The House We Haunted and Other Stories
Amy Cross
The House We Haunted
by Amy Cross
Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved
Published by Dark Season Books
First published: June 2014
This edition: May 2017
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Part One
The House We Haunted
Part Two
The Basement
Part Three
The Bells
Part Four
The Window
Part Five
The Disappearance of Lisa Barnes
Part Six
The Ghost in the Rain
Part Seven
Blood Red
Part Eight
The Ghost
Epilogue
The House We Haunted
Prologue
Today
"Seriously?" John asks, holding the door open while his colleague carries the bulky box of cleaning equipment into the house. "You've never heard the stories?"
"It's bloody dusty in here," Rich replies, setting the box down in the hallway. "How long did you say this place has been sealed up?"
"Almost a year now," John mutters as he grabs a chair and uses it to prop the door open. A thick cloud of dust is floating through the hallway, in no hurry to escape as John tries to waft it away. "Get some air in," he adds. "I swear to God, no-one ever thinks ahead, do they? They just shut the door, lock it, and walk off. They assume some other muggins is gonna come along and fix everything, and the worst thing is, they're right."
"Nice to see that all these years on the job haven't made you bitter," Rich says with a faint smile. Preferring to keep the chat to a minimum, he gets to work setting up the various machines that they're going to use to get the worst of the dust and grime out of the house. Some of the windows have been broken over the years, with the result that rats and squirrels have managed to get inside. The whole place has a distinctive smell of animal feces and rotten floorboards, and Rich has no doubt that there'll be some pretty disgusting things to be found in the rooms, especially when they get upstairs.
"Can you hear it?" John asks with a grin.
Rich turns to him.
"The screams," John continues, "echoing in the air -"
"You're full of shit," Rich mutters.
"Am I, mate? You reckon? I'll tell you something. Houses record echoes of stuff that happens in 'em. You might think that's a load of shite, but I've done enough of these clean-ups to know it's the bang-on, cast-iron truth. I'm not saying there's ghosts or anything like that, but a house gets a kind of atmosphere after a while, and you can't get it out, not unless you burn the whole place down and start again."
Smiling, he walks over to the archway that leads into the lounge. The windows have been boarded up with haphazardly placed planks that block most of the day's light, although a few slivers have managed to break through. Trying the light switch a few times, he has no luck. The place is a dump, and he can't help thinking that fixing it up is a lost cause. Given its history, no-one's going to want to buy it anyway, so he figures the best option would be to knock it down and build some flats on the property. Some buildings just can't be rescued.
"So you've really never heard the stories about this house?" he continues after a moment, turning to Rich. "How long've you been living round here now?"
"Not long," Rich replies as he starts unpacking the cleaning supplies. "Just since September."
"Well," John says with a sigh, wiping a finger through a thick layer of dust that has accumulated on top of one of the light switches, "that's still no excuse. People are always talking about the place. It's not often that something like this happens in a small community. I mean, didn't you do any research before you moved to the area? Surely the name of the town rang a bell?"
"I didn't really pay too much attention," Rich replies. "Needed a job, didn't I?"
"So you don't know squat?"
"I know someone died. Upstairs, wasn't it?"
"Someone died?" John asks, turning to him with a bemused grin. "Someone died? Is that all you think fucking happened here? Jesus Christ, if it was just that someone died, the place would've been sold as soon as it hit the market." He pauses. "It's a bit more complicated than just 'someone died', mate. This place is..." He pauses. "I'm not sure how to describe it without sounding like a paranoid wanker, but I've lived in this town all my life, and I can promise you one thing. This house has been fucked up forever. The people who lived here were so messed-up by it, there was nothing that could save 'em. Everyone knew about the way things were going, but no-one stepped in to do anything. I guess the whole town just waited until..."
Rich places several cans of cleaning spray on the kitchen counter before turning to his colleague. "I didn't think you were the type, mate."
"The type for what?"
"Ghost stories."
"It's not a ghost story. It's a horror story. Scratch that, it's just what happened. It's fucking history, mate. Local history. You don't need ghosts or monsters for a horror story, either. You just need a bunch of fucked-up people."
He walks across the lounge and peers into the dining room, where at least a few windows have been left unboarded in order to allow a little light through. "The worst thing is," he continues, "it's the kids I feel sorry for, growing up in a place like this. I mean, it's got to do your head in, hasn't it? It's got to really fuck up your... mental development or whatever the hell they call it." He steps through into the dining room and takes a look around, marveling at the fact that everything has been left more or less intact: all the furniture is still in place, and there are old magazines slowly turning yellow on the coffee table.
"I don't know why they're trying to sell it," he mutters. "A place like this ought to be -"
Before he can finish, there's a muffled bump from directly above, as if something was dropped on the floor of one of the upstairs rooms.
