Bad House

BAD HOUSE

by

SAM WEST

       BAD HOUSE

BY SAM WEST

COPYRIGHT SAM WEST 2015

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

Ian and Holly Webster stood with the estate agent in the spacious loft conversion. Their six-year-old son Jacob clung silently to his mother.

“It’s amazing. But why is it so cheap?”

Ian wasn’t certain, but for the briefest of seconds he was sure that the estate agent flinched at his wife’s question.

“The owner wants a quick sell. You know how it is in areas like this, youngsters living beyond their means, and all that.”

“So was the previous owner a footballer? Did he hit thirty, found he had squandered his small fortune and needed to sell up to pay off his astronomical debts?”

Ian’s attempt at levity fell on deaf ears.

“I’m not at liberty to say, I’m afraid. The owners do not wish for any private information to be divulged.”

This oily prick was really beginning to get on Ian’s nerves. He hated people that teased with half-truths, then didn’t deliver with the facts.

“Did you say you were an artist, Mr Webster?” the estate agent asked, as if keen to change the subject.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I’m sure you’ll agree that this attic would make a fantastic studio. The skylights are east-facing and west-facing, which means it’s constantly flooded with light. Plenty of space, too.”

There was. On the face of it, Ian could easily imagine himself setting up shop here. The skylights were perfect for providing the natural light he found so essential to his work, and at its highest point, the sloping, triangular shaped roof had to be over twelve foot.

But for some unfathomable reason, Ian found the big, bright space claustrophobic.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” he asked, gently touching Holly’s arm.

“Well, it’s probably the best we’re going to get for the money. And it’s near the city centre. I love the fact there’s a golf-course behind the house too.” She strode over to the west facing skylight and gazed out. “Look at that view. Look at all those trees. We could be living in the country with a view like that.”

“You are absolutely not going to get better for the price, especially not so near Manchester,” the estate agent agreed. “You must be quite the successful artist, Mr Webster, if you’re looking to buy a place like this.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Ian said uncomfortably. His innate modesty always left him mildly embarrassed by his own success.

“He really is. He’s Manchester’s window guy,” his wife said.

“
The
window guy?” the estate agent asked, wide eyed. “Ian
Smith
the window guy?

“The very one,” Holly smiled. “Smith was Ian’s mother’s maiden name.”

“Wow, I’ve got one of your prints hanging in my kitchen. The tower-block one,” the estate agent said.

Ian nodded. He remembered that painting well; it was the one that had catapulted him to the very top of the Manchester art scene. In the two years since, he had become well-known for his paintings of landscapes seen through windows, most of which depicting Manchester’s industrial heritage.

“That’s great,” Ian said, the tone of his voice suggesting otherwise.

His wife playfully elbowed him in the ribs. “My brilliant husband is also very modest.”

The estate agent’s phone went off just as he was about to reply. “Yes, Jefferson?” He moved the phone away from his mouth to speak to them. “I have to take this. I’ll leave you two to talk about the house in private.”

“They do that on purpose, you know,” Ian said, as soon as Jefferson the estate agent had left the loft conversion. “Take imaginary phone-calls so we can be left alone to talk about how much we want the house.”

“Well, do we?” Holly asked.

Ian looked into her clear, brown eyes, searching for signs of the doubt he was feeling. He saw none, just bright-eyed eagerness that lit up her small face.

“It’s a nice house,” he said slowly.

“But?”

“But? But I don’t know, is it really us?”

“You’re the one that wanted to be near the city for your painting.
And
to keep tabs on all the galleries that owe you money.”

She was right, of course. Plus the private primary-school that Jacob went to was less than two miles away.

“But we’re in footballer’s wives territory here. I can’t imagine you driving a four by four and wearing Dolce and Gucci shoes.”

“Dolce and Gabbana. And I think you mean Manolo Blahnik.”

“Whatever. It’s not us, and it’s one of the reasons why I love you. You’ve never gone in for any of that crap.”

