Rottenhouse (22 page)

7

There was something licking his face
and Simon instinctively jarred away from it and swung his hand at
whatever it was.

He touched something wet and furry, it
squeaked, and then there were tiny rushing footsteps as it fled.
Simon opened his eyes and was enveloped in darkness and stink.
Squirming, he shuffled backwards on his hands and heels, hitting
the wall hard, dropping little chunks of plaster into his hair and
lap. Panting, not fully remembering why he was sat on the damp
carpet, Simon scrabbled for his phone picking up random bits of
detritus that were slimy to the touch.

But there was nothing there. Either the
phone had run out of battery or the app had closed down. In this
total darkness, a thick black fog that consumed him, he was unable
to see where his phone had landed when he fell. And he did fall. He
remembered that. He fell because once again he lost consciousness
for what seemed like the millionth time this weekend. Simon knew
why he fell but he couldn’t bring himself to think about it. Didn’t
want to think about it even though he could still hear the rope
stretching somewhere in the gloom. The dream he had had was still
swimming up in his head though it was fragmented and becoming
fuzzy. Two images stuck with him and would continue to hang in
there like an old painting. The first image was of the girl,
Bobbie, and her dead eyes as they stared back at him. The second
image, and strangely the one that haunted him more than anything
that had happened in that terrible scene was of Mr Rowling and his
erect penis: how he stood there, all proud with his flat cap and
slippers whilst his old cock stood to attention covered in blood so
dark it was almost black. Simon was unsure that he would ever get
that later image out of his head.

Outside of the house the rain had
stopped and the wind had dropped. Whatever the storm threatened
seemed to have dissipated though Simon was sure he could hear far
off rumbles of thunder. Getting to his feet the fresh movements
brought with them another assault to the senses as the stink lifted
and hung around him like an awkward girlfriend. He had given up
trying to find his phone and decided that coming back in the cold
light of day would be the best outcome. Besides, he was wet,
aching, and no doubt as smelly as a dead horse.

Feeling along the wall
Simon reached the doorway where he had earlier received the
epiphany of what may be hanging from the ceiling. A little birdie
told him to look around
have a look and
see
it said but there was no way on earth
he was doing that. Besides, what was the point? In all that gloom
there was nothing to see. Although Simon knew, like he knew that
the girl in his dreams was Bobbie and that if he asked about for
her he would get blank faces and awkward looks that said
don’t ask questions, foreigner, don’t get
involved in stuff that aint your business or you will find yourself
in a gurney being butt fucked by the Chairman!
that if he did turn around and look into the blackness the
hanging body of old man Johnson would be lit up, his face full of
smiles, swinging in the silent air.

No, little
birdie
Simon thought,
I aint gonna turn around.

His phone vibrating changed that.

With eyes focused purely on the light
that was rising from his screen he quickly stepped in, picked up
the phone and walked back out into the hallway whilst his eyes
refocused on the differing light. The phone number on the screen
wasn’t recognised by its internal brainwork so was just a series of
numbers. Simon edged it to his ear unsure whether to answer. If
this was a telemarketer he was apt to go bat shit crazy.

Just before the last
vibration Simon pressed the green ANSWER
button.

‘
Hello.’ He
said.

There was no reply, just silent
fuzz.

‘
Who is
this?

Nothing, though Simon was sure he could
hear footsteps.

‘
Lucy, is that you?
Lucy?’

Silence. More of those muffled
footsteps which could just be interference.

‘
Last chance. Coz I’m
gonna hang up in three seconds…’

Nothing. Perhaps a door opening.

‘
Two.’

More footsteps?

‘
W-on…’

‘
Tick-tock, Simon.
Tick-tock goes my Daddies big clock.’ The voice was gravely,
distorted, as if the phone was being held to close to his mouth. He
was sure it was a man’s voice, but the distortion and the northern
accent made it hard to tell.

‘
Who is
this?’

