

  But could it just be all the pressure that I’m under? Could it simply be that I imagined it?

  Gingerly, I cross the room, raise my left hand, and rest it against the windowpane, feeling the cold glass under my palm. My head is still aching from before, reeling from this flood of strange new events.

  With my hand still pressed against the window and my eyes closed, I try to decide what I should do next. Leave? Just because the people living here were so nice to me, that doesn’t really give me any right to be in their house. But at the same time, I want to at least thank them for their hospitality last night. Maybe they’ve left a note for me somewhere, and all I need to do is find it. Despite feeling like I’d rather just curl up on the sofa, I force myself to wander through those empty corridors once again in search of any messages that might have been left in the other rooms of the house.

  As soon as I take my first step, however, something catches my eye.

  The bowl.

  The one I’d left on the coffee table. It’s no longer there.

  It’s stacked tidily on a kitchen shelf.

  Uncertainly, I give it a good looking over to make sure it’s the same one I ate my snack from, and even though it’s a perfectly run-of-the-mill glass bowl with no exceptional distinguishing features that might give me the confirmation I seek, the one that was on the table still isn’t there.

  It’s enough to make me feel certain that I’m not imagining it: someone else is in here.

  And that person must still be hiding within these walls.

  DAY 3

  THE OLD grandfather clock’s chimes begin to play their melody, telling me that it’s midnight, and well past time to begin my search.

  I run to the kitchen counter and grab a carving knife from the knife block before cautiously setting off to explore the part of the house that I’ve not yet set foot in.

  Turning left from the front door, a corridor similar to the one that leads to the little room on the right of the house where I slept trails off towards further unknown places. Before me are shut doors, set close to one another.

  At first they all look the same, but then I notice that the door to my left doesn’t bear a sign identifying its function, unlike the two to my right.

  Knife gripped tightly in my left hand, I take hold of the doorknob with my right and give it a quick twist. It’s locked.

  I try again, this time applying more pressure, but it doesn’t make any difference—it’s not opening.

  Is that . . . ?

  I put my ear to the wooden panelling.

  A voice.

  A whispering voice.

  I leap back, startled.

  I’m absolutely certain that whoever was in the living room is now on the other side of this door. I kneel down, bending as low as I possibly can until my right eye is squinting through the crack underneath.

  There they are—the same feet I saw before I fainted!

  At this point, whoever is hiding in there might well be the only person able to tell me what is going on. And I need to know.

  Totally at a loss as to what else to do, I climb to my feet and start banging desperately on the door as hard as I can, as though the only thing I care about in the world—the only thing that matters—is getting to the other side.

  Until, suddenly, I hear the key turning in the lock.

  I twist the handle and slowly push the door open, trying as I do to gather my thoughts into some kind of an intelligible question for the person I’m expecting to find standing there waiting for me.

  But when I’m finally ready, the only thing I see before me is a staircase: about ten steps leading down into the darkness beneath the ground floor.

  It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom, but I summon up all of my courage and start to descend, the knife held out in front of me in my trembling hand. The old wooden slats creak loudly beneath my feet at each step, almost drowning out the sound of the rain outside.

  As I go, I gradually become aware of a vague glow coming from below.

  When I’ve almost reached the bottom of the steps, I see the small cellar I am about to enter to my right. The room is illuminated by candles burning in each corner, as well as by others propped on shelves and brackets all over the walls. I pick one up to light my way and advance towards the centre of the room, where a white circle has been drawn in chalk onto the rough flagstones of the floor.

  The cellar is obviously used as a storeroom—the walls are lined with old chairs with threadbare upholstery, decrepit cupboards, and overflowing cardboard boxes.

  I’m standing by the chalk line and peering about me in search of the mysterious person when I feel two hands take me by the shoulders and forcefully shove me forward, into the circle.

  Things start to happen in quick succession—first, I hear footsteps running up the stairs. Then, somehow, something suddenly blows out all of the candles at once, leaving me in pitch darkness.

  And then I hear the basement door slam shut.

  Dimly aware of a kind of murmuring noise behind me, I blindly bump my way through the junk and old furniture littering the floor and hurry as quickly as I can to the foot of the stairs. When I finally reach them, I start racing up towards the cellar door.

  It’s then that something grabs hold of one of my ankles.

  Its grip is icy cold, and whatever it is drags me violently back down the stairs, back to the centre of the storeroom.

  What had begun as whispers grow louder and more intense until they’ve turned into full-blown screams, and in this maelstrom of noise, my body spins around the room in complete pitch darkness, an awful nightmare coming to actual, horrible life, until finally I give in and stop fighting.

  When I come round, I’m sore all over and there’s a weird taste in my mouth.

  Sunbeams shining through the small window set high in the basement wall are playing on my face and warming my cheeks.

  I sit up and look myself over: my ankle is covered in bright red welts and I feel completely drained of strength. Taking a deep breath, I manage to hoist myself to my feet and slowly climb back up the stairs.

