Chapter Three

I can’t describe how I felt when I stepped into the house. The familiar smells, sights, and comforts were like manna from heaven after the sterile hospital. 

I knew such relief would be slightly short-lived since we would be moving, but heck, I was damned well going to enjoy it!

The next few months passed without much to talk about. I saw odd shadows now and again—shadows that had no business being there—but I didn’t think much of it. 

Three weeks after my discharge, my parents took me to the new house for the first time. 

It was in a quieter neighbourhood, set back from the road and close to the farmland spanning green and gold in the near distance.

It was a quaint building and older than the other homes, most of which had been built for social housing, so the red brick exterior and arched windows stood out.

The garden was the most impressive part, at least from the outside. It was a haven for wildlife with roving roses and bushes speckled with wildflowers that poked through the leaves. In the rear was a large tree, apparently an apple tree, but perfect for a summer day when the sun was at its peak.

Inside, the rooms were larger than our current ones. The longue housed the dining room and led off into a spacious kitchen, something my dad had always wanted.

A curved wooden staircase in the hall led to three bedrooms and a slightly poky bathroom—well, a shower room. The bath had been replaced with a shower cubicle, allowing for more space.

My parent's room had a small en-suite, so the lack of room wasn’t too much of an issue. 

My room had potential. I could see through the beige walls and bare floorboards that had been scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. I could picture my posters on the wall and the layout of my furniture.

Not to mention a cat and a dog, each taking their respective places.

The only thing I didn’t like was the fireplace in the lounge. It was large and crafted carefully with cold stone. The flue smelt dusty rather than smoky, and an owl or other bird had been nesting there.

While my parents gushed over the idea of a roaring fire on winter nights, my eyes drifted to the stonework. 

A nasty, damp patch was spanning the bricks, forming an odd shape. If I looked closely, it seemed slightly human, possessing the smooth curves of a female torso but lacking any limbs or a head. 

The sickly yellow paper behind it made it stand out more prominently. That old-fashioned paper with garish flowers that seemed to twist and contort the longer you looked. It was faded now, making it look even more hideous.

It sent shivers down my spine like tiny dancing fingers. But I reasoned that it was simple pareidolia and that a new coat of paint would soon cover it.

“What do you think?” 

Hearing my mom’s voice, I tore my eyes from the odd stain and gazed back at the garden. The scent of wildflowers and dewy grass wafted through the window in refreshing waves.

I managed a small smile, shrugging.

“It’s OK, I suppose.”

Mom shook her head, her eyes twinkling in amusement. Coming from me, that was a high compliment. 

“At least I don’t have to change schools,” I added. “Only buses. I just hope there isn’t an early drunk on this route. I hate riding with someone who reeks of beer and pee. And worrying that he’ll throw up again.”

“Then make sure you don’t go down that path,” my father warned solemnly. “But don’t look down on him. Help, not hate.”

I wrinkled my nose, causing it to contort like a pug. But I knew he was right, especially after my own experience.

And I knew he had gone through a rough patch before I was born. 

As I turned to leave the room, I felt a cold chill, a chill that didn’t come from the window, and I gave the strange mark another glance. The sooner it was covered, the better. 

Let me skip a few months.

They were nothing to speak of. I finished my exams, left school and turned seventeen. I hadn’t thought of college; I lacked trust after Matthew died. The others looked at me strangely, whispering together as they did so before falling silent when I came within earshot. 

I didn’t want the same treatment somewhere else. Secrets had a way of freeing themselves.

I was also interested in building work and design. I thought that applying with independent traders and stores would give me experience. I could take up an online course if needed, and who knew? Maybe I could start my own business one day.

And I was grounded until I was thirty, remember?

When we moved, three weeks after I finished school and a week before my birthday, I had a lot of practice. 

Helping decorate around the house was the ideal experience. My dad might not have been an expert tutor, but he knew what he was doing. And the workers brought in for the more challenging projects were happy to let me watch.

