Dream House Read online

  I cross the back garden and arrive in front of the shed. After a moment’s hesitation, I raise my knife and start prying at the thick chain around the padlock and the hasp on the lock, but they’re far too solid for it to be any use.

  I take off my jacket, wrap it a few times around my right fist, and give one of the tiny windows to the side of the door a good punch—it shatters into thousands of fragments which scatter all over the place, and I put my arm through the hole I’ve created, feeling about with my hand for anything that might help me open the door.

  My fingers touch on various useless odds and ends, until finally they come across something flat, sharp, and cold. I slide my fingers along it until they encounter a wooden handle—an axe! Just what I need!

  I wrap my hand around it tightly and start pulling it upwards, in the direction of the window: it’s heavy, but I’ve almost got it.

  And then, suddenly, a violent freezing sensation grips my whole body and for one horrifying second leaves me completely immobile, unable even to move my eyes—and then sends me crashing heavily to the wet ground.

  Barely conscious, I feel warm tears make their way across my cheeks as I lie there on the grass in the icy rain.

  I can’t move, I have no control over my body, and I’m scared. But none of that really matters.

  One thought—one thought alone—keeps going through my mind.

  I am going to die here.

  DAY 13

  I DON’T KNOW how much time I spend there, alone, frozen to the ground, before I pass out.

  The only thing that I do know is that I am now waking up to mild, calm weather. I’m very uncomfortable—but I’m alive.

  And I’m glad about that.

  I have absolutely no idea what happened. Or why. I can’t get my head around it. Perhaps I ought to try to just put it behind me. Forget about it. And maybe learn not to act so irresponsibly.

  The only explanation that I can come up with is that Alfred must have found me looking too closely at his precious shed and decided to do something about it. I don’t know how he could have paralysed me like that, and I’ve no way of confirming my assumption, as I didn’t see or hear anybody near me when I fell to the ground—but I do know that it’s the only thing that would make any sense at this point.

  “Are you okay?”

  A distant, concerned voice reaches my ears, catching me off guard.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I mumble, still lying on the damp lawn.

  Silence.

  “Are you okay?!” the voice repeats, louder this time.

  It takes me a moment longer than it probably should before my brain finally makes the connection that it’s Avery’s voice I’m hearing.

  “Yes,” I answer, “I . . . just need a second.”

  I collect my strength and sit up straight, turning in his direction. He’s by the gate, wearing a white T-shirt which sets off his neatly combed dark hair. He looks smarter, more dressed up than usual. Is he going somewhere?

  Obviously quite worried, he smiles with relief as soon as he sees me look him in the face.

  Running a hand through my uncombed hair, I suddenly realise with a pang of self-consciousness how I must look, but—trying to conceal my embarrassment—I say bluntly, “I was attacked.”

  His eyes widen. “By who?”

  “I have no idea—I didn’t see anybody.”

  “So what happened, then?” he says urgently.

  “I was trying to get into the shed, but something stopped me,” I explain. “My body was paralysed until I passed out.”

  “Amethyst,” he says, his face suddenly growing dark, “this stuff sounds serious—you shouldn’t be staying in that house.”

  From the intensity in his voice I can tell that he cares about me, and it gives me a nice warm feeling inside, but I can’t take his advice—not this time.

  I shake my head, not taking my eyes from his.

  “Why on earth are you so stubborn?” he continues, with audible frustration. “You’re always the same.”

  He closes his mouth hurriedly, as though that last sentence had just slipped out unintentionally.

  “You don’t know me,” I say, frowning. “How can you say something like that about me?”

  From his expression I can tell that he realises how much he’s upset me.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he apologizes, his voice soft now, and his affection for me shining through.

  “I’m sorry too. But you have to understand—I can’t leave. Not just yet. What kind of person would I be if I just walked away from this, turning my back on the people who have been the nicest to me?”

  At my words, his face lights up as though he actually, finally understands, and that makes me feel better, and gives me the confidence to continue.

  “By the way,” I ask, “do you happen to know the girl who used to live here?”

  Upon hearing my question, Avery’s face darkens again, and his eyes grow shiny as though he were about to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out in concern, “I shouldn’t have asked . . .”

  “Oh, don’t worry. It’s fine,” he tells me as he struggles to regain his composure. “Yes, I know her.”

  “What’s her name?” I ask.

  “Akiko,” he replies, as though the question were a ridiculous one. “We grew up together.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She would be nineteen years old,” he answers, looking upset by my questions and clearly fighting back tears. “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Where is she now?” I manage to ask at last.

  “She . . . she died. Recently.”

  And just like that, a tear steaks down his left cheek to quickly hide itself at the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, meaning it.

  The sight of such raw emotion holds me back me from asking anything else. I just stand there next to him, hoping that my presence is enough to comfort him in some way. I’d like to hug him, to let him know that it’s not just him who’s there for me—that I’m there for him as well. But I feel too guilty about having made him cry to come out with a sudden show of affection now, so I stay where I am, waiting for him to calm down.

