Chapter 9

Tuesday, 12th October

I’ve never known a storm like this one. Wind whistles between door frames and rattles the old sash-windows. Our London terrace was sheltered on all sides by other buildings. Here the house stands alone. The clicks and pings from the old Bakelite phone chatter away in the hall all of their own accord, the sound amplified in the high empty space of the stairwell. Tom presses close as we sit on Mum’s sofa in the kitchen, Riley on his lap.

‘It’s only the wind rocking the phone lines, Tom,’ I say.

‘You don’t know that,’ says my son in a quiet little voice.

‘She does, don’t you Mummy? There aren’t any aliens. You’re just being a baby, Tom.’

‘That’s enough, Sophie. Finish your homework. Daddy’ll call soon then I’ll unplug the phone.’

I picked up the handset earlier, the sounds echoing down the line were surreal, not helped by the peculiar amplification.

‘Should you give Riley something to eat before we head up to bed, Tom?’ We bought a ton of dog stuff after school, all necessary according to the twins.

‘Dogs need instruction manuals, don’t they? Like TVs have,’ says Sophie as she sits with her back to the stove. The twins both had homework this evening. Tom’s was finished in under ten minutes so he could play with Riley. Sophie still pores over hers, looping her letters perfectly and sprinkling illustrations throughout.

‘Can we take Riley upstairs?’ asks Tom as he takes a can of dog food from me.

‘His basket is here and he’ll be warm by the fire. No dogs upstairs,’ I say. The twins exchange a glance, Sophie pulls a face but neither pushes their luck any further.

‘If you get ready for bed, no messing about, I’ll bank the stove and come up too.’

 

Sophie’s happy in her room reading in the rosy glow of her lava lamp. Tom’s impossible to settle. I leave him tucked up with Blue Duck who had been abandoned on the bookcase for months back in London.

The gale gusts down the chimney spilling cold air across the bedroom floor. I jump into the thickest pair of pyjamas I own and get into bed. With no Mark and no hot water bottle the sheets are so cold they feel damp. Mark hasn’t called. It’s getting late, maybe he’s engrossed in some prep for tomorrow. I pick up my sketchbook, footsteps patter along the landing, Tom peeps around the doorframe. Tearfully, clutching Blue Duck to his chest, he steps into the room.

‘Can I sleep in your bed, Mummy?’

I pull back the corner of my duvet, Tom springs onto the bed and burrows down beside me sprawling an arm and skinny leg across my belly. I’m glad of his warmth. I return to the sketch pad, turning through pages of half-drawn scenes. I’d binned the portrait of the woman, but I see her, every line and pencil stroke as if the pages are full of her.

I glance up, aware of someone watching me.

‘For goodness’ sakes! You scared me half to death sneaking about like that.’

My daughter stands at the end of my bed, spots her brother’s tousled sleeping head and tunnels her way under my duvet.

 

Sophie’s arm is thrown across my chest, her hot sticky hand rests on my neck, her nose pressed to the side of my head. I can barely hear her snuffled snoring above the howling gale. Attempts at drawing failed, the sketch pad lies on the duvet beside my sleeping daughter. I’m too alert to the complaining, groaning house, the storm driving it crazy, and, beneath the commotion of the storm, it’s there, unmistakably there. The knocking answers each gusting surge of wind and rain like an eerie echo.

But another sound slides under the noise of the gale. Something I haven’t heard before. Something I can’t quite place. A tap tap, creak, a floorboard underfoot? The bedroom door is ajar, I can’t tear my eyes away from the narrow slice of landing. The house is empty, the attic and office closed and the spare room locked, but it bothers me. Impossible to ignore. I strain my ears, listening, waiting, there’s no way of getting off to sleep. I could take a sleeping tablet, smother everything for the next eight hours.

2:36am

Too risky, if I don’t wake to the alarm the twins will be late for school again. And I don’t want the pills. I don’t want to take a backwards step. I glance at the alarm clock hoping time has leapt forward to morning when the world will seem a far more rational place.