“But we can’t move away, we’re stuck in Manchester because of your work
and
mine. And God, this house is so under-priced for what it is. It hardly needs any work, it’s all so perfectly neutral and I love the floorboards running through the house. Oh Ian, it’s perfect,” she gushed.

“Yeah.”

This is a bad house.

The unbidden though caught him off-guard, leaving him feeling a little off-kilter. He pushed the disconcerting thought aside and kneeled down before his son, gently taking his little shoulders in his big hands.

“What do you think, sport?”

The dark-haired boy, who looked so much like his mother, shrugged. “It’s spooky.”

Holly looked at her son blankly, then burst out laughing. “Oh sweetie, this has to be the most un-spooky house in the whole wide world. Only old houses can be haunted.”

Ian didn’t laugh. The second he had set foot through the front-door, it had felt wrong. But now his son had articulated his misgivings, he felt a bit of a dick. He was thirty-eight, not six, and houses didn’t have
vibes
.

“Your mother’s right. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Ian’s heart almost wrenched out of his chest when the door to the attic slammed shut.

“Sorry,” Jefferson said, smiling sheepishly at Ian’s shocked expression. “Have you two had a nice little chat?”

Why the hell am I so jumpy? I almost screamed like a girl
…

“We have,” Holly said, seemingly oblivious to Ian’s strained expression.

Ian recognised that expression of moist-eyed eagerness all too well, and in that moment, he knew with total certainty that the house was going to be theirs.

CHAPTER TWO

Moving in day:

Exactly four weeks after Jefferson the slime-bag estate agent had shown them around twenty-nine Aberdeen Road, Ian and Holly were standing in the middle of the long driveway, staring up in awe at their new home. The two burly guys with the big white van they had hired for the day were unloading the last of the boxes into the house.

The 1970s, three-storey detached house struck Ian as kind of bland. The customary redbrick so typical of Manchester and the surrounding area lent it a subdued, working class air despite the fact it had five bedrooms, not including the attic.

I don’t like it. It’s wrong. The house is hiding something. It’s pretending to be bland
.

The strange turn of his thoughts rattled him.

“It has so much potential,” his wife was saying. “The gardens are just perfect for Jacob, as long as he doesn’t go near the main road of course. Look at him playing, he loves it.”

“Yeah,” Ian said, draping his arm over Holly’s petite shoulders.

With an inexplicable knot in his stomach, he watched his son running with his toy aeroplane, making the thing rise and dip. He disappeared from view round the side of the house and Ian panicked.

Jacob’s going to die
…

“Hey, are you okay?” Holly was gazing up at him with some concern. “You look a bit pale.”

I must be tired, that is one dark, motherfucking thought… “
Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired I guess.”

He caught sight of his son’s dark head once more as he ran back down the side of the house and felt another twinge of overprotective love.

Stop being such an idiot,
he silently chided himself. Holly was right, the house was great. The garden was great.
Everything
was just great. He took a moment to admire the gardens, forcing himself to appreciate the sheer size and privacy of the place. The tarmacked driveway they were stood on sloped dramatically down towards the busy main road where wooden gates that had to be at least twelve-feet high hid the house completely from prying eyes. A double garage was attached to the side of the house and on either side of the driveway the neat lawn fanned out a generous distance to be met by fencing that was every bit as high as the front gates. The big garden completely circled the house, the back garden much the same size as the front garden, except flatter. Oak trees lined the perimeter, adding to the feel of luxurious isolation so rare in built up Greater Manchester. Only the distant hum of traffic attested to the fact that they were still in the city limits.

But I still don’t like it
.

“Hey mate, I think we’re done,” one of the removal men said, snapping him out of his musings.

“I’m taking Jacob in,” Holly said, “I promised he could pick his bedroom.”

She thanked the removal men and went inside.

After Ian had paid the men and they had departed in their van, he remained standing where he was on the driveway. It was late in the afternoon and the chill October air slid through the tiny holes of his pullover, making him shiver.

