Magic Dirt: The Best of Sean Williams (34 page)

“No.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

For the rest of the morning, she found it hard to concentrate. Numbers blurred before her eyes; the keys of the computer weren’t where they were supposed to be; mistakes multiplied when she tried to correct them. The image of the house and its resident shade constantly intruded upon her thoughts, pushing everything else aside.

Then, shortly before mid-day, Simon rang.

“I did a little more digging, Beth,” he said. “I thought the address might be wrong, no matter what you said, so I checked the neighbours.”

“And?” She was in no mood for social niceties. She just wanted to hear what he had to say and get rid of him.

“Well, number seventy has been sold thirty times since the old place was divided—”

“It burned down,” she said “There was an explosion.”

“That explains that, I guess.” He dismissed the explanation: irrelevant. “But number seventy-four has been sold even more often: forty-one owners in seventy years. I have a list of names, if you’re interested. Maybe your great-aunt was one of them.”

She ignored the offer. “Why did they move?”

“I don’t know. I asked around the office, looking for gossip. Someone remembered a girl disappearing in the street about twenty years ago, but I don’t know whether it’s connected or not. You know, bad memories and all that.”

“Probably not,” she mumbled, although part of her murmured that it probably was.
A little girl with brown hair and eyes? Another girl frightened of her dreams
? “Look, Simon, I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well today. I’ll have to speak to you later.”

He took the hint well. “No worries. Call me when you’re better.”

“I will.”

She hung up and stared vacantly at the blank plastic of the receiver. Eventually, she came to a decision.

Pleading an attack of nausea, she left work for the day and went back to the State Library. The lower levels were busier than they had been the night before, and she had to wait an hour for a microfilm reader. The moment one was free, she pulled the papers and began to read.

June Fourth, 1982,
the shadow had said. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she knew that if it was there, she’d find it.

She didn’t have to look far. The article was on the second page of both papers.
The News
even had a photo.

The headline read: “Reporter Missing.”

The photo was of a smiling man with dark hair and bright eyes. Behind the grin, the face was the shadow’s.

Eyes widening, she read on:

“Alexander James Caldwell, staff reporter for News Ltd, has today been officially confirmed a Missing Person. Concerns over his absence were raised after his failure to report for work on Monday morning. While details of his final movements are unknown, it is believed he was investigating the case of Rebecca Thompson, aged 7, who disappeared from her home on Sydney Street, North Adelaide, in 1977. Police have not yet ruled out the possibility that Caldwell has fallen victim to foul play. Anyone with information concerning his whereabouts is requested to contact Detective-Sergeant Dan Margarson of Adelaide CIB on…“

The eyes of the shadow stared at her from the photo in mute accusation. Alexander James Caldwell hadn’t aged a day since his disappearance, over ten years ago.

The
Advertiser
had a different photo, not of Caldwell, but of a little girl with brown hair and wide, innocent eyes. Beth recognised her as the girl from her dreams. The name in the caption was Rebecca Thompson.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she’d be long. She blinked and shook her head. She was done.

Burden, or Sydney, Street by day was just another road in North Adelaide: lush trees overhung the road and dropped leaves on imported cars parked along the gutter; iron and brush fences barricaded the well-to-do from idle passers-by; bold silver signs warded unregistered mail from letterboxes. The occasional plane roared overhead, descending along preordained flight-paths to the airport, making the Earth rumble in sympathy.

Number 72 was gone. The neighbouring houses had reclaimed their spaces, reasserted their territorial rights. She could see the neglect in their gardens and walls, in the way paint had peeled and been hastily touched-up. These two houses alone of all those on the street looked uncherished, endured rather than lived-in.

And no wonder
, she thought. Anyone with half a brain could feel the missing house lurking on the far side of reality. Its presence was heavy in the air—like a threat of thunderstorms on a humid day. It made Reluctant Misty nervous, although for once she remained silent. Beth was grateful for the peace in her mind; she was edgy enough without voices from the past nagging at her.

She sat restlessly in the car, waiting for the house to reappear, occasionally walking to the nearest deli for a bite to eat or to use their toilet. She bought a magazine and settled down for the afternoon, only moving the car once when a parking inspector scowled at her for occupying a two-hour parking space for so long.

Exactly when she fell asleep, she didn’t know, but the dream woke her with a start several hours later. The Doors had been opening of their own accord, and the little girl had been screaming; the fact that the girl had name now—Rebecca Thompson, not Misty—hadn’t dulled the fear. She glanced guiltily at her watch, then out of the window and across the road.

Night had fallen, and the house was back.

Clutching the torch in one hand and making sure the knife was still in her jacket, she climbed out of the car and stretched her legs. The house watched her from beyond its wrought-iron fence. She could feel its presence strongly now: a deep, engulfing pit of sorrow and yearning. When she closed her eyes, the pit seemed to pull her forward, like a gaping, black well.

She wondered what people would see if they caught her entering the ghostly yard. Would she simply vanish into thin air, as though she had crossed an invisible boundary? Or would she fade away, like the shadow of Alexander Caldwell, gradually merging with the darkness until she disappeared?

Reluctant Misty stirred in protest, finding her voice at last.
This is insane
! she cried.
I can’t be doing this!

But she was. She needed to confront her fear and wrestle it under her control, or else she would be tormented by nightmares and uncertainty for the rest of her life.

Her legs carried her across the road, to the gate and across the lawn. This, the third time she had completed the short journey, was by far the least terrifying. The territory was becoming familiar.

