Chapter Five

I didn’t tell my parents what had happened. They’d only think I was suffering delayed effects from the drugs or that I’d flipped in some other way.

In truth, I found it hard to believe myself. But deep down, I knew what I’d seen. I knew that was Matthew, and for the first time since childhood, I found myself praying—praying that he would break the chains that held him here.

After all, it wasn’t meant to turn out like that. It had been a stupid, albeit fatal, error.

My parents were deep in conversation about the decorating, only giving me enough attention to hear the prices and decide to order from there. I wished I could be that oblivious, but my mind was racing.

“...heavy-duty paint ought to help cover the damp stains upstairs.” I heard my father say. “It’s almost as if it’s seeped up, not down. I swear it wasn’t there when we viewed the place.”

“Have a plumber look,” my mother called, lifting her voice to be heard as she switched the kettle on. “It’s got an odd colouring to it. I don’t know if we have copper pipes, but maybe there’s a leak.”

“It’s not in my room, is it?” I called with a frown. “I don’t want it smelling! I remember the leak in the roof, and I ended up with mushrooms on the ceiling.”

I could have made a fortune if they’d been magic ones, but I didn’t say that. I knew better than to joke about drugs.

“It wasn’t that made!” My father shook his head at me. “It looked mucky, that was all. But I agree, it did smell. And no, it’s in the hallway.”

It was trailing like red ivy or spilt blood over the beige ceiling. A coppery scent gave the air an unpleasant tang, refusing to dissipate even when the window was opened. 

Selfishly, my first thought was that I was glad it wasn’t in my room. 

“Hopefully, a good clean and coat of paint will do the trick,” my father smiled reassuringly. “And the panelling will get rid of that damn stain.” He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Odd I ever took any notice when we viewed the place.”

“I didn’t either,” my mother admitted sheepishly. “And that’s something I’d normally notice.”

That was true. My mother, more so than my father, was very astute. Any flaw would be noticed. I always remember the cobweb I missed in the living room. She’d only just stepped in, and her eyes flew up to it.

It wasn’t that obvious, but I still had to get the duster again.

As for my father’s shed, or man cave as he liked to call it, was the cause of many disagreements. 

‘The walls have ears.’

Grace’s voice echoed in my ears as I climbed the stairs. I paused halfway and looked back. I could just see the base of the stain. An odd smell made its way to me, the scent of sulphur or something resembling it.

From the room, my father joked about breaking wind, earning himself a swat from my mother. 

I smiled, but my expression was forced as I tried to muster some semblance of cheerfulness. 

I didn’t sleep well that night.

My dreams were full of strange visages and dark forms as I drifted uneasily between wakefulness and slumber.

I saw them lean over me, their eyes empty sockets as they regarded me with curiosity and disdain.

In the corner stood Grace, shoulder to shoulder with Matthew, the latter gazing at me with pity and, unless I imagined it, a look of contrition. 

I tried to keep my attention on him, to let him know that I didn’t hold any malice toward him. But a new figure drew my eyes away as it filled the doorway and sucked away the light that illuminated the hallway.

The womanly curves indicated the gender before I saw her face. The swell of her breasts and hips was made more overt by a tight bodice that would have crushed her ribs and lungs had she not been accustomed to it. 

Her chestnut hair drifted free from an untidy bun that had once been as tight as her clothing but now appeared as if she had been in a frantic melee. 

Was she pretty? That was a question I asked myself, for she had something. The too-pale skin lacked any blemish, and her lips were full, albeit touched with blue and stiffly set in a grim scowl.

Everything seemed too taut. The flesh pulled against the bone, showing a skull rather than a girlish face.

Her eyes, a brilliant hazel, would have been her crowning glory, but they were set so deep and radiated such an air of malice that they became hideous.

The other figures stepped back as she advanced, and, Lord above, I wished I could move too. 

As she sidled forward, the light remained hidden, cowering behind her as her arms and legs stretched into lengthy tendrils, twirling like ghoulish ivy towards the bed.

I squinted. It was an effort to close my eyes that remained stubbornly open and fixed on her, burning with the desire to blink.

It was then that I noticed her face wasn’t as flawless as I had assumed. 

Across her forehead, a long scar was etched deeply from a blow that would have surely shattered bone.

She must have noticed the shift in my gaze, and her eyes narrowed even more as if she blamed me for the injury.

If looks could kill, I would have taken my last breath.

“Please…go away…” My voice was weak and trembled with every syllable.

