Dream House Read online

  I spend a good fifteen minutes hanging around by the window, just to make sure that Alfred isn’t about. There being no sign of him in the back garden, I head for the corridor in the direction of the cellar to be certain that he’s gone away for the day—I can get a decent view of the gate from there.

  I’m creeping down the hallway as quietly as I can when I hear a sound coming from downstairs.

  And as soon as I do, my breath freezes in my mouth.

  “It’s too risky,” a female voice whispers. “We need to wait, as we discussed.”

  I fling open the door and walk through it, but as I expected, there’s nobody to be seen. Certain that someone must be hiding somewhere within these walls, I close the door behind me, leaving myself in complete darkness, and run down the stairs to the centre of the room.

  The frightening things that happened during my first visit down here are at the forefront of my thoughts, but I try to push those memories away and focus on the here and now.

  If Alfred actually is the person who is playing games with me, he could have been drugging me all this time. All the voices, all the weird events might only be in my mind, and I’ve got no way of separating what’s real from what isn’t. The only thing that I must make sure of is that he isn’t able to get close to me when I’m not looking. I have to be completely vigilant at all times and never let my guard down.

  The problem is that’s a lot easier said than done.

  Checking on the gate through the small cellar window, I see Alfred trimming the bushes along the sides of the pathway. I stay put and wait for him to finish, not missing a single one of his movements, until he stalks out of my field of vision and forces me to find another spot from which to observe him.

  Once I’ve climbed back up to the ground floor, I decide I’ll turn off all the lights to try to make him think that I’m not home, then immediately afterwards find myself a good hiding place that still allows me to observe his every move. I crouch behind the old sofa so I have a clear view through the big French windows while still remaining hidden—if needed, I can also walk over to the door to spy on him through the peephole without being spotted, obtaining a view over two sides of the house.

  I stay huddled up like that for hours, until I feel my body aching and my eyelids starting to droop.

  DAY 11

  THE CLOCK strikes 3:00 a.m., and the sound of its chimes makes me jump. I must have fallen asleep for a few hours. But I can’t go to bed now—I have to stay awake.

  I’m lying on the floor, unsure what I should do next. Twisting my head around, I check that I’m alone.

  Alfred doesn’t seem to be about, so I stand up and start looking for a flashlight to help me find my way in the darkness. I hunt through every drawer in the living room and kitchen without luck before remembering the candle that I dropped on the floor in shock a few nights ago. I carefully make my way through the gloom to the corridor and am pleased to see the candle still lying where I left it. I pick it up and use a match from the box by the stove to light it.

  At the same moment, a light comes on across the back garden.

  It’s coming from Avery’s house.

  I stand there in silence, staring out at that lonely window which glows with such bright light—light which after my prolonged stay in complete blackness looks a lot brighter to me than it actually is.

  My heart starts beating faster. Not because I’m worried or scared, but because I’m glad to see that light in the darkness. It’s comforting, somehow. It makes me feel safer.

  Framed by the neighbour’s window, I see the movement of a silhouette which stops dead at its centre, as though looking right at me.

  Is it Avery? Can he see me?

  Around the house everything seems quiet, and the air is unnaturally still, so I put on my shoes and head outside, hoping he’ll notice me. But it’s not until I’ve turned the two corners of the house that I realize Avery is no longer by his window—he’s already walking to meet me by the gate.

  Instantly, I feel a smile forming on my face, and I blush at the thought that I’m so pleased to see him.

  “How did you—?” I start to say, but before I can finish my sentence, he breaks in.

  “I saw you coming out.”

  My smile gets wider—which, considering the situation, makes me feel a bit silly. For a moment I just stand there looking at him. His usually messy hair looks even more tangled than normal, suggesting that he probably just woke up. He’s somehow managing to look cute anyway, though.

  Then I see the sweatshirt he’s wearing. Across the chest in giant capital letters is the word “FLAWLESS,” and at the sight of it I can’t hold back a dorky guffaw.

  He looks down at the source of my amusement, and then back up at me.

  “What, you mean you don’t agree?” he asks, feigning perplexity.

  We both laugh, and I start to relax a little bit.

  “I’m glad you saw me coming out,” I confess.

  There’s a moment of charged silence between us, which he breaks with another question. “So how is it that you’re awake?”

  I consider not telling him the truth, to try to make myself sound a bit less pathetic, but then decide that it’d be better to open up and be honest.

  “I can’t sleep. I have a . . . weird feeling.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks kindly.

  “I keep . . . hearing things,” I admit. “And seeing people. In the house.”

  “And does that keep you up?” he says, seemingly unruffled by my words.

  “No,” I say. “I have to stay awake. I need to.”

  “Maybe you should try to get some sleep instead. It might just be that you’re overtired.”

  “Never mind,” I answer, irked by his hint that it might all be in my head. “Forget it.” I turn quickly on my heel and start walking off.

  “Wait,” he says, raising his voice, “that’s not what I meant.”

  “Then what did you mean?” I ask sharply, without turning back round to face him.

