The Shadow House(29)

I stared at the sort-of doll and the sort-of doll stared right back. Was this one of Ollie’s mystery boxes?

And then I remembered the boy on the bike. Then she brings you a doll. I looked again at the gauze. It’s supposed to look like you. The material had been dyed dark green and had a bright orange circle painted on the front, just like Ollie’s favourite hoodie.

On the floor, Kara whined and reached for me. Abandoning the box, I picked her up – and then I heard something. Laughter, and a shout from outside. The trundle of wheels and a bicycle bell.

Holding Kara tight, I went to the window and pressed my face to the glass. Dusk had already tipped over into night, but it was still light enough that I could see a group of kids at the edge of the forest. Ollie was with them, one foot on his skateboard; Violet, too. They were all standing in a huddle, staring into the trees. One of them yelled out, a single loud vowel – then they all turned around and took off again, careering back through the village, whooping and hollering as they went.

Kara wriggled and kicked her legs. Reaching out, she tapped the window with an open palm as if trying to show me something … and then I saw it. A figure at the edge of the forest, half-hidden in the tree line not far from where the kids had been.

I cupped my hand around my eyes, trying to see more clearly. It was an old woman. Skinny, pale clothes, grey hair. She was standing very still, staring after the kids, watching them disappear around the corner, just as I had been doing.

Suddenly, the old woman moved. Her head swivelled in my direction, and—

‘Ow.’ I jerked backwards and rubbed my eye: Kara had flung up a hand and whacked me right in the eyeball. I glared at her. ‘What did you do that for?’ Kara gazed at me, then gurgled and knocked her gums against my shoulder. ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘I get it, you’re hungry and tired. Just give me one more minute, okay?’

I turned back to the window, to the shadows in the forest, but all I could see were trees and darkness.





RENEE





11


Renee dragged her palm across the fogged-up mirror and her reflection appeared in its wake. Leaning forward, she turned her head appraisingly from side to side. Her face was changing. All her features seemed to be travelling slowly downwards, drooping and dripping like candlewax towards her chin, neck, chest. She pulled at the sides of her face with her fingers, trying to scoop everything up and pat it back into place, but it was no use. Her cheeks, once plump and rosy, now hung like saddlebags, and the corners of her mouth turned down like a clown’s. One of her eyes had definitely got smaller over time; the eyebrow had collapsed above it like a rotten bridge.

She squeezed toothpaste onto her brush. Christ, forty-four years and almost half of them spent on the farm. At least her teeth were still good. And although her hair was thinner than it used to be, it was still there, and still brown if you didn’t count the greys. Which she both did and didn’t, depending on the day.

Giving her reflection one last baleful look, she raised her toothbrush to her mouth – and stopped as she heard a thud … and then a faint creak.

‘Michael?’

When he didn’t reply, she put down her toothbrush, opened the door of the ensuite and peered into the bedroom. Michael was already snoring, the whisky having yet again done its job.

She heard it again. Thud. Creak. Shuffle.

‘Michael,’ Renee hissed. He didn’t even stir.

There is no tiger, she told herself sternly, repeating a phrase once given to her by a therapist. ‘Try to remember,’ the therapist had said, ‘that the physical symptoms are caused by your body reacting inappropriately. The fight or flight response is designed to kick in during life or death situations: for example, a hungry tiger in the room. It is not designed for when a bulb has blown, or you’re late for an appointment, or the baby is crying.’ Or when you’re imagining noises in the house.

Tightening the belt on her bathrobe, she crossed the bedroom and stepped out into the hall. Immediately opposite, Gabriel’s door was shut. She listened again but heard nothing. Seconds passed. Minutes.

Outside, a wind swept in over the ridge, shaking the red gums and cabbage palms, swooping down on the house and crooning its way through the gaps in the timber cladding. Maybe that was what she’d heard. Just the wind. Or the dog.

‘Ebony?’ There was a pause, and then the unmistakable tack-tack-tack of paws on the floorboards. Ebony came trotting in from the living area and sniffed Renee’s feet, her eyes focused and alert.

Renee reached down and scratched behind the dog’s ears. ‘Hey, Ebs,’ she said. ‘Was that you making a noise in there? You’re not used to sleeping in the house, are you?’ Ebony usually slept in the screened-in porch just off the laundry, but after what had happened to Ivory, Michael had brought her bed inside. Len would’ve had a fit. Animals outside, he used to growl. They need to know their place. ‘Everything’s okay. Go on, now. Off you go, back to bed.’

Ebony licked her lips repeatedly, a sign of agitation.

And then they both heard it. Footsteps outside, on the veranda.

Renee froze. Ebony turned her head sharply towards the front door, her tail flat. She sniffed the air and growled.

The night was still. There is no tiger. Probably just possums in the bins again … Fighting a melodramatic urge to rip one of the farm tools off the wall and brandish it like a weapon, Renee switched on the outside light and went right up close to the glass. On the porch, a small shape hovered in the air. A bird? A giant moth? A piece of paper caught in a spider’s web?