2:38am.

My mobile lies beside the alarm clock. No signal. If anything happens, the landline in the hall, its muffled and crackling old line, is my only option. Mark will be asleep at this hour anyway. Why did he say he’d call then not bother? Was everything alright? I don’t let my mind dwell on the various possibilities, they’ll turn into monsters at this time in the morning.

Beside my mobile is our shiny new torch. I dump the sketch pad on the floor, tuck Sophie’s arm under the duvet and sit up, swing my feet onto the floorboards. I’ll take a look, check there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll drop off to sleep if I can put my mind to rest. Cold air smothers my bare feet. I push on my old pumps and pick up the torch.

The landing is dark, just a hazy glimmer of coloured light seeping along the runner from the twins’ rooms. I glance back at my bed, the children both asleep, Tom’s face buried in Blue Duck’s sagging stomach. Wind gusts another shower of grit down the chimney, it spills like sand through the empty grate and across the green hearth tiles. I can’t stand here, I’ll lose my nerve if I don’t freeze to death first. I grab the small brass knob and pull the door towards me.

The torch’s white beam cuts through the black space, picks out the stair spindles, the deep chips in the yellowing paint like pockmarks in diseased skin. I step onto the landing. To my left are the twins’ rooms, the family bathroom and office. I closed the office door yesterday. Now though, it’s ajar. Its hinges creek, swaying back and forth in the draught. The attic door is locked, nothing’s getting out of there in a hurry. I turn the torch beam towards the spare room. Thank goodness it’s closed.

I lean over the bannister and peer into the well of the hall. Only buffeting wind and the occasional tring of the phone. I strain my ears and wait. Scratching, urgent and sharp, interspersed with pitiful whining. I hope Riley’s just woken and heard me moving around, not been distressed since we came upstairs hours ago. Somewhere, sometime, I’ve read or maybe someone told me, dogs often fear a storm, hate the thunder and lightning. I knew the bloody dog would be down to me.

I head towards the top of the stairs. The torch beam catches the blackened bulb hanging like a dead thing, beyond it, the locked door of the spare room. At least the bulb won’t spook me with its buzzing threat of random darkness. The odd odour of stale cigarettes is here, faint but indelible. The cold deepens, no longer draughts nipping at my ankles but a stillness as though the air has become too heavy to move, solidified, it folds around me.

The whole building shudders as the storm tightens its grip and shakes it. The force of the wind drops and eddies away. Twice, more loudly than before, the knocking.

Riley whimpers and scratches at the kitchen door. I need to check the office and shut the door, deaden the knocking. I ignore the dog and head back along the landing. The twins’ rooms are a tumble of duvets, yesterday’s clothes heaped on chairs, and in Tom’s case, piled on the precise spot where he changed into his pyjamas. An image of the attic with the children’s clothes on the floor invades my mind. Not a good place to go right now. Decades ago, as Mark says. Nothing to do with our family.

I stand, torch in hand, facing the office door waiting for the next huge howl of wind. My chest’s contracting, breathe. I stare at the grey layers of dust on top of the decorative moulding panels. Has the storm begun to blow over? The house groans, shifts and settles, the wind sinks away. One sharp knock, like a single strike of a fist on wood. It’s entirely random. I stand still, several seconds stretch out like minutes. I put out my hand and push the door.

I keep the torch beam trained on the slowly widening gap as the door swings open. Like a searchlight over a black ocean, it picks out Sophie’s pink beanbag, dented from when Mark sat there working at the weekend. Two towers of books lean against the wall, large reference works, The Criminal Procedure Rules, paperbacks for the charity shop. I remain on the landing runner, push the door fully open and flash the torch around the room, stacks of papers, an angle lamp, bent and twisted like an old man in the alcove beside the chimney breast. The air is cold, thick and damp, an acrid smell of soot washed out onto the hearth. The fireplace shares the same run of chimney, the same sour odour, as the attic. Maybe a roaring fire is all that’s needed to dry out the flue.

