Dream House Page 9

  Or maybe—just maybe—that’s it. I have to open people’s minds and show them the real picture. I have to make them understand once and for all what actually happened, so that they can finally forgive Alfred and let him rest in peace.

  Before putting the book away, I open it at the middle part and read some more, in particular a chapter which explains how ghosts that have spent a long time in the human world after their deaths might begin to gather strength, and how a ghost that is unaware of its death might act and feel the same way as any regular person.

  Overwhelmed by all this new information, I flick through the pages until I reach the last, which reads:

  This shall not be considered as a complete spirit guide. All the information provided in this book derives from my own personal experiences with the paranormal. I shall not be held responsible for any eventual unfortunate events.

  By night-time I feel confident that I’ve got the answer I was looking for.

  I grab a bite to eat and head outside in search of Alfred. I tread the same path I am starting to know so well, crossing the back garden and ending up at the shed. I knock gently and push the unlocked door open.

  He’s sitting there on the floor, looking extremely miserable.

  When I enter, he doesn’t bother to stand or even look up, but that doesn’t really matter to me: I’m going to help him, no matter what.

  I join him on the floor, sitting fairly close but at the same time leaving a bit of distance between us. And I begin.

  “You said you paid someone to look after the children that day . . .”

  He nods slowly.

  “Did she die in the fire?” I ask.

  “They didn’t find her body,” he replies obliquely, confirming what I had already suspected.

  “Have you ever heard from her since the accident?” I wonder.

  “No, she just . . . disappeared.”

  “How come you asked her?” I ask. “Was it somebody you already knew?”

  His eyes lock suddenly onto mine, as though trying to tell me that, yes, he did, but without wanting to say it out loud.

  “It was somebody you cared about . . .” I whisper.

  “Yes,” he says, raising his voice, “yes, it was—but it’s not what you think.”

  “Then tell me,” I say gently.

  He pauses, lost in thought for a few moments.

  “It was my sister. My little sister,” he admits finally. “I knew about her . . . condition. I wasn’t thinking straight. She’d been fine for years. Even so, I knew deep down that it wasn’t a good idea to leave her alone with the babies, but I wanted to trust her. After everything I’d been through, after what had happened to Lilly—I needed to trust her.”

  Tears start to stream down from the corners of his eyes.

  Aware that I risk crossing a line, I steel myself and ask, “What do you think happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. I abandoned her, and she disappeared. I failed her. I failed Lilly and my kids. I failed everybody.”

  It occurs me that the situation is suddenly more complicated than I’d been expecting. What am I supposed to do? How will I be able to get this man to forgive himself? Even if I could get his sister to talk to him, what would that change?

  Unsure about what step to take next, I ask just one more question.

  “What about your scar?”

  He touches it lightly with his fingers and says, “I got it when I helped her run away.”

  Lying on my bed, I’m having no luck at getting my mind to switch off. I can’t just give up on him; I have to figure out a way to help. But how?

  How . . . That’s what this is all about, finding the answer to that one simple question.

  I check the clock, which is now telling me that it’s 11:59, but I can’t get to sleep and so I get up to do something that, in the middle of the night, I probably shouldn’t.

  DAY 17

  12:01. ONE specific thought keeps going round in my mind: are Marvin and Amabel aware of Alfred’s presence so close to their home? Mr. Bloom was reading that book by Vivien Bisset, which suggests that he might indeed be aware of the fact. But then, why disappear? Did they leave—or did something happen to them?

  Unable to provide myself with any kind of satisfactory explanation, I sneak out of the room and, leaving all the lights off, venture through the corridors of the house. When I reach the entrance to the cellar, I stop and listen, placing my ear against the wooden door: all quiet.

  I walk on and twist the handle of the door to the master bedroom: even in complete darkness, the room is still as cosy as it is when the sun is shining through the French windows. I’m not sure what it is I’m searching for, but I have a strong feeling that this is where I’m supposed to be right now. To find something.

  I start looking around, beginning with the pretty dressing table on my left—nothing useful there—before moving my attention to the bedside tables.

  I don’t find anything interesting in the first one, but luckily enough the second contains a chunky flashlight.

  I reach for it, give it a shake, and then push the switch. A beam of light appears: it works.

  As I’m standing right next to the bed, it seems logical to crawl underneath and see what I find, so I do. There’s a box hidden there. I grab it, slide it out, and silently open it.

  I sit the flashlight on the floor with its beam pointing upwards like a lantern, and it illuminates my surroundings enough to allow me to see what I’m holding: a photo album. I undo the ribbon which fastens the front and back covers of it together and open it at the first page.

  At the centre are the handwritten words “Our Family,” followed by the date—1996.

  I turn it over, revealing a large picture set in the middle of the next page. Marvin and Amabel are at the sides of the frame, while the little girl—Akiko—is in the middle, blowing out a candle on top of a cake which is shaped like the number four.