Really making myself at home,
she mused, but without humour.

The door was still open. She edged through it, torch first, sweeping the empty hallway.

“I know your name, now,” she called. “I know who you are.”

Only silence answered, as thick cotton wool in her ears.

She stepped deeper into the house. “You’re Alexander James Caldwell and you used to work for
The News.
You disappeared in 1982. Have you been living here ever since? Inside the house?”

The reply came from all around her, as though the house itself had spoken:

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you leave?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Why not?”

The shadow remained silent. She swung the torch around her again, but still could see no sign of it.
Him
? She found it hard to think of Caldwell as a living person. He looked so drained, so unnaturally dark.

As though he had read her thoughts, the shadow spoke again:

“If I leave, the house will die. It needs my life, my light, to manifest itself.”

“I don’t understand.” The voice was closer than it had been, but she still couldn’t locate its source. Shadows moved all around her, but none of them contained the one she sought.

“You will. It’s too late to turn back now. You’ve found what you sought, and it has found you.”

The chill in Caldwell’s voice made her hesitate, but she forced her voice to remain steady. “I’m just curious, that’s all. Not looking for anything, really. But what about you? You were looking for Rebecca Thompson. Did you find her?”

The door slammed shut behind her, and she half-screamed in surprise.

“Yes,” said Caldwell, stepping out of the shadows by the door. “I found her.”

She backed away, reaching for the knife. His face and posture, even though shrouded in darkness, were menacing.

“She used to play here,” said the shadow, “when she was young and Old Man Dennis was the tenant, the host. She could see the house, and enjoyed having a playground nobody else could visit. The house let her come and go as she pleased, until the Old Man died and ...” The shadow faltered, its face radiating grief. “I found her five years later. She’d been trapped here all that time—just a child, not really understanding what was going on. It was horrible, seeing her fading away, withering on the inside, so I... “

“You what?”

“I killed her. I had to.”

She made a dash for the door, but he lunged at her, arms outstretched. She retreated out of his reach, bringing out the knife. “Don’t—”

Bat-like wings of darkness swirled in the air as he dodged to his left and circled her.

“I warned you,” he said. “I told you not to come back. But you wouldn’t listen. Even when you knew about Rebecca and me, you still came back. It won’t let you go, now. You were dead the moment you walked in the door, either way.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the words died mid-way as from far above came the sound of shattering glass. The floor beneath her feet trembled. Flames sprang into life along the walls and ceiling, illuminating the hallway with a flickering, red-limned light.

But there was no heat, no smoke. Only her, Caldwell and the knife.

“Don’t try to kill me,” he said. “You’ll regret it.”

He lunged again and she slashed the knife across his outstretched arm. The blade parted the shadowy flesh without the slightest resistance. Caldwell winced but kept coming.

“Keep back,” she moaned, holding the knife in both trembling hands in front of her. “I mean it. I really do.”

“So do I.” He laughed bitterly, with a hysterical edge; he seemed on the verge of tears. “The house has finished with me, bled me dry. It wants you to take my place, just as I replaced Rebecca. But if I kill you now, then you’ll only die, and the house will have to find someone else. Maybe I’ll die before it can, and it’ll die with me. That’s worth hoping for, isn’t it? Please believe me, Misty—I’m doing this for all of us—and for the ones who follow—”

The flames roared more fiercely, spreading down the walls and drowning out the rest of his words. Falling cinders fluttered down from the ceiling, drifting erratically to the floor where smaller fires sprung into life.

Caldwell inched closer, waiting for the weaving blade to give him an opening.

She backed away from him, desperately looking for another way out. But all the doors were locked, and Misty was screaming inside her head, making it hard to think.

Then her heel struck the lowest step of the burning stairway, and she fell backwards.

Caldwell leapt, enfolding her with limbs of smoky darkness. She struggled, but he was too strong and his fading flesh defied her grip. Shadowy hands clutched for her throat, began to squeeze the air from her. She screamed silently, kicked, hammered with the handle of the knife, tried everything she could to squirm free.

The hands tightened. Black spots marred her vision, dancing across the shadow’s lightless face, grimacing barely inches from hers.

Summoning the last of her rapidly-fading strength, she wrenched her arms free and stabbed the knife
hard
into his stomach, tugging the blade upwards until it struck bone.

Caldwell gasped in pain and let go of her throat. He tottered backwards two steps and collapsed, arms clutching his midriff.

Around him, the fire burned a triumphant yellow-white shot with flecks of red, licking the walls and tasting the carpet beneath her feet.

She threw the knife away, revolted by the cold, dark blood on her fingers.

Oh my God—I killed him!

Weeping in horror, she clambered to her feet and staggered to where Caldwell lay. Self-loathing threatened to make her vomit and the pain in her wind-pipe was choking her, but she couldn’t turn her eyes away from what she had done.

He writhed on the floor in silent agony, his throes becoming more feeble with every passing second, his face twisted into a ghastly parody of a smile.

The ghost-fire raged around them, consuming the very bones of the building. The house, perhaps in sympathy, was reliving its own death.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, his voice thick with dark blood. “… should have listened … couldn’t ...”

The fire gathered around him, sucking the last of the light from his body. His spine curved in one final spasm, and his face clenched like a fist.

Then he was gone.

She was alone in the house.

For the first time, she could feel it reaching for her through the sparks and flames, clutching at her mind like a hand groping from the grave. Too late, she turned to run for the door.