The Shadow House(51)

When I got home, I told myself, we would talk it out. We would be fine. I just needed to sort this witch out first. Hysterical laughter bubbled in my throat – what had my life become? – but I swallowed it back down. The situation might be absurd, but it was happening and I had to deal with it. My kids were everything to me.

Clambering over rocks and stumbling on clumps of dried mud, I turned away from the path I’d been on the day I’d bumped into Kit, descending instead into the valley. The carvings were on the trees here, too. Some looked fresh, the lines revealing the soft pale wood beneath the hard casing of the bark, but some were decidedly older. At the bottom of the valley, I found a creek and, hopping over its stepping-stone crossing, began to climb up the bank on the other side. The path was less obvious here, less well trodden. It became skinny and then almost non-existent.

I pushed through long spiky leaves and emerald ferns, determined to make it to the top, and at last I broke free of the trees. The path opened onto a sloping paddock where the grass was patchy and the ground dry and untended. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I looked up to where the sun-bleached farmhouse stood at the top of the hill.

It was bigger than I’d thought – the roof stretched back further than it had been possible to see from down in the village – and prettier. But with the light shining from behind, it cast a long shadow over the grass: a dark rectangle with a pointed roof. I took a few uneasy steps towards it, thinking how much the shadow looked like the tree carvings …

But then I noticed a much smaller building to my left, tucked into the bottom corner of the paddock. A weather-worn shed with corrugated walls and tin roof, leaning to one side like an elderly drunk, tucked so far into the tree line it was almost hidden from sight. Curious, I went to have a quick look.

Vines and brambles had crept up the outside walls of the shed, but the two small sliding windows were intact and the door seemed relatively new. I nudged it open, bracing myself for movement. Inside, the shed was dingy but empty. I could just about make out two rattan chairs in a corner, stacked one on top of the other, the seats torn and frayed. In another, a disused fridge and a sketchy-looking ladder. Bizarrely, there were three foam mattresses on the floor, arranged in what might’ve been a circle, each fitted with a sheet, as well as two plastic buckets, one lying on its side near the door and the other near the fridge. Scrunched-up chip packets littered the floor, and there was a sour, fungal smell, like a mixture of sweat, mushrooms and engine oil. The words ‘Love Shack’ had been spray-painted onto the back wall.

I shivered. Squatters, probably. Making a mental note to tell Kit, I backed out of the shed and closed the door with my foot.

The walk up the hill to the farmhouse was much more pleasant. With the rise of the ridge all around and the velvet roll of fields, the landscape was impossibly romantic. I felt like I was in Country Style magazine; all I needed was a white cotton smock and an enormous straw hat. The further up I went, the more lush and daisy-dotted the grass under my feet became. The air was fragrant and somehow made my lungs feel bigger than they were. Above my head, birds flew gracefully across a taut blue sky.

Up close, I could see that the once-white weatherboard cladding was streaked with watermarks, the paint peeling like sunburnt skin and the guttering coming loose in places. But the timber had held its shape, as had the wraparound balustrade. The fretwork around the eaves, too, was in good nick. Something about the light up here – the way the rays seemed to hit the walls dead on – gave the house an otherworldly sheen. I was reminded again of my favourite picture book and the house I’d fantasised about as a child. One day, I’d told myself over and over, I will escape and live in a place like that. Despite my grim reason for being there, a part of me felt victorious, like eight-year-old me had finally made it.

I took my time walking around and discovered that what I’d assumed to be the front facade was actually the side; the front door was situated to the left, set into the eastern wall. I changed direction and found a circular driveway, an ornate stone birdbath and a jacaranda tree in glorious full bloom. Four wooden stairs led to a porch and a front door flanked by stained-glass sidelights.

I climbed the steps and peered through one of the windows. I could just about make out a dark, empty room. Returning to the door, I tried the handle – and I was surprised when it swung open with a creak. I peeked inside and saw a long dusty hallway.

‘Hello?’ I called. My voiced bounced off the walls like a stone dropped into a well.

The house smelled musty but nowhere near as pungent as I’d anticipated. The walls were papered with what had once been a delicate floral print: bluebells or cornflowers. On the right was a row of empty coat hooks and, above them, a display of ugly, unpleasant-looking vintage farm tools.

Four doors led off from the hall, one on the right and three on the left. Behind the first on the left was a bare space that might’ve once been a guest room. The one on the right led to another empty but considerably larger room decorated with chintzy wallpaper and timber panelling. Only two items of furniture remained: a vast empty armoire standing against the far wall and, in the ensuite bathroom, a rainbow-edged mirror hanging above a dust-laden sink.

The second door on the left led to a third bedroom, still furnished with a single bed and what appeared to be a table or a desk. Both were covered with dustsheets. I had a look underneath; the bed still held its mattress, the desk still had its chair. Compared with the other barren rooms, this one might almost feel cosy – if it weren’t for the locks. Two thick barrel-bolt latches had been fixed to the doorframe; one on the inside and one, strangely, on the outside.