  A new page, this time containing numerous smaller pictures. I give them a brief looking over and realise that the Blooms must have adopted Akiko when she was young, probably from the other couple I saw in the picture a few days ago. Is that the reason why in my dream she said that she didn’t have any parents? Did she know that the Blooms weren’t her natural parents? She was so young—how could she have worked that out?

  I wonder why those other people—her birth parents—couldn’t keep her. But I’m sure the young couple had their reasons. You could tell from the looks on their faces.

  Still leafing through all these happy pictures, I hear footsteps behind me and I turn my head, bracing myself for the sight of somebody. But I’m a split second too slow to see if there’s anybody there or not—by the time I’ve snatched up the flashlight, whoever was sneaking up on me an instant ago isn’t there anymore.

  With the feeling that I’m being watched, I close the album, place it carefully in the box, and slide it back where I found it.

  Flashlight in hand, I leave the room, close the door, and go back to my own bedroom.

  I open the drawers of the desk, searching for anything that I might be able to use to make sure the door of my room stays shut. Inside the second one on the right I find a baby-pink ribbon—perfect.

  I wrap it around the handle of the door, then around the mounting of the lamp attached to the wall over the bed—one of those reading ones—and tie a double knot, thinking that although a pretty pink ribbon is certainly not the ideal way to keep people out, it’s still better than nothing.

  When I start feeling calmer, I spend a minute reflecting. The book I was reading explained that there may well be more than one ghost in any one place. Is it possible that Mr. Bloom didn’t know about Alfred? Is there a chance that the reason he was studying that book was actually somebody else?

  This last question brings to mind a vital detail that I’d completely forgotten: Akiko, the Blooms’ adopted daughter—and recently deceased, according to Avery.

  Is that the reason why Mr. Bloom has
the book?

  Things might be starting to become clearer.

  At the same time, Ms. Bisset’s words also make me wonder if there are perhaps other spirits in addition to Alfred haunting this place—that would explain all the uncanny noises and weird things that have been happening. Maybe, just maybe, even the elderly lady who is so obsessed with me might have passed away and is confusing me with somebody else she cared about.

  Feeling suddenly overwhelmed by all these hypotheses, I change into my pyjamas and climb under the covers, hugging them tightly to me.

  A raven clattering against the bedroom window wakes me up.

  Still half asleep, I pull away the blanket and make a quick trip to the bathroom where I wash my face with cold water, brush my teeth and hair, and study my appearance. Nothing’s really improved since last week—I still look as exhausted and undernourished as before, but I try not to let myself get too self-conscious about it and to stay focused on more important things.

  Before leaving the room, I peek through the small window, curious as to whether Alfred is already at work. Yes, there he is, raking some dead leaves from the ground, unaware of me staring at him. I leave the bathroom and make my way to the kitchen, where I prepare some more porridge and a glass of milk for breakfast, then slowly make my way towards the living room, with not one but two things simultaneously on my mind: first, of course, Alfred, and second, Spiritual Relief.

  Are there any other books about spirits in this house, I wonder? The shelves are stuffed with dozens of tomes on subjects related to religion, but are there any others like the one by Vivien Bisset that are mostly focused on ghosts?

  I scan the titles in front of me, but nothing catches my eye, so instead I drag over the same chair and reach up for the same book once again, hoping to find some more useful information that I might have missed the first time I looked at it—after all, I did skip over plenty.

  I quickly turn the pages until I see chapter seven—“The Matter of Time”—and I sit down on the sofa and pick my way through it carefully. I learn how the perception of time is vastly different after death and can vary according to a variety of factors, but is generally either faster or slower than normal. Apparently, the lack of any regular perception of time is directly related to the lack of a physical body, which means not being affected by time changes as we experience them while alive.

  The book also explains that ghosts don’t exist in a specific place at any given moment, and in fact a spirit might well jump into another dimension for a period of time—which can vary—without realizing it. Completely unaware of what has happened, once it gets back it will resume whatever activity it was performing before the point of detachment.

  I redirect my attention over to the window just in time to notice the shed door opening and Alfred emerging. I’m observing the gardener’s movements when my attention is captured by the copse of imposing, twisted trees right down at the very end of the garden. How I could possibly have missed noticing them before? I ask myself.

  I ponder the question for a few moments until it suddenly strikes me that I’ve lost track of Alfred, so I rush over to the French windows and hurriedly locate him. There he is, trimming the grass around the gate to Avery’s house and stealing a glance in my direction every now and again. Does he want to talk to me? Is this his vague way of trying to get my attention?

  Mindful of the wet weather, I collect my shoes, together with an umbrella, and walk out into the back garden.

  Before I have a chance to open my mouth, though, Alfred marches straight up to me and asks, “When you said you would help me”—he pauses for a second, studying my expression—“did you mean it?”

  “Of course,” I reply, confident of my abilities.

  A fog is beginning to settle on the garden.

  “How?” he asks, his eyes full of hope.

  The tension is becoming palpable.

  “Let’s go inside,” I suggest, “and I can explain it to you there.”