‘
Nobody. Everybody. It
doesn’t matter who I am, Simon. What matters is you.’

‘
Kyle, if this is you
then go fuck yourself, alright. This isn’t a good time.’

‘
Who’s
Kyle?’

‘
What do you want?’
Simon asked scared of what the answer might be and then before the
voice could answer and always thinking of the one he loved he
added, ‘How dya get this number? Is Lucy okay? Please tell me she’s
okay?’

‘
Aye. She’s fine.
Although she’s picked up some nasty habits, Simon. Southern habits
which we don’t care for up here.’

‘
What are you talking
about? What do you want?’

‘
I want you and that
bitch to leave. Youint welcome here. Take your stupid camera and
yer flashy car and go.’

‘
Listen, whoever this
you don’t frighten me.’ A bit of a lie as he was
terrified.

The distorted voice laughed. ‘Not
frightened. You stupid prick. Old man Johnson said he weren’t
frightened and looks what we did to that nonce. Go on, turn around
and have another look if yadare.’

He knows where I am. He’s here

Simon didn’t turn around but instead
held the phone away from his ear and turned his senses up to 11.
There was no sound apart from his own breath, his heartbeat, and
the laugh coming from the speaker on his phone. His eyes had
accustomed themselves to the darkness but it did little to
dissipate the black fog. Instinctively, much like the feeling you
get when the TV is on in another room, Simon knew that apart from
the hanging charred corpse and the rats, he was alone in this
house.

Lifting the phone back up he said, ‘Who
are you?’

‘
A friendly
neighbourhood hero, Simon. But I won’t stay friendly for too
long.’

And then the phone went quiet. Simon
stood for a moment or two; the phone attached to his ear like a
gaudy earring whilst the house eased into the night with creaks and
groans. Gathering his thoughts, minding not what he stepped in or
crashed through he once again used his phone as a flashlight and
got out of there. As he raced through what remained of the house
blood swam in his head and the groans and creaks and moans and
cracks became a rotten crescendo in his ears. Simon imagined the
house demolishing itself behind him, the splintered pieces of wood
and neck choking electric cord getting closer and closer and
running faster only made the house fall quicker. He knew it wasn’t,
but he could feel it wanting too. He knocked a painting off the
wall as he bundled down the stairs and in the main hallway his boot
went through the burnt out floorboards almost tripping him. He
pulled his foot free remembering his dream from the night
before

I’m going to wait here for you

and was sure it took extra effort to
release it from the splintered hole.

Finally he was free of the hole and
within a few more steps he was out into the humid air, free from
whatever it was he had felt in that burnt out shell and pleased
that in his hand he still had his phone and around his body he
still carried his camera bag.

Not wanting to hang around, either from
whoever it was that had been on the end of the phone or if there
were any passers-by wanting to know what he was doing running out
of that old burnt out house, Simon checked the car park, saw that
Mr Rowling’s car was still there and headed back to the house at
the edge of the village.

Before he left the
village Simon took one more look over his shoulder. A mist was
rising and it obscured the club in the far corner. Though from his
position it looked as if the mist was coming
from
the club; a sleeping dragon’s
breath. Simon couldn’t even see the Johnson’s house anymore, and
that made him feel easier.

He followed the main
road home and it was an uneventful journey. He had much to think
about. So much had happened in such a small amount of time. The
last two days
Christ it’s only been two
days
felt more like two years.

‘
This place is off the
scale.’ he said to a tree stump sticking out of the ground like a
zombie’s hand reaching out of its grave. And he was right, wasn’t
he? He supposed that Lucy changing her name was fair enough and was
something done by hundreds of people to escape a troubled past. But
then his mind’s eye flicked to how she looked before he left the
club. She was different. The same, but different, as if he had been
looking at her for all these years through an epic set of beer
goggles, and now that he was sober, the drunk fugue had worn off,
and Lucy had been revealed for what she truly was.

Should he even marry this woman?

‘
Don’t be a dick.
She’s the best thing to have ever happened to me.’

