The Shadow House(52)

The next door opened onto a main bathroom, unremarkable except for the mesmerising black and white floor tiles. At the end of the hall I found a spacious kitchen, a dining area and a long living room with a fireplace.

A back door, also unlocked, led out onto the veranda. It was a bit raggedy; the paintwork was peeling out there too and some of the floor panels had rotted through. The view, though, was spectacular: a perfect panorama across the forest, dam and the whole of Pine Ridge.

I leaned against one of the posts. From this angle, the village looked quite different, the houses all facing the same way. The sweeping, tiered curve of the development actually reminded me of a concert hall or an amphitheatre, with the farmhouse as the main star, almost as if the village had been built to showcase its beauty.

And then I remembered something. Kit’s grand tour on our first day, the way the farmhouse had commanded my attention. Captivated, I’d stared up and thought I’d seen …

I was standing in the exact place where the shadowy figure had been.

Chilled by the thought, I straightened up and moved to a different spot.

On my way back inside, I noticed a stain on the cladding, a faint pink splat, and tiny flecks of red stuck in the grain of the window frames. And then—

My breath got stuck under my ribs.

Down low on the wall, right where it met the floor, was a drawing.

The drawing.

The sign of the witch.

I stepped back, and it was as if more scuttled out from the woodwork like spiders, dozens of house-shaped boxes with symbols inside, scribbled in black ink above my head near the eaves, under the windowsills, on the balustrade posts, on the veranda floor, on the steps that led down to the grass.

I hurried back inside, my skin crawling, and let the screen door slam behind me. I studied the floors, the walls, the ceiling. Then I strode through the kitchen and looked back down the hall. No drawings, but something was definitely off. There were water stains on the ceiling and the paint was bulging in places, but for a house that had sat empty for six years, it was remarkably free of grime.

I crossed to the nearest window and looked down into the tracks. I swept my finger over the sill and checked the skirting boards. Where were the dead flies? Where were the cobwebs, the rat droppings? And then, in one corner, I saw a small plastic cockroach trap.

Someone, I realised with a jolt, was quietly taking care of the place; not so much that anyone would notice, but enough to keep it from falling into ruin.

I suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable, like I was being watched.

Time to leave.

Poking around had been a mistake. I’d found no clues at all, no photographs, no forwarding address laid conveniently on the kitchen bench …

Wait.

There was something in the kitchen. I’d missed it before, but just to the right of the stove, propped up against the tiled splashback, was a piece of paper.

I went closer. It was an envelope.

With my name on it.

Alex Ives.

‘What the fuck …?’

I picked up the envelope and turned it over. It was sealed.

A feeling of dread spread slowly through my limbs. I turned and looked over my shoulder, around the room, hardly daring to breathe. It was like standing in a vacuum.

With my pulse thudding in my ears, I broke the envelope’s seal and opened it. Inside was a single piece of white paper, folded just once. Written on the paper in slanted cursive were two lines.

My son was taken.

Yours will be too.





ALEX





22


I ran out the back door, down the veranda steps, over the grass and back through the forest, clutching the note in my hand. When I made it out the other side, I was breathless and sweating.

Who had left me that note? Was it a warning or a threat? Did it refer to the farmers’ missing son, Gabriel? In which case, had the Kellermans written it? Were they still around, living close by, maybe even wandering around in the woods and by the dam? What did Mrs Kellerman look like? Did she have long grey hair and own a pale raincoat?

Whatever the answer to those questions, I held on tight to one thing: I did not believe in witches. And nothing was going to hurt my boy. I’d put him in harm’s way too many times already; from now on, I would do everything it took to keep him safe.

But as I emerged from the forest and hurried along the road, I thought about the dark, sticky picture frame and the blood-red smear on my wall, and every part of my body became tense. Sliding my phone out of my shorts pocket, I called Ollie. No answer. I texted him: Hey mate, you okay? Then I forked right at the workshop, away from my unit and towards the dam. I stood on the shore, scanning the banks.

Please let him be there, please let me find him …

It took me a few minutes, but eventually I spotted him, sitting on a rock in the shade of a tree, with a fishing rod in his hand. Violet sat by his side, her toes in the water, the hem of her white sundress blowing in the breeze. Flushing hot with relief, I stood in the shade of the tree and watched them, too far away to see their faces.

I texted him again: ???

I saw him check his phone then put it away again without replying. He was ignoring me.

Resisting an overwhelming urge to rush over there and drag his ass home where I could be sure he was safe, I tried to think logically. My son was okay, I could see him, and panicking wasn’t going to help. I had to remain calm and clear-headed if I was going to figure this shit out. Whether or not I had imagined certain things, whether or not the note in my hand had been left by the Kellermans, something had happened six years ago, possibly the same thing that was happening to me, and a boy had gone missing.