  “I mean . . . that it’s hard,” he explains. “Being on your own for a long time. I know how it feels.”

  Repenting, I walk back to the gate and look him in the eyes, feeling an urgent need for him to understand me.

  “I’m not imagining things.”

  “I know,” he whispers back, without breaking eye contact.

  We stare at each other, and it’s clear that we are both feeling something—there’s a connection between us.

  Still speaking in a low voice, I tell him, “I don’t know if I’m safe here.”

  His eyes shift to the dark bulk of the house behind me.

  “What exactly is it that you’re afraid of?” he asks, his expression becoming more intent.

  “I have this feeling that won’t go away. The sensation that I’m being watched, constantly . . . and I’m afraid that the person behind it all is Alfred.”

  I immediately realize how silly I must sound, but it’s too late to take it back.

  “I can stay out here and check that nothing weird happens,” he offers, suddenly every inch the solicitous young gentleman. “If you feel like you’re in danger, you can always come over and find me. I won’t leave.”

  Overwhelmed by his kindness, I move nearer to him, reaching the limit of the gate between our gardens. We’re so close that I can almost feel the warmth of his body next to mine.

  “I can’t let you stay out here alone, though,” I say, after the silence has drawn itself out for a few instants.

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” he reassures me.

  I consider his offer, and then a thought pops into my head.

  “Tell you what—we could both spend the night out here, until the sun comes up. But I wouldn’t want you to feel that you have to . . .”

  “Sure,” he answers, without hesitation.

  And so just like that, we find ourselves sitting with our backs propped against the two sides of the gate. The only thing illuminating our surroundings is
the gently flickering candle that sits in a little pool of its own hardened wax on one of the stones of the path.

  I can hear him breathing, in and out, and the rhythm of it soothes me to the point that I close my eyes and start to sleep.

  When I wake up, it takes me a few moments to work out where I am. I turn around to check if Avery is still there and, disappointed to find that he’s not, I get up from the ground and brush my hands clean on my jeans.

  “Hey!” shouts a voice from behind me.

  Somehow I manage to spin around in time to catch the apple that’s flying through the air towards me.

  There he is—Avery, walking this way through the dewy grass, another apple in his hand.

  “I did tell you that I wouldn’t leave you,” he says, with a wide smile on his face. “Nice catch, by the way!”

  I return his smile and thank him for the apple, and he takes a bite from his.

  “You seemed pretty concerned last night,” he says as soon as he has finished chewing. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  I reflect for a second and try to straighten out my thoughts, then, finally, let it all out.

  “Maybe . . . maybe I’m crazy, but I’m starting to think that Alfred might be drugging me,” I say. “All the things that I see, all the weird things that have been happening to me . . . I can’t explain it, and it just feels natural to blame all of this on him.”

  “Why would he do that, though? I mean, what possible motive could he have? Have you thought about that?” he asks.

  “Well, I know that this will sound ridiculous, but I’m scared he might be up to something big.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, where are the Blooms? You said it yourself—Mrs. Bloom didn’t like the idea of having him around.”

  “So what exactly are you saying?” he asks, sounding intrigued.

  “I don’t know what I’m saying,” I admit. “I just . . . I don’t know. That’s why I’m not sleeping. I need to keep my eye on him.”

  “I understand,” he says affectionately, “but don’t forget to take a break and catch your breath sometimes.”

  I just nod.

  “In any case,” he adds, “if you ever need me, you know where to find me.”

  Still not entirely convinced that he’s taking my fears seriously, but grateful in any case to have him on my side, I thank him, and for a short, intense moment we stand facing one another over the gate, me wishing that I didn’t have to ever let him go away. But I realize we both have things to do, so I politely say goodbye and make my way back inside, in desperate need of a hot bath.

  As I walk towards the front door I pick up the newspapers and magazines again lying on the doorstep and, once inside, dump them unceremoniously on top of the stack accumulating on the console table.

  One of the newspapers slips to the floor and falls open to a page of adverts for local businesses and events. I run my eyes over them—it’s the usual assortment of provincial weirdness:

  The Hills Inn Line Dance and Barbecue—Live music from Hank Akeley and the Black Mountain Boys . . .

  Wilma Nightmoth, Psychic and Seer—Not a fraud!!! Since 1954—drop in at 13 Chapel Lane and speak to the dear departed . . .

  LOST!! TIBBLES—Our lovely cat, black-and-grey coat, one leg missing. If you see him, please call . . .

  White Hills Hardware, Est. 1890—A knife for every occasion! . . .

  Machen and Sons, Greengrocers—Special offer: pumpkins half price (while stocks last) . . .

  I reach down, pick it up, and fold it closed, and as I do, the words on the front page catch my eye. The headline is in bold capitals and reads “TRAGEDY ON CHURCH ROAD,” and there’s a photograph of a broken body, its face covered with a sheet, lying on the ground surrounded by a crowd of onlookers and some ambulance staff. The fields in the background of the picture are easily recognisable as the ones in front of the Blooms’ home, or at least ones very much like them, and I feel certain that the accident must have taken place somewhere around here.

