The Whisper Man(21)

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you.” He spoke formally, in keeping with the old-fashioned suit he was dressed in. “I wasn’t sure if anybody would be home.”

One obvious way to check if someone is home, I thought, would be to ring the fucking doorbell.

“I see.” I folded my arms. “What can I do for you?”

The man shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, it’s a slightly unusual request, I have to admit. But the thing is—this house. I actually grew up here, you see? Many years ago now, obviously, but I have such fond memories of the place…”

He trailed off.

“Okay,” I said.

And then I waited for him to continue. But he just stood there, looking expectant, as though he’d provided me with enough information already and it was awkward, or perhaps even rude, of me to make him say the rest.

A moment later, the penny dropped.

“You mean you want to come in and look around or something?”

He nodded gratefully.

“It’s a terrible imposition, I know, but I would appreciate being able to do so immensely. This house holds such special memories for me, you see.”

Again, his tone was so ostentatiously formal that I almost laughed. But I didn’t, because the idea of having this man in my house set my nerves on edge. He was dressed so properly, and his manner was so ostentatiously polite, that it all felt like some kind of disguise. Despite the apparent lack of physical threat, the man seemed dangerous. I could picture him stabbing someone with a sliver of a knife, looking into their eyes and licking his lips as he did so.

“That’s not possible, I’m afraid.”

The prissy manner faded immediately, and a hint of annoyance crept onto his face. Whoever he was, he was clearly used to getting his own way.

“What a terrible shame,” he said. “May I ask why?”

“For one thing, we’ve only just moved in. There are boxes everywhere.”

“I see.” He smiled thinly. “Perhaps another time, then?”

“Well, no. Because I’m also not particularly inclined to let complete strangers into my house.”

“That is … disappointing.”

“Why were you trying to get into my garage?”

“I was doing no such thing.” He took a step back, looking affronted now. “I was looking to see if I could find you.”

“What—inside a locked garage?”

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but no.” He shook his head sadly. “I see this has been a regrettable mistake. What a shame, indeed. Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“Then I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

He turned and began walking away up the path.

I followed him out, remembering the letters I’d received.

“Mr. Barnett?”

He hesitated at that, then turned around and looked at me. I stopped where I was. His expression was entirely different now. His eyes had gone completely blank, and despite the difference in our sizes, I thought that if he took a step toward me right now, I would back away.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Goodbye.”

And then he walked away, reaching the street, then heading away without another word. I followed him again, then stood on the pavement, unsure whether to pursue him down the road or not. Despite the warmth of the sun, I was shivering slightly.

I’d been so preoccupied with the inside of the house that I hadn’t gotten around to looking in the garage yet. Certainly it was not the most desirable part of the property: two blue, corrugated metal doors that barely met in the middle; gray walls with a cracked window on the side. Overgrown grass wavered at the base. It seemed to be squatting at the back of the house like an old drunk, unsteady on its feet and trying not to teeter over to one side.

The doors were secured by a padlock, but the real estate agent had given me the key. The metal scraped and scratched against the driveway as I unlocked it and pulled one door open, and then I ducked slightly and stepped inside.

I looked around in disbelief. It was full of junk.

I’d assumed that when Mrs. Shearing had emptied the house after that first viewing, she’d hired a removal firm to empty out the old furniture. It was clear now that she’d saved herself that particular expense, and that it was all in here instead, smelling of mold and dust. There were piles of cardboard boxes in the center, crumpling damply under the weight of the ones above, and old tables and chairs stacked and intermingled like wooden puzzles down one side. An old mattress was leaning against the back wall, the tea-colored stains on the fabric so extensive that it resembled a landscape map of some foreign world. I could smell the blackened barbecue to one side of the door.

There were piles of crisp brown leaves around the walls. I gingerly moved a can of paint in the corner with my foot, and found the largest spider I’d ever seen. The thing just bounced gently where it sat, apparently unperturbed by my presence.

Well, I thought, looking around.

Thank you very much, Mrs. Shearing.

There wasn’t much room to move about, but I stepped forward to the piles of boxes and opened the one on top, the cardboard moist beneath my fingers. I peered in to find old Christmas decorations. Faded coils of tinsel, dull baubles, and what looked like jewels on the surface.