Satisfied nothing is here, I venture across the threshold and take a closer look at the window catch, caked in paint, it hasn’t moved in years. The glass is black, streaked with silver rivulets of water. Torch light rebounds off the window panes as I stand, listening. Nothing but the storm, quieter now, just the occasional buffeting at the windows. No sound, nothing so much as rattles. I close the office door and retreat along the landing.

In my room, the twins sleep under an umbrella of yellow light from the bedside lamp. The storm is turning away, the lightning has stopped, the thunder more distant. The house is freezing and weirdly quiet. I shiver, unexpectedly anxious again for no apparent reason. Riley claws at the kitchen door. The piteous muffled whining starts again. I’ll have to fetch the dog and come back to the warmth of my bed as soon as possible. I reach the top of the stairs, the torch picks out the far end of the landing. The spare room door stands ajar. It can’t be a draught, I locked it, I’m sure I did. I’m nervous of approaching the room, of closing the door. If I leave it until daylight we’ll freeze, the ancient heating system takes an age to restore the temperature, and besides, I won’t sleep unless it’s shut. I take a deep breath and sprint the half dozen steps to the door. I grab the handle, pull it closed with a bang so sharp I jump. I pull the knob, check the door is properly closed. The key is tucked into the inside pocket of my handbag. Would the twins go there, take the key? Did they unlock the door?

I hurry down the stairs. Poor Riley is overjoyed to see me, tail wagging to a blur, leaping up at me like a jack-in-a-box. Mark was right, I am glad of his company. The hall is alive with shadows, rain splats at the windows. The dog starts to whine again as we head up the stairs following the torch beam. He presses at my shins, his body shivering, my feet so cold, they seem shrivelled in their pumps. Riley gets worse, whimpers more loudly, entangling himself about my ankles. I’ve no option but to stop, he’ll trip me up if we continue.

‘Shush, boy, keep still!’

I struggle to find his collar, to pull him away from my feet. The torch slips from my fingers, crashes down the stairs.

‘For Christ’s sake!’

My voice echoes up the stairwell. The torch beam ricochets off walls and ceiling. Riley shoots upstairs at the sound of my voice, his claws clattering on the floorboards. The torch crashes on the tiles. Darkness.

Damn the dog!

I’m a third of the way up the stairs, horribly aware of how unfamiliar I am with this house. Can I navigate my way from here in the dark? I hesitate, my heart thudding as if I’d run a marathon. My eyes adjust, the glow from the bedroom door just enough to pick out the landing. A white patch of light spreads across the hall floor. Oddly shaped, I can’t quite fathom what it is. The torch, not broken but rolled under the telephone table, only a sliver of light escaping. I head downstairs, glad the phone’s stopped its continual tringing at last.

The table is actually a long side cupboard; dark wood, almost black, heavily carved in the Victorian Gothic style. I fumble trying to haul it away from the wall, it’s incredibly heavy. I randomly think of Mr Whittle, his recommendations about well-made furniture. Unable to move it, I wonder if it’s become embedded in the tiles over the decades. I kneel on the floor and grope underneath it. The tiles chill my already cold hands and knees. Heinous thoughts of unseen horrors lurking in the dust and silky cobwebs beneath the table make me shudder. Just as I can’t bear to continue, my fingertips find the barrel of the torch.

‘Mummy, where are you?’

Sophie’s on the landing, her face, pale and sleepy, chin resting on the bannister, looking down at me.

‘Here, Sophie. On my way back to bed.’

I stand, the beam from the torch illuminates my daughter. There’s something I can’t make out, something black, moving along the landing from the direction of the office. Something dark and tall, swiftly heading to where Sophie stands.

‘Sophie!’

Astonishment wipes across Sophie’s features. I run towards the stairs, all the while staring up at the landing. A darkness moves behind her, double her height, it will engulf her. What the hell is it?

‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’

I bound up the stairs, near the top of the flight the torchlight flickers. I shake it, clear the top step. It dies completely as I make it onto the landing runner.

‘Mummy?’

Tom’s face appears from around my bedroom door. Sophie stands in the triangle of yellow light seeping from the bedroom. She’s visibly shivering. There’s nothing here. Did I see a shadow, torchlight bouncing them off the high ceilings?

‘Quickly now, back into bed, both of you!’

I hurry towards the twins, wrap an arm about Sophie and herd them into the bedroom. I glance towards the spare room. The door stands wide open, the room filled with moonlight. A liquid darkness moves across the space as the door swings shut. Even though I watch it moving, the slam makes me flinch. I hurry after the twins, bang the door behind me. So many of these old doors lost their tiny brass keys over the years but not this one. I turn it now, hear the soft click as the mechanism moves into place. I step back, stare at the locked door as if it might somehow spring open. I’d spooked myself. So stupid, convinced I seen something. But what the hell is going on with the spare bedroom door? I throw my heap of clothes off the dressing-table chair and carry it to the door. I wedge it beneath the handle.

‘Mummy, what are you doing?’

I turn around, look at the twins sitting side by side on the bed. Riley, next to Tom, my son’s arm around the dog. I’m startled to see them there, utterly ridiculous. It’s as if, in my panic, I’ve forgotten their existence. They stare back at me, waiting for my explanation.

‘What’s out there?’

Tom sounds terrified. His face is pale, clutching Blue Duck to his chest.

Don’t get weird. They’re not used to weird anymore. Normal, be normal.

I crease my face into a smile.

‘Nothing. Nothing’s out there, Tom. Just the wind. It keeps slamming the doors. This’ll keep it shut. Come on, get some sleep now.’

I move away from the door, try very hard not to look back at it, to maintain a smile which I pray looks vaguely relaxed and reassuring.

‘Why were you downstairs?’

I don’t need Sophie’s usual barrage of questions right now. Only a plausible explanation will prevent several more following.

‘Riley was scared by the storm, so I went to fetch him. He nearly tripped me up on the stairs and I dropped the torch. I had to go back and get it, okay?’

I’m tucking cold limbs into bed, shooing Riley to the floor. Tom’s nodding, desperate for good news. Sophie watches and waits for more. I hurry on.

‘I must’ve damaged the torch when I dropped it. I’ll have to buy a new one tomorrow. Come on, snuggle down, you’ve school in the morning.’

I make much of straightening the duvet and am grateful for the warmth in the bed as I slip in next to Sophie. I can see the door from here. Nothing moves. In the safety of the bedroom, my fright already begins to seem ridiculous.

‘Can we keep the light on?’

Tom’s voice is already heavy with sleep.

‘Just for tonight, Tom.’

I’ve no intention of switching off the lamp.

‘Sing our song to us, Mummy?’

Normally I’d laugh, say they’re too big now for nursery rhymes and baby things.

‘ “Sing-a-song of Sixpence”?’

Sophie nods, burrows deeper into the bed. I mumble the song into my daughter’s warm hair. Riley sneaks back onto the bed and settles himself at the bottom near our feet. I can’t help but strain my ears for every sound the house makes as I sing.

3:29am.

Less than an hour since I went looking for the knocking sounds. I try and think rationally. No one’s in the house. Just shadows, wind and my overactive imagination. That’s all. It’ll seem absurd in the morning, in the daylight.

I’m exhausted. Warmth seeps into my cold limbs as I cuddle up to Sophie’s back. Tom’s steady breathing suggests he’s sound asleep already. Riley makes small whistling sounds from the end of the bed. The pressure of him on my feet is surprisingly reassuring. I’m doubtful though, that he’ll be much of a guard dog, judging by his behaviour so far. I let the song fade to nothing and hope sleep will come quickly. Sophie mumbles, her words blurring into sleep.

‘Who are the people in the empty bedroom, Mummy?’