  With Alfred at my heels, I make my way to the shed, closing the door once we’re inside. He stands there, anxious to know if I really have an answer to give him—the answer that he wants to hear—and so I begin.

  “I’ve found a book, and it’s helping me understand the situation.”

  Alfred only nods vaguely.

  “I’m learning a lot, but I need your cooperation,” I tell him, staring at his pallid face.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asks, bracing himself for my answer.

  “I just need to get to know you,” I say at last.

  When we are both sitting on the rough wooden floor, I start asking him personal questions, trying to understand exactly which of my hypotheses about what’s keeping him here is the correct one, and he opens up completely to me in a way I’d never have expected. Gratified by his frankness, I listen carefully to what he says, paying attention to each small detail of his troubled life, until finally he reveals the thing that I’ve been dying to hear.

  “I worked hard to be able to afford to live in this village. I did everything I could, and I managed it. As an honest man. Now all that’s left of me is that damned legend. It’s unfair—just totally unfair.” He grits his teeth. “How am I supposed to join my family, who’ve been waiting for me for all this time, when I can’t prove to them that I’m deserving?”

  I gaze at the knots in the floorboards, trying to work out what he means, but can come up with nothing to dispel my doubts. So instead of answering his question, I ask a new one.

  “You obviously love your family. Why are you so sure that that’s not enough for them?”

  Out of nowhere, he suddenly leans forward, grabs hold of my shoulders tightly with his strong hands, and shakes me.

  “I failed them once before!” he blurts out despairingly. “I can’t risk losing them again!”

  Finally, I see. From his point of view, he can’t rejoin his family if he doesn’t measure up to them—and even though there’s no real basis for this unfounded idea of his, it’s clearly what he believes. How can I destroy the legend that’s haunting this man? How can I help him get the villagers’ approval?

  I spend a very long time staring blankly into space, completely lost in my own thoughts. I don’t know how long I sit there, but Alfred sits in silence and waits patiently for me to speak, without pressuring me at all.

  And finally, a solution starts to form.

  I look up into his face. “Trust me,” I reassure him. “I’m going to help you.”

  And just like that, I leave the shed and walk straight back to where I came from: the living room. Once there, I take a look at the clock, which reads 6:26 in the evening. I still have some time left.

  I reach for the most recent edition of the newspaper on the pile by the entrance and find the number I’m looking for in the bottom left-hand corner of the front page.

  I pick up the receiver and dial it.

  Ring ring.

  Ring ring.

  Ring ri—

  “Hello, Evening Hills offices. How can I help you?”

  After being passed back and forth from one person to another for a while, I eventually end up talking to somebody very helpful who lets me explain my request—a request for something which I hope will help Alfred realize that what was is now consigned, once and for all, to the past. As soon as I hang up, the exhaustion I’ve been accumulating for the whole day begins to make itself felt.

  With leaden feet, I drag myself off to my bedroom, set the alarm, and let myself rest under the soft covers.

  DAY 18

  NEITHER THE pale morning sunlight coming through the window nor the alarm I set for half past nine before collapsing into bed last night manages to wake me, and by the time I’ve opened my eyes and looked at the clock it’s closer to noon.

  Without getting up, I lean over and tug the curtains open. Outside it’s cloudy, but at least it looks calm.

  I lie there in bed for a while. Obviously, I was even more tired than I’d realised.


  It’s strangely relaxing here, considering that the bed I’m lounging about in is inside a bedroom which belongs to two complete strangers who have mysteriously disappeared without leaving a trace, and that in the house my only human contact—I suppose I can still say that Alfred is human—is a spirit.

  I know that my unwillingness to get up and face the day is at least in part because I know it’s going to be a day of waiting for something to happen. Of waiting for the wheels that I set in motion last night to crank out a result.

  And of hoping that the result is the one I want.

  Eventually, the growling of my tummy gets so loud that I can’t put getting up off any longer, though, so I haul myself out of bed and, still wearing the same fluffy pyjamas, walk down the corridor, putting my hair up in a bun as I go.

  By the time I’m done, I find myself exactly where I want to be: in the kitchen.

  I fill the kettle and put it on the hob, and when it’s boiling I make myself some green tea. A quick rummage around in the cupboards reveals a packet of biscuits that I must have missed before, so I put a few on a plate and take them and my steaming mug over to the sofa.

  I sit there slowly sipping away and nibbling on the delicious biscuits, listening to the slow, deep ticking of the grandfather clock and staring out of the French windows at the garden.

  I could stay here all day.

  It’s like time doesn’t exist.

  Like it’s not passing at all . . .

  . . . until there’s the sudden clattering sound of a bicycle being dumped on the pavement outside, and I hear someone banging the gate.

  I look up at the clock—it’s nearly five!

  How can that be? I only just sat down here with my tea . . . but when I pick up the mug, it’s stone cold.

  With a shrug of impatience and frustration, I jump up, walk over to the front door, and unlock it. When I pull it open, the cold, fresh breeze caresses my cheeks.

  I step outside onto the porch and race down the path, searching for the evening newspaper that should have just been delivered.