Dream House (4 page)

I pause by the open door for a moment to stretch and notice a small pile of newspapers and magazines lying there on the floor: the
Evening Hills
, the
White Hills Advertiser
,
The Clerical Gazette
. . . .

I pick them up, heap them all together next to the old black Bakelite telephone on the graceful little hall table by the entrance, then let myself out and take the same path as a few nights previous until I find myself standing by the white wooden gate, where I can see the neighbours' house up close.

It's a massive-looking thing, which appears to have three floors above ground and the added space of a tower protruding from its side. The small, sunken windows contrast with the mansion's imposing appearance, and the green ivy leaves hugging the tower's walls seem almost to be strangling it, except where they thin out lower down towards the ground, allowing the grey colour of the stone to show through.

I turn around to admire once again the gorgeous windows of my dream house and sink down until I am sitting on the ground with my back resting against the gate, letting myself bask in all that loveliness.

Everything is quiet, the only noise that of a faraway train passing by, lending a magical touch to the already perfect scenery—until this idyllic moment is interrupted by a finger tapping me gently on the shoulder. I jump in surprise and turn to see who the finger belongs to.

On the other side of the gate, a young man—probably in his early twenties—is standing there smiling down at me.

“Hey,” he says, while I'm still recovering from the fright.

“I didn't think anyone was here,” I manage to mumble. “I . . . I—”

He cuts me off reassuringly. “Oh, don't worry—I've only just got here myself.”

His grey eyes are mesmerizing, and a perfect match for the stone of the house in the background. His short, dark hair is messy, and even though the broad smile is still there on his face, there's a look in his eyes that expresses a profound sadness.

“Do you live in that house?” I ask out of curiosity.

“Yes. Yes, I'm stuck in there,” he confirms. “But it's not that bad.”

Worried that I might have sounded rude, I counter, “Oh, I think it's rather interesting.”

He looks at the house for a few seconds and then bursts out laughing. Taken aback at first by his reaction, I soon let myself go as well and join in with him.

He looks back at me again, his smile fading.

“Well, it was nice talking to you,” he says, “but I'm afraid I have to go now. I'm Avery, by the way.”

“I'm Amethyst,” I reply. “Nice to meet you.”

As he walks away, he gives me one last smile over his shoulder before disappearing around the ivy-covered corner of his home.

In the forbidding sky, the gathering grey clouds obscure the last glow of the sunset and hint to me that the time to get back inside has arrived.

I walk back round to the front, picking up the umbrella I'd dropped in fright the other night.

Since it's getting dark—and given my experiences from nights past—I lock the front door behind me and make sure that none of the windows are left open. I want to avoid stumbling across any more unwanted people around the house, real or imagined.

I turn on the TV and, after flicking through a few channels, settle on a cartoon, which does something to help lighten my mood and make me feel less lonely—so much so, in fact, that after a while I decide to prepare myself a nice dinner. I find some vegetables in the fridge and some strawberries with cream. Feeling a bit guilty about eating my way through someone else's food, I promise myself that I will cook a special meal for Amabel and Marvin once they get back.

For the first time since I arrived in this house, I don't feel anxious. Sitting on the firm sofa, I see a light come on outside: it's the same one as last night, and it's coming from Avery's house. Somehow, knowing that somebody is in there makes me feel reassured.

I clean up the kitchen, make a short stop-off in the bathroom, and then walk on to my bedroom to let my body rest for the night.

I
CLIMB OUT
of bed at 10:37 the next morning and, without even changing into my clothes, walk down the corridor to the kitchen and prepare myself some oatmeal and a glass of milk for breakfast. I sit down at the kitchen table, and as I eat I gaze out of the window at the pretty lawn, now shiny and lustrous with the previous night's rain and kissed by the pale autumnal sunlight.

It's a strangely warm day considering that it's the first week of October—so nice, in fact, that I pick up my glass of milk and walk out onto the front porch, where the rocking chair sits, seemingly waiting for me.

I make myself comfortable in it, and as I drink my milk my eyes gradually wander from the house and its grounds to what lies outside: from the gate to the horizon, multitudes of vast cornfields dotted with countless half-bare trees of all types stretch off into the distance, the whole forming a colourful patchwork.

As I sit there sipping from my glass, a gang of kids runs into view, cheerfully kicking a ball down the opposite pavement.

One of them stops right across the road from me and, hands on hips, stares thoughtfully at something in the road in front of the house for a second. What can he be looking at? An animal? Maybe a hedgehog or something? But the shouts of his friends soon send him racing off after them, whatever it was already forgotten.

Noticing that another wad of newspapers and magazines has been pushed under the gate, I decide to go and collect them. I climb out of the rocking chair and, without putting on my shoes, make my way barefoot down the cold stone path that crosses the garden and connects the porch to the gateway.

The frosty flagstones freeze my feet more with each step I take, but I don't mind—the chill pushes my sleepiness away and makes me feel more awake.

I bring the papers inside and stack them on top of the pile by the entrance hall, together with the ones I dumped there yesterday, before heading over to the sink to wash the dishes.

A sound coming from behind me shatters the silence.

I spin round. Someone is here—this time I am positive of it.

I walk over to the open French windows and study the man I see outside standing by the old shed.

He looks tired, and is probably in his forties, his red hair partially covered by a flat black cap that matches the loose shirt he's wearing. He's pushing a wheelbarrow full of plants.