  I place the paper back on top of the others and go to finally take that much-needed bath.

  As soon as the water in the tub is hot enough and the steam has started misting up the mirror on the wall, I take off my clothes, dump them on the white wicker chair in the corner by the sink, sit on the edge of the tub, and slowly lower my feet one at a time into the scalding bathwater, sliding the rest of my body in as soon as I’ve got accustomed to the temperature.

  A feeling of extreme relaxation starts to suffuse my entire body, and thoughts of the night that I’ve just spent in the garden with Avery come vividly back to me—it’s probably the only positive experience I’ve had since my arrival here, other than that of living in what I would consider my dream house.

  As I remember the moment that passed between us before I fell asleep next to him, I feel my cheeks warm with a blush.

  Is this what infatuation feels like? Have I ever even been in love? So many things about my own past seem blurred and inaccessible in my mind, to the point that I can’t even answer my own questions about myself.

  At that moment, my train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the keyhole cover being moved, as though somebody is trying to get in.

  I leap out of the bath, struggling to keep from slipping on the wet floor as I cross the room, and place my hand on the doorknob, waiting. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, as I don’t hear anything else, but needing to be sure, I twist the handle.

  And, to my horror, realise that I’m locked inside.

  I’m certain that I didn’t lock the door—I’ve never even seen a key for this room, and there was certainly none in the lock. I can feel a sense of dread mounting inside me.

  With my composure beginning to crumble, I start anxiously shouting, then banging and eventually kicking at the door, yelling for someone to let me out.

  But nobody does, and my panic is getting closer and closer to being pure hysteria. My heart is beating so fast that it feels as though it’s about to explode, while the air in the room gets thinner and thinner until I can scarcely breathe anymore.

  Finally, I collapse onto the cold marble floor.

  DAY 12

  SLOWLY, MY senses start to return, and I carefully get myself up from the bathroom floor.

  There’s no longer any light shining through the window, which suggests that it must now be night-time outside. I reach for the doorknob, hoping with all my heart that it’ll turn and let me out—and to my surprise and relief, it does.

  Without wasting any time, I pick up my clothes, wrap a towel hurriedly around myself, and run down the hall towards the living room.

  When I get there I pause for a moment, looking about me and trying to work out what it is that has happened. I peer into the kitchen and see the digits of the clock on the stove click over to 2:00 a.m.

  Hiding myself as best I can from any prying eyes, I put my clothes back on and dump the towel on the clean kitchen table. I open the fridge and find some fresh fruit—which I’d swear I hadn’t noticed in there before—but only take out a bottle of water to hydrate myself. Feeling my wobbly legs begging me for mercy, I pull out a chair from under the table and sit myself down.

  And then I see the camera that I left there a few days back.

  I turn it on and replay the long clip, stopping at the fifteenth minute. As expected, the glitch at the sixteenth minute is still there, and so I replay it over and over again, watching as closely as I possibly can and studying every tiny detail.

  Eventually, I manage to pause and capture a frame that I haven’t noticed before: right after the shed door opens, a strange light is visible coming from it for a split second, and I can barely believe my eyes when I realise that I’m looking at a face in there.

  I zoom in on the picture, focusing on the shape of the light: as the image increases in size it starts to lose clarity, but I’m still able to make out some features that I recognise—it’s Alfred’s expression, beyond a doubt. Just somehow a b
it warped.

  But what does this mean? That he’s a ghost? A demon? Has he actually become the monster that keeps the Derfla legend alive?

  If that’s the case, I need to prove it.

  I look behind me, over at the fridge—the plastic letters that scared me so much the other night are still there, still spelling out the same words. Could it actually have been him who wrote that? But why would he write “dear” if he doesn’t even know me? It doesn’t make any sense . . .

  But maybe it doesn’t really need to make any sense.

  I stand up and touch the letters, sliding them into different positions until a new sentence appears.

  Who are you? the row of letters across the fridge now crookedly asks.

  I step back, waiting.

  Nothing happens. Could it be my presence in the kitchen that’s stopping the supernatural forces from showing their hand?

  Avery’s words come to mind again—“Take a break and catch your breath.”

  So I follow his advice, leave the room, and lie down on my bed, listening to the sound of my own deep breathing until I feel so relaxed that I drift off into a nap.

  My eyes open again to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance.

  Feeling pleasantly rested, I decide immediately to check if my question has been answered. I walk down the corridor towards the kitchen and the fridge, but nothing has changed, and I tell myself disappointedly that there’s only one thing left to do: break into the shed and get it over with.

  My blood’s up now, so I grab a large knife from the wooden knife block by the sink and head outside.

  I open the front door, only to be almost forced back inside the house, so strong is the wind that’s blowing out there. But I push my way through it, struggling to keep walking until I’ve turned the first corner, where the wall shelters me just a little bit from the crazed weather.

  The distant thunder is rapidly moving closer and closer, bringing freezing-cold rain with it, and in just a few seconds I find myself soaking wet instead of bone dry.

  But I can’t go back: I won’t be satisfied until I’ve found out what the hell is inside the damned shed.