  I turn the handle of the cellar door and walk along the corridor until I reach the main part of the house, hoping that, as a new day has begun, I’ll find either Amabel or Marvin there. In the kitchen, I look at the old ticking clock, which now says 1:54 p.m.

  Even though my stomach isn’t totally in agreement, I know that I need to get my strength back, and so I force myself to find something to eat, opting for some fruit.

  Passing the fridge, I see that one of the black magnetic letters attached to it—this one in the shape of an A—is holding up a note. It says, See you at dinner. Love, Amabel.

  So they are coming back!

  She probably came home this morning and left this note for her husband. Maybe she thought I’d already gone?

  Feeling relatively reassured, I try to put whatever it was that happened down there in the cellar out of my mind and walk along the hall to my bedroom, where I change back into my now dry clothes, put the pyjamas back in the wardrobe where I found them, and lie down on the bed, flooded with conflicting emotions. The events of the last few days have been strange and, at times, terrifying, but a part of me can’t help but be pulled in by this place. I can barely make sense of my own feelings, but I decide that it’s worth waiting for Amabel and Marvin to return to get some answers.

  I gaze upwards, enchanted by the mou
lded flower motif which runs along the coving. From the centre of the ceiling hangs a small bronze chandelier which adds a sophisticated touch to the bedroom’s already polished design.

  To my right, there’s the tiny window that overlooks the side garden, and at the foot of the bed the empty wooden wardrobe faces me, drawing my attention to the left side of the room, where, beside the door, is a Provençal desk bearing a mirror.

  A shabby-chic interior like this would normally be a bit over the top for a guest room, but the taste shown in the rest of the house explains their decision to use such splendid pieces in this out-of-the-way corner of their home. The whole place is extremely well kept—exactly the way I imagined it would be when, standing outside two days ago, I first saw it. Before I knew what was to come.

  Bored of lying down, I get up and walk over to the desk to examine myself in the mirror: the light green of my eyes is accentuated by the dark rings forming beneath them; my wavy brown hair, hanging loose over my shoulders, looks dull; and my skin seems even paler than usual.

  As I’m staring at my sallow features, I hear a noise coming from the hall. I look at the clock and see that the time is 7:37, so I set off towards the parlour to welcome Amabel back.

  I sit down in the comfortable armchair next to the couch and wait impatiently for her to come in, growing gradually more and more concerned by how long she’s taking.

  She must be doing something on the porch. Perhaps she’s chatting with a neighbour?

  A few minutes later, I hear the noise again. I look over at the doorknob and see from its rattling that she’s trying to open the door but without success, so I get up from my chair and walk over to open it for her—and am unpleasantly surprised to find that the person outside is not the one I was expecting.

  It’s the same elderly lady from last night, this time without her black umbrella but with a pair of thick tortoiseshell glasses framing her petite face. Staring up at me, she once again raises her finger, then—without taking her eyes off mine—pulls her arm back until it is pointing towards the half-open gate.

  The wrinkles on her forehead deepen, forming an expression of acute distress.

  “How can I help you?” I finally manage to say. “Would you like to come inside?” I gesture with my head to the warm parlour.

  But by the time I turn back to her she’s gone again, and the gate is closed.

  I shut the door, wondering why on earth this strange woman keeps appearing. But not for long, as soon my thoughts turn to worrying about getting something to eat and finding a bathtub to wash myself in.

  I remember reading “Bathroom” on a door right opposite the door to the cellar earlier on, so after snacking on a packet of crackers I find in one of the kitchen cupboards, I grab my pyjamas and set off in that direction.

  There I am again, back before those three doors—but this time I open the one to the right and start preparing for a well-deserved bath.

  I dump my clothes on the floor, turn the hot water tap full on, and, once the tub is full, lower myself into it, feeling myself relax for the first time since my arrival. The sensation is so sweet that I go one step farther: holding my breath, I let my head slide beneath the surface. With the water caressing me more closely than anything has in a long time, insulating me from the confusing outside world, I can hear every single movement my body makes.

  I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. So calm, without a single thought in my head.

  It truly is the sweetest moment I have experienced in the last few days—until it’s ruined by the bathroom light suddenly going out with a little fizzing noise, leaving me in what would be complete darkness were it not for the window high over the tub.

  I don’t want to let this get to me—I need this tranquillity to last a bit longer. And so, repeating to myself “It’s totally normal; there’s nothing to worry about,” I leap out of the water and flick the switch a couple of times until the lights come back on and I can climb back into the lovely hot water to enjoy another fifteen minutes of peace.

  Finally, when I’m on the verge of dozing off, I reach over the side of the tub and grab from the rack a large bath towel, which I quickly wrap around myself. And as I do so it occurs to me that I can’t stay here. The food is going to run out soon if nobody comes back, and there’s no sign of those regular everyday things you need, like a toothbrush. . . .