Soon enough, he notices me looking at him from the window, and his expression changes immediately from one of intent solemnity to a mixture of astonishment and fear. I wave cheerfully to him, certain now that he must be employed here, just as his attire would suggest. Slipping my shoes on, I walk outside and, an inquiring look on my face, introduce myself.

“Hi. I hope you didn't think I was spying on you. I'm Amethyst; nice to meet you!” I venture.

He gives me a good looking over from head to toe, taking a moment longer than is really polite, before replying peevishly, “How are Mr. and Mrs. Bloom today?”

My cheeks flush bright red, accompanied by a rush of mortifying embarrassment as it occurs to me that I'm staying in their house and yet didn't even know their family name.

His face twisted into an irritated scowl, the man waits for my answer, and so I say, “They've left for a few days—do you happen to know where they might have gone?”

He gives me a dismissive shrug in reply and turns back to his work.

Now that I'm standing up close to him, I can study his features a bit better and I notice that the left side of his face looks damaged. It's smooth and shiny, as if there had once been a now healed burn there, and on each side of his neck two small, straight white scars are visible.

“Would you like to join me inside?” I force myself to ask. “It's hot out here, and I really wouldn't mind some company.”

He gives me an inscrutable look. “The Blooms don't want me in there,” he replies, gesturing towards the house with his head.

It's obvious that he wants to be left alone, so I decide not to push my luck, saying only, “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name . . .”

With furrowed eyebrows, he glares at the plants in the dented wheelbarrow for a few seconds.

“Alfred,” he says finally.

In the afternoon, I spend some more time in what has temporarily become my bedroom, studying the details dotted about the place.

On the wall, there's a heart-shaped wooden frame with “A+A” written in blue at its centre. I take it down from where it's hanging and hold it in the palm of my hand, studying the thick, flaking paint and the small dots all around the border. The piece of fabric used to hang it is slightly frayed, but somehow the plaque definitely stands out from the white wall and the rest of the room.

I spend some time wondering just who exactly those two letters might refer to. In a few short days here, I've met three people whose names begin with an A, so it could easily be any of them. Or it could even be something else—a symbol, for instance.

As I hang it back up in its place, a pang of hunger in my stomach makes me realise that it's almost dinnertime.

I walk in the usual direction, along the low hall that leads to the main part of the house, and once there, I turn on the oven and get ready to cook myself a proper meal. The clock ticks loudly as the time approaches 8:00 p.m.—but suddenly, that's no longer the only sound.

There's a person knocking at the door.

Remembering the growing number of nocturnal encounters I've had over the last few days, I soundlessly make my way over to the little foyer and lean forward to look through the peephole in the door; there doesn't seem to be anybody there on the other side.

Standing quietly, I wait by the door until I hear the knocking again. When it comes, I instantly fling the door open, removing the only thing keeping me and whoever is outside apart.

She's so tiny that I couldn't possibly have seen her from the peephole, but there she is, right in front of me—the same old lady who has been visiting.

What does she want from me?

“Why do you keep coming here?” I ask her impatiently.

With a defiant expression, she stares me straight in the face for a second—and then, seemingly gathering her strength, she screws her eyes shut and opens her mouth.

“You have to leave, now!” she shouts. “You have to leave, now!”

She shouts it again and again, over and over, each time looking more and more distressed until, after about the tenth repetition, she suddenly stops, turns on her heel, and leaves.

Completely dumbstruck, I just stand there with my mouth hanging open and watch her march back to the gate without another word.

The strong wind seems almost to be blowing her small body away, driving it off the property like so many dry old leaves, while I stand there speechless and watch her dissolve into the darkness.

A
T LUNCHTIME
the next day, I'm up and ready to go, but feeling too lethargic to cook a proper meal. Instead, I eat a chocolate bar that I find in one of the kitchen cupboards.

I continue to feel drawn to those huge windows in the living room, and find myself once again standing at them, staring at the shed. Nobody appears to be around today, and my interest in this odd outbuilding keeps growing.

Eager to give it a closer look, I hop through the open casement of one window and, still dressed in my pyjamas, walk barefoot across the grass.

I take a nervous peek round the rear and sides of the shed, but find nothing except stacked-up firewood and some piles of bricks, so I steel my nerve and take hold of the padlock hanging from a clasp on the wooden door.

Maybe I could force it?

No—Alfred would notice that right away.

Realising that it's not going to be possible, I give up on my idea of breaking into the shed and instead set about gathering as much information as possible about it from the outside. There are curtains over the windows, which make it hard to see inside properly, but peering around them as best I can, I could almost swear that I see something.
Is that—?

“Are you finding it
very
interesting?” asks a voice, interrupting my reconnoitre.

I jump, terrified that Alfred has discovered me nosing around his shed, but to my great relief I see that it's actually Avery. He's standing over by the gate, a big smile on his face, laughing sweetly at my frightened expression.

I back away from the little wooden house and join him; he's wearing a striped white-and-navy T-shirt with matching dark-blue jogging bottoms, which makes me feel a bit less awkward about the way I probably look, lacking as I do either shoes or fresh breath.

I scratch my head and ask, “Do you happen to know the gardener?”

“Oh, yes. Alfred has something of a reputation around these parts,” he says, as both of us look over at the shed. “You'd probably be wise to keep your distance from him.”