  He dries his eyes with his forearm and flashes me a gentle smile, which immediately cheers me up.

  “Thank you,” he says, taking me by surprise.

  “For what?” I say, confused.

  “I’d been needing to get that out . . . and you helped me to do it. So thank you.”

  I smile too, relieved to hear that I’m not actually as awful a human being as I’d started to think.

  “Would you like to join me for dinner?” I venture.

  He looks tempted by my offer, and moves his hand forward as if he is about to take mine, but instead he stops halfway and rests it on the wooden gate.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he replies.

  I go bright red, wishing I could take back my invitation and avoid having created this awkwardness. I’m lost for words, but luckily he knows what to say.

  “We could have a picnic, though?”

  “Isn’t it a bit too cold for a picnic?”

  “Not if you bring lots of blankets!” he responds cheerfully.

  We agree to meet at 7:00 p.m. by the gate and both bring some food and things to drink. Excitedly, I walk back inside the house and start preparing some simple dishes for us to enjoy. On the menu: toasted bread and smoked asparagus. I’m about to take some candles from the drawer where I found the others, but it occurs to me that it makes things a bit weird if I try too hard to create an atmosphere, and so I leave them on the countertop.

  Next, I take a long shower and dry and brush my hair into place for the first time.

  I put back on my dirty clothes—which quickly spoil all my efforts at making myself look presentable—and as soon as the clock strikes seven I pick up the dishes I’ve prepared and make my way outside.

  When I reach
the back garden, I’m happy to see that the gate between the two houses is open and a red-and-white-checked blanket has been laid neatly on the ground. There’s a basket placed in the middle of it, and I can see the hot steam from the food Avery has cooked rising up into the evening air, giving off a delicious smell. He hasn’t seen me walking towards him yet, busy as he is with his efforts to light a small tealight, but once he hears me coming he jumps up and invites me to take a seat.

  We’re sitting facing one another across the threshold between our respective gardens, but I feel incredibly happy that the physical barrier which was keeping us apart has been removed.

  And without further ado, we tuck in to a thoroughly enjoyable meal, devouring every last morsel of the dishes we have prepared, from the appetizers of toasted bread and sliced salami, which are as simple as they are delicious, to the home-made chocolate pudding that Avery produces as a dessert.

  As I run my finger round a plate to collect the last few crumbs, I become conscious of how late it has got. The sky is dark, the first few stars have come out, and the cold air is making my nose tingle.

  Even though I’m freezing cold, our being here together like this more than compensates for the fact. But when he notices me shivering, Avery says, “We should probably get going—it’s pretty late, you know.”

  Secretly wishing that he hadn’t spoken those words, I nod and reluctantly get up and start gathering the crockery and cutlery to take back to the house. Before I can leave, though, he says, “It was nice to spend some time with you.”

  I simply nod my head mutely up and down to let him know I feel the same way.

  “If you ever feel lonely, or you just want some company,” he continues, “flick the lights in the house on and off a few times, and I’ll show up out here. You don’t have to be alone.”

  “Is this your way of letting me know that you’re still spying on me?” I smirk, and we both laugh.

  “Maybe,” he says, with a wink.

  I wish him goodnight and leave, happy to have spent an entire day with him.

  DAY 14

  IT’S THE middle of the night, but someone is knocking repeatedly on the front door. I ignore it at first, but then start wondering if maybe there’s the slightest chance that it’s Avery who’s standing out there.

  I leave the lights off while I walk down the dark corridor I am by now so accustomed to until I approach the source of the sound.

  Knock . . .

  Knock . . .

  Knock.

  The noise is slow, yet loud, and so eerie that I daren’t get too close to its source. It goes on and on for several minutes. And suddenly, the unexpected happens.

  The doorknob starts turning by itself, warning me that whoever was wanting to attract my attention is now going to get it.

  The hinges creak eerily as the door gradually opens and a tiny hand appears around it, followed by the rest of the body to which it’s attached.

  It’s the old lady—the one who keeps appearing and pointing at me.

  And I don’t like where this is going one bit.

  As I’m backing away, I trip over the leg of the sofa and fall to the floor.

  I crawl backwards, trying to put as much distance as possible between us, but I can’t get away from her. Floating jerkily through the air, like a plastic bag blown by the wind, she gets closer and closer to me until I can feel her cold breath on my neck.

  “I warned you,” she says, staring at me. “I warned you. Now you are going to be stuck in here for all eternity.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I can, repeating to myself that it isn’t actually happening, that it isn’t real—but then I feel her wizened hand harshly grab my wrist.

  “You can leave with me now,” she says.

  “Or you can rot in here forever.”

  When I open my eyes I’m in bed, drenched with sweat, my forehead burning. Was that a dream? It felt so real, yet so dreamlike. So . . . other, as if I had been in some different dimension.

  I pull my arm out from under the blanket, revealing the red marks on my wrist. I have no idea exactly what it was, but it definitely wasn’t just a nightmare.

  I’m awake, and I’ve got a strong feeling that something is wrong.

