The Shadow House(43)

A memory – many memories – surfaced of hunting for keys, earrings, my wallet, notes from school, things I’d put down only moments before and which had seemed to vanish into thin air, things I later found in unlikely places: on top of the cistern, behind a plant, under the couch. Stuart’s false innocence, his practised routine. I have no idea what you did with it. Not my job to keep track of your shit. You must have put it there and forgotten. You’re crazy. You’ve lost the plot.

My skin prickled. I pulled out my phone. I realised I hadn’t heard from Stuart in a few days. What did that mean?

Dragging my focus back to Kara, I put her down in her cot and patted her gently. Once she was settled, I closed my bedroom door as quietly as I could and tiptoed down the hall to the laundry. Opening the cupboard under the sink, I moved the detergent aside, opened up the bin liner and checked the Tupperware container. Only when I was sure that it was still there (and, except for what I’d already used, still full) did I allow myself a deep breath.


That night Kara slept better than she had in months, but I couldn’t relax. I lay awake for hours, my night mind running wild. I thought about the bland white walls of Kit’s house and the colour of his eyes. Long grey hair, the tring of a bicycle bell, and deep lines sliced into the bark of trees. I studied the corners of the room, half-expecting a slow seep of liquid, a black trickle running from ceiling to floor. Rolling over, I buried my face in the pillow.

And then I heard something.

A whimper.

And then a soft rustle, like two dry surfaces sliding against one another, coming not from the forest but from somewhere within the unit.

Sitting up, I reached for my phone: 2.41am.

Rustle-hiss.

I pushed back the sheets and my feet hit the carpet like lumps of clay.

Rustle-hiss.

I checked on Kara: fast asleep in her cot. Then I grabbed a water glass from my bedside table, the only possible weapon within reach. Tiptoeing to the door, I opened it just a crack.

‘Ollie?’ I whispered.

My heartbeat throbbed in my ears.

I stepped out into the hall. The noises became louder but more confusing; they sounded like they were all around me, coming from the walls and the floor.

‘Ollie? Is that you?’

The whimper became a moan.

I turned to face my son’s bedroom door. It was closed. No light shone around the edges. Tiptoeing over the carpet, I reached for the handle and opened the door.

Ollie was alone in his bed, twisted up in the sheets, curled into a tight ball with his back to me. I looked around. The walls were clean and normal. No seeping liquid, no torrent of blood. No witch.

‘Ollie,’ I whispered, creeping closer. ‘Ollie, are you alright?’

One of his legs twitched. I placed my hand on his shoulder and gently pulled it towards me, rolling him over. His face was wet, his eyes scrunched closed. The noise he was making reminded me of Kara’s sleep sounds: soft involuntary sighs, too delicate for words.

‘Shhhhhh,’ I said, stroking his hair. ‘It’s okay. I’m here, I’m with you. It’s just a bad dream.’

He stilled at my touch, just as he had when he’d been young. His face relaxed but he didn’t wake up. I kissed his brow, smoothed his hair away. My baby boy.

Click.

The door had closed behind me.

I whipped around, but no one was there.

Rustle-hiss.

Pulse hammering, I got up off the bed and crept out of Ollie’s room, closing the door softly behind me. I peered around the corner into the living area and allowed my eyes to adjust to the dark. Everything was flat and grey, like a photocopy. I took stock of the ordinary: sofa, armchair, coffee table, TV. The kitchen, too, was still. Stove, kettle, sink. No one there, nothing unusual. Just shadows.

And a squat cube-shaped object on the counter.

I crept forward, spine tingling.

A box sat next to the fruit bowl. The same as the others.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

I went to the knife block and grabbed the biggest, sharpest blade. I held it in my fist, scanning the corners of the rooms and the windows, taking snatches of air through my nose. The fridge hummed. The clock ticked.

When finally I dared to move, I braced myself and pulled the flaps open with my free hand … but the single object inside was small and simple.

A square made from lolly sticks. Green glitter, sticky gems. My paddle-pop frame – but its contents different, changed. Kara’s tiny face still looked out at me, but Ollie’s had disappeared. Obliterated by a thick substance, a red so dark it was almost black.

Rustle-hiss.

I spun around, the knife in my hand – the room was empty, but something was moving. On the side table next to the armchair, a book lay open. The pages were turning by themselves. I inched closer. An unexpected breeze brushed my goosebumped skin – I looked up and saw the back sliding door standing wide open.

And next to the door, the living room wall was smeared with red.





RENEE





17


Renee was dreaming again, not about running through forests or great waves of blood, but about water. A constant drip, leaking from the ceiling and landing on her head.

That’s evil. That’s the devil’s work.

Pressing a hand to her sternum, she turned onto her side and tried to push the dream away – but it followed her.