"Rats?" Rich asks, even though it's clear from his tone of voice that he's not convinced.
"We'll do downstairs first," John says, heading back through to the hallway. "No fuss, but stick together. Don't go wandering off alone, yeah? We'll do one room at a time. It won't take much longer, and then we'll start on the upstairs. If we work our arses off, we can be done by this evening."
"The whole place in a day?" Rich replies, sounding as if he's not convinced.
"I don't think I can handle two days in a house like this. Sorry, mate, but it's too fucking horrible to be reminded all the time about what happened."
"We should be getting danger money for this," Rich mutters, as they start carrying the equipment through into the lounge. "My heart-rate's gonna go through the roof." He pauses for a moment. "So do I have to look it up, or are you gonna fill me in?"
"On what?"
"On this big story you reckon I should've heard about the place?"
John conspicuously fails to answer for a few seconds, as he pulls the curtains open, but then he finally turns to the younger man. "Let's get the job done," he says eventually, "and get out of here, and then we'll grab a beer and I'll tell you the whole thing, okay? As much as I know, anyway. The human mind's a complicated thing, mate, and it can come up with all sorts of bullshit just through the power of suggestion."
"Right," Rich replies with a smile. "So you don't wanna spook me out, and therefore you're making all these vague allusions to horrible
things, but you refuse to go into details?"
"I should've kept my mouth shut," John says with a sigh.
"But -"
"Let's just get on with it," he continues firmly. "There'll be time for an inquest later. Right now, the best bet is just to get things done quickly, and get out." He glances up at the ceiling for a moment. "You're the lucky one, mate," he adds, trying to ignore the shiver that just passed through his body. "You haven't heard the stories."
Part One
The House We Haunted
Chapter One
Kate
Mother's angry.
I don't know why.
Chapter Two
Ellen
I can hear it coming, and I can feel it too: the rails are starting to vibrate.
The 4:02 to Paddington is right on time.
I'm walking along the train tracks, roughly a mile along from the local station. There's nothing on either side but grass verges and, a little further off, chain-link fences designed to keep people out. Every fifty meters or so, a sign warns that trespassing on the railways is a criminal offense. Still, I know I'm not the first person to ever climb the railings like this; there are graffiti tags on some of the fences, and every so often I'll spot a discarded beer bottle or some cigarettes. Then again, most people come here to dare themselves, to make themselves feel move alive.
That's the opposite of why I'm here.
In my bag, my cellphone is starting to vibrate. I thought I'd switched it onto 'silent' before I climbed over the railing and started walking along the train-tracks, but I guess I must have just set it to vibrate instead. It's weird how often things like that happen to me: I have a clear memory of doing one thing, but it turns out that I did something else. Still, I guess it doesn't matter anymore.
Wait, who am I kidding?
Of course it matters.
Stopping in the middle of the track, I start rooting through my bag. There's so much crap in here; why do I always carry so much goddamn crap around with me? Old tissues, half-read books, lipsticks, mascara pots, all sorts of rubbish, and it's not as if I'm going to need it anymore. Jesus Christ, why do I always carry so much stuff around with me? It's like I need to carry a load of physical baggage around as some kind of pathetic metaphor.
Lukeeath my left foot, the rail starts to hum.
The train's getting closer.
"Come on," I mutter, staring down into the mess of my bag. After a moment, the phone stops vibrating and it occurs to me that I can probably just forget about it; a fraction of a second later, however, it starts again, and I realize that whoever's trying to call me, they're not going to stop unless I answer.
Above, a crow caws.
"Fuck off," I whisper as I finally find the vibrating phone and pull it out of my pocket.
Great. It's Kate. She sure picks her moments, although then again... I stare at the screen, and I can't help wondering whether maybe she somehow knows what I'm doing. Is it possible that she found out? Or does she have some kind of sixth sense that alerts her to danger? I continue to stare at the screen, poised to answer but not quite able to summon the courage. I can't imagine what I could possibly say to her at this point, or what she could say to me. She'd probably try to talk me out of it.
"Just stop," I say firmly, hoping that wherever she is, she'll hear me. She's my sister, so shouldn't she be able to sense that everything's okay, that I'm finally feeling calm? Shouldn't she be pleased for me?
This is what I want.
The phone continues to vibrate.
Lukeeath my left foot, the hum of the rail is getting more insistent, and I can hear a kind of hissing, rattling sound. I wonder how long I've got left. Ten breaths? Five?
The phone stops vibrating, but I wait a few seconds and sure enough, it starts again.
"Just leave me alone," I hiss. "What do you want?" After a moment, however, I realize that my frustration is perverse and unnecessary. After all, I could just answer the phone and find out exactly what she wants.