A movement from above caught his eye, and he looked up to the main skylight in the centre of the roof. He squinted up at the window, the low autumnal sun in his eyes.

Nothing there.

But he was
sure
he had seen movement.

Must have been Holly and Jacob up there. If Jacob thinks he’s getting the attic for his bedroom, he’s got another think coming. That’s
my
studio space
…

Yet Ian couldn’t stop looking up at the window. He had the distinct feeling he was being watched. The window seemed to be staring right back at him, flat and lifeless.

Corpse eyes,
came the disturbing thought.

Christ, man, what’s with you today?

Moving
was with him, he decided.
Third most stressful thing after death and divorce. Or was it second after death?

Ignoring the sudden fluttering in his stomach, he went inside.

“Were you and Jacob in the attic just now?” he said to Holly, when he found her unpacking a box of books in the large living room.

“No. Jacob! Don’t play on the boxes.”

“Are you sure?” he asked again, ignoring his son who was climbing Mount Box next to the yet to be assembled TV.

“Jacob, honey! I said no.” She turned to look at her husband, a note of exasperation creeping into her voice. “No, I wasn’t in the attic. But Jacob picked his room, didn’t you honey?”

Jacob came over to them and Ian absently ruffled his hair. “Yeah Daddy, I did. My room is as big as yours and Mummy’s.”

“That’s great, little man.”

But he was only half listening as Holly chuntered on about where the furniture was going to go and all the stuff they needed to buy for the oversized kitchen because their little kitchen table was going to look lost at sea in the vast room.

“…and you’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”

“What? Yes, of course I am,” he said hurriedly. “The kitchen table is too small for the kitchen. We need a new one.”

“What’s wrong, Ian?”

He managed a wan smile. “Nothing, I guess I’m just knackered. God, we all are. Why don’t I order us a takeaway?”

“Pizza!” Jacob shouted.

“Sure, why not, what do you say Holly love?”

“Sounds good.”

“Great, I’ll call Pizza hut, then,” he said.

Ian produced his mobile from his jeans’ pocket and wandered out the room with the phone pressed to his ear. After he had placed his order and pocketed his phone, he found himself on the second floor roaming the hallway.

Can’t believe we got this place so cheap
.

He stopped for a moment and smoothed the palm of his hand over the banister that ran the length of the long hallway. It was cold to the touch, colder than he expected wood to be.

It needs sanding down,
he thought absently as he walked with his hand sliding over the rail.

“Fuck,” he gasped, snatching back his hand when sharp pain bit into his thumb. “Oh, you
bastard
.”

He held up his hand and stared at it. The fleshy part of his thumb was wet with blood.

What the hell?

Beneath the weeping red, there was a jagged cut about an inch wide.

“You bastard,” he repeated, glaring at the place on the banister his hand had just been resting on.

But he couldn’t spot the culprit that had caused the wound and he frowned in puzzlement. Yes, the wood was a little rough in places, but surely it wasn’t sharp enough to slice open his skin? Shrugging it off, he eyed the bathroom at the end of the hallway. A dull ache in the pit of his stomach reminded him that he needed to piss and he made his way over.

It struck him how
cold
it was in the bathroom. Because of the cold, the desire to urinate was greater than the need to wash off the blood. Using just one hand so he didn’t get blood on his jeans, he unbuttoned his fly. His penis felt all foreskin and no substance in his palm and he found his teeth were chattering. It was beginning to get dark and he pissed in the half-light, closing his eyes in relief.

Next he rinsed his hands under the cold-tap, watching how the water turned from red to light-pink. When the bleeding had stopped enough, he wrapped great lengths of toilet roll around the wound. Instantly, the blood soaked through the tissue but he just ignored it and wrapped more round it until it was hidden.

As he turned to leave, he caught his face in the big, oblong mirror above the sink. His reflection flashed him a grin.

“What the…” he gasped, staggering backwards.

I didn’t fucking smile
…

Clutching the rim of the sink, he peered into the mirror.