The only thing I didn’t like about this house, besides the odd mark yet to be covered, was the proximity to the old bridge.

The memories of that day were still raw, and the fact I had been unable to attend his funeral made it worse. His mother’s religion made it customary to bury the dead within a short time. It had been delayed somewhat by the inquest they needed to do, so there was no chance of waiting any longer for me to recover.

From the window, I could just about see its shadow, creeping uncomfortably near as it stretched with the sun. I felt it was taunting me, its skeletal fingers beckoning as if it wanted to finish the job.

But I would never let it. I had survived, and I would live and hopefully make sure Matthew’s death had not been in vain.

And if running back and forth to the DIY store was living for him, I was doing a damned good job.

“This is ridiculous.” My dad glared at the mark on the wall.

The paint looked pristine all around—smooth and matt in a lilac hue—a far cry from the garish wallpaper surrounding the fireplace and fading from the heat.

But the mark seeped through every coat my father put on.

“This is bloody ridiculous!” My father stood akimbo and blew out frustratedly as he regarded the latest failure. “If anything, the damned thing is clearer!”

He wasn’t wrong. The blurred edges seemed crisper, and it looked more like the outline of a human.

Of course, it was dampness. It felt damp, even if it lacked the smell of mildew. That didn’t make it less disconcerting, though.

“Maybe panel over it?” My mother wandered in with a tea tray and glanced over it. She made a face. Lack of cohesion agitated her. “If you choose pale wood,  it will match the rest of the decor.”

My father looked irritated. The wood meant more expense, and the decorating was already expensive, but he couldn’t think of any other option. And we weren’t haemorrhaging money, which had been a concern initially. 

“Will you go and look at what’s available locally?” My dad turned to me. It wasn’t a request, only phrased like one. “You know the sort of colours your mother means better than me. Everything I pick is wrong.”

“That’s because you don’t read the names. Cornflower blue isn’t the same as Duck Egg.”

I left them to quibble over the two identical blues and grabbed my coat. 

I found the ideal shade in the local hardware store. The young assistant had a far better eye than I did, picking the wood immediately when I told her the shade of paint we were using.

“We also provide help with fitting,” she said with a bright smile. “Although, it sounds like your dad has everything in hand from what you’ve said.”

“Sort of,” I smiled back, feeling my face redden. She was pretty, with auburn hair pulled into a messy bun and hazel eyes that sparkled radiantly when the light caught them. Several freckles dotted her turned-up nose and cheeks, adding to the sweetness of her face. 

I had always struggled with talking with girls. They always thought I was weird, even more so after Matthew died. 

If she noticed, she didn’t give any sign. Her name badge said her name was Sarah.

“I’ll talk with my dad and get back to you,” I said, tongue-tied. “I leave the final decision with him, then if it goes wrong, I don’t get the blame.”

Sarah laughed—a merry sound like the birds in the morning, making the dimple in her chin more prominent.

“I don’t blame you. I’d do the same. Tell him it’s good quality stuff; we don’t buy mass-produced products. We like to get things as locally as possible. It can be a little more money, but it lasts longer.”

“I think he’d pay a fortune as long as it covers up the damp patch,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “Or whatever it is. The paint hasn’t helped.”

Sarah tilted her head curiously, and I laughed at the expression, explaining what had happened. But instead of laughing with me, her eyes darkened, and her lips set in a grim line.

“That’s the old Powell house?”

I shrugged blankly. “I don’t know. I wasn’t at the viewing, so I don’t know the history.”

If it was even mentioned, I doubted agents detailed a house’s past owners unless they were of note. Even then, they might skip over it.

Sarah scuffed her feet like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She looked sorry she’d mentioned it and more so when I pressed her on why she asked.

“Well, there are stories about it; don’t let me delay you with them, though,” she said evasively. “You know how these older places get a reputation.”

Before I could ask her what she meant, Sarah turned to another customer, plastering on a bright smile and offering help.

I muttered my thanks and something about returning soon; I was sure my dad would place an order. He didn’t trust big businesses as much as local ones.