  Except that there is.

  A third, brand-new toothbrush, still in its unopened packet, is sitting right there in the glass near the sink, next to two others that have evidently already seen a bit of action.

  That’s lucky.

  I pull it out and put it to use, relishing the minty flavour of the toothpaste in my mouth before spitting out the frothy water and taking one last good look at myself in the mirror, where I see that I’m still looking exhausted.

  Then I leave the bathroom and climb into my soft bed.

  DAY 4

  IN THE middle of the night, I’m awoken by a noise coming from somewhere inside the room.

  Inside my bedroom.

  I screw my eyes tightly shut and hope that it will go away.

  It doesn’t, of course. It’s still there—a sound like something scratching, scratching incessantly.

  I force my eyelids open and peek out over the covers to try to get an idea of where it’s coming from, only to realize that its source is much closer than I’d thought: it’s coming from inside the wardrobe.

  I clutch the top of the blanket tightly, and the scratching sound abruptly vanishes, leaving me staring at the wardrobe’s closed doors until, a few seconds later, somebody starts crying—so softly it almost sounds like hiccupping.

  So softly it sends chills down my spine.

  I lie there in the bed, petrified and completely motionless, with only my eyes peeping out over the covers, while whoever is in the wardrobe sobs away.

  Somehow, I gradually manage to calm myself down and force myself to accept that, even though the situation makes absolutely no sense—no sense at all—there isn’t any real reason for me to be afraid. Throwing the blankets aside, I set one foot warily after the other and slowly cross the carpet, moving closer and closer to the large wooden wardrobe until eventually I’m grasping its door handles.

  I don’t know what it is I’m expecting. To be honest, I don’t even really have any expectations, because I don’t want to let the thought that something awful might be hiding in there unnerve me.

  And so in one smooth, decisive motion, I throw both wardrobe doors wide open—and gaze uncomprehendingly at the little girl I find crouching within, huddled up and weeping in a corner under the jangling coat hangers.

  Her face is streaked with tears, and she is tightly hugging a soft toy—a white bunny rabbit with a bit of thread where one of its eyes used to be. She looks up at me.

  “Where are they?” she asks pleadingly. “Why would they leave me?”

  Not knowing what to answer, nor even to whom she’s referring, I offer her my hand. She reaches out and takes it, letting me lead her from the wardrobe over to the bed. I sit her down on top of the covers and, perching myself next to her, ask her what she was doing in there.

  With lowered eyes she turns her head away, saying only, “They left me.”

  Seeing that she’s struggling to choke back her tears, I wait for a few seconds before asking my next question.

  “How long have you been in there?”

  This time she looks me directly in the face and answers candidly, “I don’t know.”

  I tell her to stay there on the bed while I make us both some hot tea, and then head for the kitchen with the hope of giving myself a couple of minutes to think the situation through and maybe get some idea of what on earth is going on.

  Plenty of ideas do in fact come to mind while the kettle boils on the hob—but unfortunately none of them actually makes any sense, so I just focus on preparing the drinks and getting back to check on her as quickly as I’m able.

  I place the c
ups on a tray, along with a little sugar bowl and a couple of teaspoons, and set off down the darkening corridor. As my bare feet tread the creaking floor, the only thing I can see in front of me is the crack of light coming from around the door I’m slowly approaching.

  Unexpectedly, a weird sensation suddenly rushes through my entire body for a second, making me shiver violently.

  Something is wrong.

  As the thought takes root in my mind, I start walking faster and faster until I reach the bedroom door. With one foot, I push it open, then freeze in my tracks, in total shock at the terrible obscenity of what I am seeing.

  Fighting desperately to breathe, the little girl is hanging in mid-air, a thin, taut cord running from around her throat up to the chandelier. Her feet kick desperately against nothing.

  Overcome by panic, I drop the tray, and the teacups and sugar and spoons clatter to the floor. “No!” I scream the word as I run across the room and scramble up onto the bed, my fingers fumbling ineffectually at the knotted rope around her tiny neck, doing my best to release her.

  “Now it’s too late,” she whispers, her frenzied thrashing slowing. “They will never know I exist.”

  And just like that, she exhales her last breath.

  Somehow I manage to get her down, and, still crying with shock, sit on the bed with her little body cradled in my arms, squeezing her tightly to my chest as if maybe the beating of my heart might bring her back to life.

  But she’s not moving anymore.

  I scream one more time. “NO!”

  . . . and then wake up to see the polished wood of the furniture glowing in the weak sunlight. I am alone. There’s no body.

  It was a nightmare. An absolutely awful nightmare.

  It takes a while for me to accept that the whole thing was all in my head, that it wasn’t actually real—but I can’t stop thinking about it.

  What could it have meant? I didn’t know that little girl, yet I felt such a bond with her; I needed to save her. And if I hadn’t left the room, she wouldn’t have died.