  I check the clock: 11:35 in the morning. Everything’s quiet.

  Too quiet. No wind, no birds singing, no noises.

  I make myself some porridge, unable to shake the thought that somehow, something is different. Something has changed.

  I place my breakfast, along with a glass of water, on the table and sit down to enjoy it. As I take a sip, I wonder to myself what Avery is doing. Is he still sleeping? Is he having breakfast, like me? Is he studying? Or maybe playing video games?

  All of a sudden, something more important crosses my mind: where’s Alfred? I can’t allow myself to lose track of him at any time, and I haven’t been doing such a great job of it—my mind has been somewhere else entirely for far too long. It’s been days since I last saw him. Has he gone away? Time passes so quickly that I can barely even remember when I last spied on him, but I can’t erase the image of his twisted, ugly face on the camera footage—just thinking about it makes me shudder.

  Annoyed with myself about the underwhelming progress of my investigation, I take the spoon out of my mouth, stand up, and walk over to the French windows in order to take a good look at the back garden. The grass is freshly cut, and everything is as pretty as ever, but something looks different. I just can’t spot what it is yet.

  I scan every inch of the area, certain that I’m right, and then I notice it: the door of the shed is just a little bit ajar.

  It’s the first time it’s not been locked. And it’s my only chance to finally take a good look inside it.

  Without wasting any time, I rush over to the front door and pull it open. A gust of wind shoves back at me. I look up and see the huge, dark cloud which is about to completely cover the sky.

  I step back inside, grab my jacket, and run back out, hoping that if I’m quick I’ll manage to avoid the rain. In less than a minute I’m by the shed, my heart racing. After what happened when I tried to break in the other day, I’ve developed an irrational—or maybe not so irrational—fear of that little wooden hut in the garden, but I can’t let that stop me now.

  I try to be brave, grab hold of the handle, and slowly open the door.

  From the old wooden floor, my eyes move quickly upwards until I find myself looking at the most shocking thing I’ve witnessed in my entire life.

  Alfred is hanging there, a rope running from his neck to one of the beams of the shed roof.

  He’s flailing about, struggling madly to stay alive, his purple lips looking almost as contorted as those of the face I saw in the film.

  His horrified eyes meet mine.

  It takes a second for me to understand what’s happening in front of me and to snap out of my state of shock. I grab hold of his body to try to give him some support while with one hand I grope for the old chair to my left and slide it under his feet, allowing him to stand up and release his neck from the noose that is strangling him. As soon as he’s freed himself, he collapses down into the chair, breathing heavily and avoiding any eye contact.

  I sit on the floor in front of him, waiting for an explanation, too upset and astonished to say anything.

  A long pause anticipates his words.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Why did I save your life?” I reply, irritated.

  “Why did you bother helping me?” he says.

  “What was I supposed to do?” I ask, unable to help raising my voice, “let you die?!”

  “You should have,” he says flatly, ashamedly honest.

  Both sitting there inside the place that I’d so much wanted to see, we let the silence prevail.

  It’s getting dark, and I’m still sitting here in a corner of the shed, waiting for some answers. I don’t say a word, but we both know that he’ll have to talk sooner or later—neither
of us will leave until he does. And I have all the time in the world.

  It takes a few hours, but in the end he finally decides to acknowledge my existence and enlighten me about his motives.

  “I thought I was dead,” he says out of nowhere.

  “Yeah, well, you very nearly were,” I snap.

  “No. I mean before,” he insists. “Before you came.”

  “I know. But I saved you.”

  “You don’t get it. I’m not talking about today.”

  “Then what are you talking about?” I ask.

  “A long time ago. I killed myself,” he confesses. “Or at least, I thought I did.”

  “And then what happened?” I say, staring at that face whose eyes are still avoiding mine.

  “You,” he says, this time turning his face so I can clearly see his despondent expression.

  I feel cold and hot at the same time, suddenly frightened of what’s about to come.

  “The day you came to this house, I saw you,” he continues, “and you saw me.”

  “What do you mean?” I say, confused.

  “After what I did to myself . . . after I’d committed suicide, nobody ever talked to me. I was invisible. And so I’d always supposed I was dead.”

  “But I saw you,” I say, starting to understand what he’s getting at.

  “And not only that. You talked to me—so that must mean that I’m alive, mustn’t it?” he says, almost as confused as I am.

  I take a moment to ponder, but without finding an answer.

  “I would guess so,” I tell him, and reach over to poke at his knee. “I can touch you—you’re as real as anybody else to me.”

  “Then how do you explain the fact that I can’t die?” he asks. “I’ve tried to kill myself dozens of times since you arrived here: suffocation, hanging”—his eyes rise for a second to the cord hanging from the rafter—“I’ve tried all kinds of different things, but nothing seems to work. . . . You can still see me. And it’s driving me crazy.”

  I immediately remember the pills that fell from his pocket, his constant bad mood, and that footage—could it be that I’m able to see him even though he’s a ghost? I can’t take any chances, though: I have to make sure I know what I’m working with.