The Haunting of Gillespie House (14 page)

“I’m going to the shops,” Mum called from downstairs. “Does anyone want anything?”

“Thanks, I’m fine,” I called back at the same moment Dad hollered, “Beer!”

As I leaned farther out the window to prune branches that were nearly out of my reach, I saw Mum’s car reverse out of the driveway and turn towards the town. Just past that, on the other side of the road, an elderly couple was standing on the sidewalk. They watched Mum’s car pass them, then both looked back at our house. They’d inclined their heads towards each other and seemed to be talking animatedly.

About us?

Mum would probably get to meet them later when she went up and down the street to introduce herself. The elderly couple didn’t look happy, I realised, and I paused my cutting to watch them. The woman had her arms crossed over her chest and was shaking her head, while the man scuffed his boot on the sidewalk. They exchanged another brief word then turned and disappeared into their house.

I found out what my mother’s trip to the store had been for when I came down for dinner that night. At least two dozen fat candles had been spaced about the house, shoved wherever there was room between the miniatures. They were scented and lit, and their conflicting odours combined into a horrifically pungent smell.

“What’s this?” Dad asked as he followed me through the doorway. His moustache bristled in disgust. “Smells like a perfume salesman died in our bleeding lounge room.”

Mum sniffed as she dished up plates of fish. Our dinner table was clear of boxes, at least—but now four fat candles were clustered on a doily in its middle. “They’re aromatherapeutic,” she said. “They’ll spread nice vibes through the house.”

“This is a horrible fire hazard,” I said as I watched a flame lick dangerously close to the wallpaper.

“Well, I’m sorry, but someone has to make this place feel like home,” Mum said. She looked offended, so Dad and I dropped the subject.

“I’m going to visit some of our neighbours this evening,” Mum said as she placed the plates of steamed fish and greens in front of us. “Does anyone want to come with me?”

Maybe I felt guilty for complaining about the putrid smell of her candles, or maybe it was curiosity about the odd couple I’d seen watching our house, but I found myself saying, “Sure. I’ll come for one or two of them.”

Mum looked delighted. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re taking an interest in your new town, honey. Your father and I are hoping his work will let him stay here for at least a few years this time, so it would be good to make some friends.”

“Hmm,” I said noncommittally. Dad’s work had a bad habit of jumping him across the country at short notice; this was the fifth house we’d stayed at in the last three years. That degree of unpredictability meant making friends was nearly impossible, so I’d just stopped trying. I wasn’t holding out much hope that our most recent move would be very different.

I helped Mum wash up while Dad retreated to his office, ostensibly to catch up on work, even though we could clearly hear him calling out answers to his favourite trivia gameshow. It was well past dark when Mum finally took up one of the small gift baskets she’d put together and led me out the front door.

“Which house will we start with?” she asked as we paused on the porch, looking at the twilight-shrouded rows of buildings that surrounded our house. “I’ll let you pick, honey.”

“That one.” I pointed to the brick house on the other side of the road, where the elderly couple lived.

The woman answered the door before Mum had even finished knocking. I had the feeling she’d been watching us through one of the white-curtained windows. Her watery blue eyes skipped between my mother and me with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “Hello?”

“Hello!” Mum gushed, showing her the gift basket. “We’re new here. We moved into the house just across the street, and we wanted to say hi.”

The woman, who introduced herself as Ellen Holt in between Mum’s enthusiastic rambling, invited us inside. The house was smaller than ours, with peeling wallpaper, and it smelt like dust and dead mice. Ellen led us into the living room, where she introduced us to her husband, Albert, and asked if we would stay for a cup of tea.

“I’d love to.” Mum placed the gift basket on the cluttered coffee table and settled into one of the lounge chairs. “Honey, why don’t you help Mrs. Holt with the tea? Albert, I couldn’t help but admire the beautiful vintage car in the driveway. Is that yours?”

I had to hand it to her—Mum was a genius at breaking ice. Albert, a thin man with hair just as white as his wife’s, seemed to light up at the mention of his Beetle and launched into a lengthy dialogue on it. Mum, who knew next to nothing about cars, smiled and nodded to encourage him.

Ellen led me into the kitchen. I leaned against the counter awkwardly while she filled the kettle, and she shot me a quick smile as her husband’s monologue floated through the doorway. “Sorry, Albert loves to talk about his cars.”

I chuckled, stared at my folded hands for a moment, then asked, “So, uh, how long have you lived here?”

“Oh, we bought the house when we got married, so… nearly fifty years, I suppose.” Ellen pushed her glasses up her nose. “Where did you move from?”

“The city. But we hadn’t been living there for long. Work keeps asking Dad to relocate, so…”

“Ah,” Ellen said, picking a small jug out of the cupboard. Its inside was coated in dust, but she didn’t seem to notice as she poured milk into it. “Do you think you’ll be staying here long?”

“No idea.” I watched Ellen place four teacups on a floral tray. A cat entered the room, fixed me with its amber eyes for a moment, then rubbed itself against my legs. “I’d like to settle down somewhere, but it’s more likely that we’ll need to pack up again in six months or so.”