I pause.
What to do?
The train sounds its horn.
I look up from the phone and see that the 4:02 to Paddington is speeding this way. In fact, it's almost on top of me already.
Chapter Three
Kate
"She's not answering," I say, cutting the call again before hitting the button to redial. "What if it's too late? What if she's already done something stupid?"
"She's not going to actually do anything," Luke replies, sitting on the sofa with the dog on his knees. They both look anxious, in their different ways: Luke's trying to calm me down, and the dog keeps yawning, which means that he's clearly picking up on our nervous energy.
"I can feel it," I reply, barely able to hold the phone without trembling. "I can just tell that something's wrong."
"But -"
"She's my sister!" I snap. "If you had a brother or a sister, you'd understand. I can just feel it. She's out there somewhere, and she's in trouble!" Realizing that I'm being unfair, I look down at the phone and try to will Ellen to answer. "I've been dealing with her all my life," I continue. "I know the difference between one of her tantrums and something more serious."
"And you don't think she tries to manipulate you?" he asks.
"Not like this."
"You know what she's like," he says after a moment, patting the dog's head. "She's a drama queen. She won't actually..." He pauses, as if he's realized that he probably shouldn't say the word. "You know," he adds eventually. "She won't actually do... it..."
"I can't just assume that," I reply, putting the phone against my ear again and listening to the dial tone. "What if she does? I could never forgive myself. I'd have to live the rest of my life with the knowledge that when my sister needed me, I didn't do everything in my power to keep her safe."
"The only way she'd actually do anything," he continues, "is if she was trying to make it look real and she went too far. You know, basically by accident."
I turn and glare at him.
"I'm trying to make you feel better," he adds.
"You're not doing a very good job," I tell him.
"She's probably sitting in a cafe somewhere," he replies with a sigh, "getting all worked up over nothing and enjoying the fuss. It probably hasn't even occurred to her that she's putting you through hell." He waits for me to reply. "You know how she is," he adds eventually. "I like Ellen, but you've got to admit, she's always kind of dramatic and she never thinks about other people, especially you. This is just another of her attempts to prove to the world that she's messed up and needs attention. I'm more worried about you ending up emotionally drained than about her doing anything daft."
On his lap, the dog yawns again.
"I can't just assume that!" I shout, cutting the call again. "She's my sister! What if she actually does it this time?" The words hang in the air for a moment, and I can't help thinking of her out there right now, stumbling along a train line somewhere. "I have to call the police," I say after a moment, trying to focus on something more practical than just standing around arguing. "This isn't like the other times, Luke. I can feel it in my bones, she's actually going to do it. The police'll know what to do. They can get someone to check the lines."
"You could be getting her into a lot of trouble," he replies. "If you get the police involved, you won't be able to just sweep it under the carpet. Not like the other times."
"Maybe that's a good thing," I say as the call is diverted to Ellen's voice-mail. Hanging up, I quickly redial and start waiting again. "She's been getting worse and worse over the past year," I add. "I can't handle it anymore."
"But the police -"
"I don't care," I continue, forcing back the tears as I dial 999. "I can't ignore the possibility. We can sort everything out later, but only if she's alive. That's all that matters right now."
As I wait to be connected, I walk over to the window and stare out at the garden. My hands are trembling, but I have to hold myself together,
just for a little longer. Ellen needs me, and if I don't do the right thing, I'll be forever known as the girl who let her sister die. I always knew that a day like this would come, and I can't help thinking that I should have found a way to keep her safe. It can't end like this; it just can't.
In the empty room above the lounge, there's a faint bumping sound. I glance up at the ceiling, but there's no time for stupid games right now.
On Luke's knee, the dog yawns yet again.
Chapter Four
Ellen
"Get up there!" the guard shouts, grabbing me roughly by the arm and pulling me along the side of the track until we reach the train's open doors. "Use the steps!"
"I can just go back the way I came," I tell him, forcing a smile in an attempt to get him on my side. "I'm sorry about all the inconvenience, but I can just climb back over the fence and -"
"You're not going anywhere, sunshine," he replies, interrupting me. "Get in."
I look down at the train's wheels and spot a small set of metal steps hanging beneath the doorway. Trying to stay calm, I reach up and grab the sides of the doors before hauling myself up into the carriage. I crawl on my hands and knees for a moment, getting wet, muddy water all over my skirt, before getting to my feet as the guard follows me up into the train.
Turning, I see that a few passengers are sitting in the carriage, staring wide-eyed at me. I guess they've got something to gossip about now. For a moment, as the guard closes the doors, I find myself standing and staring back at the passengers. I feel as if I should apologize to them for disrupting their journey, but I'm not really sure how to phrase things.