But the other things that he had been
through. They were troubling.

‘
Screwed up, more
like.’ He’d been through some truly hair raising experiences. Stuff
only seen in movies or read about it books. But here he was, living
it. But not for much longer. He was sure, that given a clear mind
and a good deal of thought he could persuade Lucy to either go home
with him, or if she stayed that he would go on alone and she would
follow after. Either way his intent was clear; blessing to marry or
not. It was a shame he hadn’t befriended her dad, but he was just a
little too much for Simon to deal with.

8

Ahead the road disappeared into the
darkness; there was just enough moonlight now to see that he could
cut through a field at an angle. He crossed the field, walking over
lumps and bumps of freshly tilled earth. He guessed it would be a
shortcut and was pleased with himself when he reached the road
leading to Rowling’s house and had shortened the journey by a good
20 minutes.

To his right Simon could hear the
stream. He hated that stream now. Before the incident he had been
fond of it but now he couldn’t care less if the thing dried up and
turned to dust. That stream had reminded him of being a child,
paddling in the Meon with his family, picnics and ice cream and
everything summer should be. Now it just reminded him of the axe,
the body, and Billies open legs and the gore that oozed from
between her legs.

9

It was as Simon reached the cobbled
driveway leading to the Rowling residence that it dawned upon him,
like a scientist making a cruel discovery, that he didn’t have any
keys.

‘
Typical.’ Simon said
to himself and he sat on the low brick wall. ‘Fuck my
luck.’

Half pulling out his phone so that just
the right part was visible, Simon clicked the side button on it and
was a little put out when he saw that it was only 10:45. If he was
lucky then he would only be out here for about 30 minutes. But
knowing that his luck would match the situation Simon knew he was
going to be out here for a little longer than that.

And then something came to him. A hope.
Just a little bit, but hope none the less.

He walked to the front of the house. A
low powered security light came on over the front door and it gave
him enough light to see by. At the side of the door were a few
plant pots which Simon hoped his salvation was hiding under.

Lifting the first there was nothing
there.

Lifting the second and holding his
breath…there was nothing.

Simon let out a gentle sigh, ‘Fuck it,
come on number three.’ Lifting the third plant pot he wasn’t
surprised when beneath it there was nothing but a wiggly worm.

All that was left were two old rocks
upon which some greenish blue weed grew. He moved one slightly and
the light coming from above the door shone its glory down upon the
salvation Simon had been hoping for.

‘
Bingo.’

Simon used it to unlock the front door
and made sure to put the key back, he wanted no more trouble. After
that he walked into the dark house, though the upstairs hallway
light was on which was enough to see by, closed the door and went
into the kitchen, relaxing with every step.

Wanting to get out if his wet, stinking
clothes, Simon ran upstairs and had himself a quick shower, making
sure to throw his soiled clothes into a plastic bag before stuffing
them into his suitcase and headed downstairs. Whilst he showered,
the black goo from the house dripping from him like crude oil, he
had a sudden urge to investigate this old house. He was alone for
the first time in what felt like days. Usually being alone meant a
quick knuckle shuffle for Simon, but not tonight, tonight he would
have a little look about. With that thought he showered a little
quicker, put on clothes over his wet skin and rushed
downstairs.

The Study

1

Locked doors are a fascinating thing,
aren’t they? Not much in this ruined world we live in can both
hinder and help such as a locked door. They can hold back or they
can protect against. Another one of their charms is the magic they
keep locked away. The secrets that they protect. Mr Rowling had
such a locked door, it was at the far end of the downstairs
hallway. The door wasn’t any different from any of the others, just
your basic rectangle hunk of wood with some fancy beading and all
coated in natural oil. For Simon, it wasn’t how the door looked
that held him in wonder, oh no, it was what was behind the door
that had him stood there, a key in his hand that he had found at
the back of the cutlery drawer in the kitchen, reading the small
tag attached to the key with a bit of brown sisal.