“That’s not so bad,” Ellen said, almost too quietly for me to hear.

“Sorry?”

The older woman paused and seemed to be on the verge of saying something more. Her cat gave a plaintive mewl as it left my legs and began rubbing its head over Ellen’s shoes. “I… don’t want to alarm you,” she said at last, clearly picking her words cautiously, “because there’s nothing really to be alarmed about. But…”

“Yes?”

“But you should be careful in that house.”

She fished a tin of cat food out from one of the cupboards and peeled its metal lid open. The cat redoubled its attentions.

I glanced from Ellen to the living room, where Mum was still pretending to be enthralled in Albert’s history of the restorative work he’d done on the Beetle. “Why? Is there something wrong with it?”

“It’s… a bit of a strange house.” Ellen tipped the cat food into a bowl and bent to place it on the ground. When she straightened again, she fixed me with a searching stare. “I lived here when it was still an orphanage, see? Albert and I used to give sweets and oranges to the children, sometimes, when they passed our house. I heard some strange stories about things happening there.”

I leaned forward. “Such as?”

“Well, a boy came up to me one morning while I was weeding the garden and said matter-of-factly, ‘Henry isn’t in the house anymore.’ It sounded like he’d just realised it for himself. When I asked what he meant, he said, ‘I haven’t seen Henry for a month. He didn’t get adopted, and he didn’t die. I don’t think the Sisters have noticed yet.’ The lunch bell rang, and he ran off before I could ask any more questions.”

The kettle finished boiling with a click, but neither of us paid it any attention.

“I waited for him to come and visit me again, but he never did. In fact, I didn’t see him leave the house at all after that. I don’t know if I should have told someone, but I was young back then and didn’t want to look nosy. Albert thought the boy had probably found a nice family to take him in.”

The cat had finished wolfing down its meal and gave my leg a final rub before leaving for the living room. Ellen kept speaking as she held an empty teapot and stared into the distance. It was as though she’d forgotten I was there, but I was too enthralled to interrupt her.

“Then they converted it back into a home–fresh paint and new doors and all of that–and the owners began renting it out. No one seemed to stay for long, though, a year or two at the most. And it was vacant for long stretches in between, too. And then, about eight years ago, I woke up in the middle of the night to find police cars lining the street. A family’s child had gone missing. I watched from the window, and all I could think was,
I should have told someone about the missing orphans, then maybe this one wouldn’t have gone, too.”

She broke off suddenly, as though she realised she’d said too much, and turned back to me with a shaky smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yak your ear off. It’s not something you should worry about, anyway… just an old biddy’s imagination getting too excited…”

Ellen fumbled to fill the pot, pouring in hot water but forgetting about the teabag. I followed her mutely back to the living room and let my thoughts consume me as Mum made enough small talk to cover for both of us.

Henry isn’t in the house anymore…

When we got home, I went straight to bed and lay on my back, watching the moonlight’s patterns on the wall opposite.

Mum’s anxiety about the house having once been an orphanage suddenly seemed much more rational. With sixty children crammed into a house during a time of hardship and suffering, it was beyond wishful thinking to imagine there hadn’t been deaths.

I tried to picture what it must have been like while Ellen’s story echoed in my head.
I haven’t seen Henry for a month…

If a child–a quiet, unobtrusive, and shy child–suddenly disappeared out of a hectic house with a constantly changing list of occupants, how long would it take before someone noticed?

Was Henry the only child to disappear? What if others had gone missing, but were never remembered?

I tossed in my bed, trying to calm my mind enough to sleep. The air felt thick, and I was having trouble breathing properly. Downstairs, Mum’s mantelpiece clock chimed one in the morning. I threw off my blankets.

I needed to know more about the house and the people who’d lived in it. My family only had one computer, and it was downstairs, in Dad’s office, so I pulled my jacket on over my pyjamas and crept out of my room.

The house felt eerily empty and quiet at night. I knew my parents were sleeping in one of the rooms down the hallway, but it was easy to imagine I was the last person on earth as I took the stairs two at a time and turned in to Dad’s office.

It was a comfy, cluttered room, and he’d set it up almost identically to the way it had been in our old house. The TV sat in one corner with a lounge opposite, and a desk and computer stood against the other wall. The main difference was the stack of boxes pressed into the space beside the lounge. Dad was probably still trying to find a place for them.

I turned the computer and slid into the chair. As soon as the browser loaded, I typed our address into the search bar. The first few results were old real estate listings, but the third link belonged to a historical site. I opened it and started reading.

It must have been the same page Dad had found. It talked about how the house had been constructed in 1891 by a lord who’d owned a good part of the village. When he’d died, he’d gifted it to the local church, which had set up an orphanage under the care of nuns from a nearby convent. When the Great Depression hit, the nuns, who had a policy of helping anyone who came to them, took in far more children than the house had been equipped to hold. There were photos, and I scrolled through them slowly.