His own face stared back, his usually generous mouth set in a grim line. It had to be a trick of the half-light. Because this was most definitely his reflection, mirroring his face, just as reflections should. His piercing, pale-blue eyes stared unblinkingly back at him. He took in his pale skin, square jawline, and the strong nose that bent slightly to the left from some bar-brawl he couldn’t even remember from when he was twenty. He stared hard at the floppy, once boyish, baby-blonde hair that was now flecked with a scattering of grey. He studied the wrinkles – far too many for someone of just thirty-eight, but it was the curse of super-pale skin. Holly claimed to like them, she said they made him look rugged. Ian just thought he looked old.

Somehow, he drew comfort from the familiarity of his own features.

That was until his reflection winked at him.

“Jesus.”

Ian lurched backwards, almost landing on his rump. He ran out into the hallway, his heart beating so hard and fast he thought it might burst through his chest.

“Jesus,” he said again, leaning against the wall because he didn’t trust his legs to hold him upright.

That was seriously fucked up
.

He let out a shaky, humourless laugh. The stress of the move must have been getting to him more than he realised. Because that was some crazy shit.

I’m tired, I’m hungry and I need a fucking drink
.

Sighing deeply, he remembered the blood he must have spilled on the banister and floorboards.

Better mop that up before anyone sees it.

Arming himself with great wads of tissue, he made his way back to the scene of the mishap. There was not a drop of blood in sight. He switched on the hallway light and peered closely at the rail. No, nothing there. He even got down on his knees and examined the floor.

How can that be
?

There was no doubt about it, he was thoroughly spooked.

Come on, get a grip, it’s no big thing, you just didn’t bleed as much as you thought you did
.

He wasn’t comforted. Trying to ignore the onslaught of bad feelings that wrapped around him like a shroud, he made his way back downstairs to his family.

“What happened to your hand?” his wife said as soon as he walked back through the living-room door.

“I cut myself on the banister, the wood on it is a little rough and needs a sanding. I’ll do it tomorrow. But in the meantime, I don’t want you two running your hands over it, okay?”

“Funny, I didn’t notice that when I was up there.”

For some reason, her words irritated him. “Yeah, well, that’s very nice for you, but just don’t touch it again until I’ve fixed it. I need a drink.”

He left his wife and son in the living-room and went into the kitchen in search of a bottle of wine.

“I’ll just pop upstairs and throw the beds together,” Holly said once the pizzas had been eaten.

She got up from the sofa the three of them were slouched on amidst the sea of moving boxes.

“Okay, love,” Ian said absently.

He was still shaken and distracted from what had happened upstairs and his head pounded with the mother of all headaches. As he downed his second glass of red wine, he noticed that Holly had hardly touched her first.

“So do you think you’re going to like it here, sport?” he asked Jacob in a voice that sounded far too bright and perky to his own ears.

Jacob was curled up in the corner of the long leather sofa, his skinny legs tucked up beneath him.

“I guess so,” he mumbled into the leather upholstery.

“You guess so? Don’t you like it here? It’s
a hundred
times better than our old place. You have a proper garden to play in now.”

“I miss the old house. It was a friendly house.”

For some reason, his son’s words made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. “What do you mean, kiddo?” he asked in a deliberately light tone.

“This house is angry.”

A sudden image of his grinning reflection slammed into his mind, and immediately he pushed it away. “Don’t be silly, Jacob. Houses don’t have feelings, they’re just houses.”

“Not this one,” Jacob whispered, his dark eyes big and round. “I don’t like it here, Daddy.”

Ian closed the gap between them and pulled Jacob into a big bear hug. “There is
nothing
wrong with this house. But it’s a big change for all of us, and it’s going to take some getting used to. Moving house is probably one of the most stressful things in the whole wide world.”

“Then why did we do it? I
liked
the old house.”

Ian couldn’t help but laugh at the childish logic. “Good question, kiddo. Because this house is bigger and better. You’ll get used to it sooner than you think, I promise.”

“I hope so, Daddy.”