I longed to pull the covers up as I had done as a child and hide, hoping that because I couldn’t see her, she couldn’t see me.

But I was frozen in place, spellbound as her face twisted into an uglier grimace, and she bared her teeth.

I braced myself. Time seemed to slow as her hand edged closer. Her nails were caked with dirt held in place by blood as if she’d clawed her way from her grave.

My thoughts briefly reflected on my parents, their smiling faces flashing before my eyes as I remembered the happy times.

How would they feel? Finding me stiff and cold with my lips drawn into a horrific grin as if I found fiendish humour in my demise.

They’d already lost me once because of a stupid error, and I couldn’t help but feel that that error had brought me here. 

‘Stop! Stay your hand!’

‘Leave him alone, you old crock!’

Grace’s voice rang through the room, unheard by anyone but the creature and myself. But it was Matthew’s voice joining her’s that pulled me from my stupor. 

I found myself smiling. I’d heard that insult aimed at our teachers on multiple occasions. Under his breath, of course. 

The only time our French teacher had heard, I got the blame. No one ever suspected Matthew.

He looked tired and drawn. His skin was grey, and darker circles bruised under his eyes. But they were as bright as ever, still home to the twinkle of mischief.

“Matthew…?”

Matthew acknowledged me briefly with a shake of his head and stopped the questions hanging from the precipice of my lips.

‘Don’t look at her. Go to sleep.’

“Why are…”

‘Sleep. Don’t think about anything else.’

I wasn’t sure if it was Matthew’s voice or Grace’s that floated through my head like a soft bird song.

Despite the fear that seeped from every pore, the gentle words and soothing sound lulled me, and my eyes grew heavier even though I fought to keep them open.

It was impossible not to see that hideous face reflected as I closed my eyes. It was etched into my psyche, and I was terrified I would feel her gnarled hands clamping on my throat. It was evident from her expression that pain and possible death were on her mind, whether it be mine or her own.

I don’t remember falling asleep or how I managed to, but the next thing I felt was the sun's soft rays creeping through the window, a tepid sensation; the warmth burnt away as they struggled to penetrate the grey moss that covered the sky.

I sat up hurriedly, looking around the rooms for any signs of intrusion. My eyes were unfocused, feeling heavy from sleep that had been too deep, but even then, I could see that nothing looked different. 

From downstairs, I heard my mother call me, sounding irritated.

“For the last time! Will you get up? Honestly, do I have to get a foghorn?” She sighed, her voice softening. “Your eggs will get cold, and I’ve made them just how you like them. I think.”

I smiled. Despite mom’s badgering when either dad or I overslept, she never stayed annoyed long. Otherwise, it made it harder for her to convince us to do any errands she needed. And, at the moment, they were plentiful.

“Do you think he needs grounding until he’s fifty?” 

Dad joked from behind his newspaper as I appeared and felt for the plate of toast without taking his eyes off the sports results. (When they had first met, his eyes would have been ogling a page-three girl, but Mom had banned those papers.)

“Look, I’m stuck with you until death do us part; I don’t want to be mothering when I’m reliant on a bedpan. One pain in the backside is enough.”

Taking a seat, I grabbed my orange juice and savoured the citrus burn on my throat.

“Hey, I should be able to ground you at that age. And no offence, I’m not changing bedpans.” I shuddered, a cool breeze coming from an unknown source surrounding me and rustling the pages Dad held.

Looking up, he peered around my mom and went to the window, frowning. “Is there a crack in the frame?” He asked her as she, too, glanced around. “I’ll get some putty on it if there is.”

“No. I thought it came from the lounge.” She emptied the eggs onto the plate and placed them before me, wandering past to look across the hallway. “It wasn’t the window; the wood is as solid as oak. We checked for cracks and dampness, remember?”

The smell that wafted through as she spoke wasn't dampness. It was rotten, one of decayed meat and charred skin. Suddenly nauseous, I looked down at my eggs and pushed the plate away.

“What…?” My father got up from his chair and walked to the doorway, peering towards the lounge. “I reckon a bird may have got stuck and died in the chimney. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Doesn’t explain the cold,” I muttered under my breath. “And that stench is too strong.”

I swallowed the rest of the juice and forced down the eggs. I would be glad to get out and order the stuff Dad wanted; he’d already given me the deposit, even though it looked chilly out there.

‘Although I think it’s warmer than in here,’ I mused as I grabbed my jacket. ‘And that’s something that bothers me.’