The House on Everley Street (Death Herself Book 2) (18 page)

“There's something down there. What is it?”

“There's nothing in the basement,” he replied. “Katie, you -”

Stopping suddenly, he realized that maybe she was right. He couldn't remember clearly, but he had a sudden sense that there
was
something in the basement of the other house. He'd spent so much time worrying about the room where his grandmother had died, he'd allowed those concerns to overshadow the deep, gut feeling that the real presence was in the basement, behind the breeze-block wall that had just appeared one day as if from nowhere. For a moment, he found himself remembering slivers of things that had happened down there: Alison laughing as she forced her way past and headed down; Hannah insisting on taking a look; his father pulling a loose block away; and finally, he remembered carrying the breeze-blocks down from the garden, almost as if he himself had built the wall.

Katie gasped as the far door began to creak open.

“Daddy,” she hissed. “I want to go!”

“Wait,” he replied, his mind racing as he remembered more and more. It was as if he had two entirely separate minds, and now the barrier between them was breaking down, allowing memories to flood through. “Katie -”

Before he could finish, an unseen force grabbed the little girl and pulled her away, slamming her into the wall and then dragging her across the landing as she screamed for help. Reaching out for her, John tried and failed to grab her hand before racing after her. After just a few paces, however, he heard a rattling sound nearby, and he turned just in time to see something slamming into his face, hitting him on the temple and knocking him out cold.

Still screaming, Katie tried to dig her fingers into the floorboards, but she was powerless to keep herself from being dragged along the landing and through the far doorway, into the darkest room in the house. A figure was waiting, reaching down to grab the little girl's shoulders as the door swung shut.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Twenty years ago

“No,” John replied, trying not to sound frustrated as he stood in the hallway with the phone against one side of his face, “I already told you, her funeral is being held in Essex. That's what she wanted. It's tomorrow.”

“Oh dear,” Dorothy Ormerey replied on the other end of the line, “that doesn't leave much time to organize flowers, but I shall certainly try. What's the name of the -”

“There's no point,” he said firmly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I really don't have time to talk about this right now,” he continued, on the verge of telling the nosy old woman to go to hell. He felt angrier than usual, more combative, and he didn't have time to explain everything to people. “Don't send flowers. If you want to do something for her, make a donation to charity. Any charity'll do.”

“So who exactly is going to the funeral?” she asked.

He paused, trying to think of a few names he could throw at her. “People in Essex,” he said finally. “No-one you know.”

“I see.”

He could almost hear the frown over the line.

“Well,” Mrs. Ormerey continued, “if that's what she really wanted...”

“It is.”

“And I suppose -”

“I really have to go,” he added, “so I'm sorry I could be more help. I'm sure my grandmother would have appreciated the fact that you called, though.”

“So which -”

Before she could ask another question, he put the phone down and then, for good measure, he disconnected it from the wall. The past few days had been filled with old women calling up to ask the same goddamn things, and he was sick of dealing with them. Was it so hard for them to understand that his grandmother had wanted to be buried back in the area where she'd grown up? He hadn't even been lying, not about the most important part: his grandmother
had
been born in Essex, and even though she'd never expressed any desire to be buried there, he felt it was a believable story, so people should just shut up and believe it.

Heading back to the kitchen, he stopped for a moment, feeling as if the world was spinning all around him. He'd been working hard all morning, but there was still so much to do. He made his way to the hatch and then down into the basement, where he'd already set up several lights that meant he could see what he was doing. At the basement's far end, he'd already laid his grandmother's body out on a table, and he'd used ropes to tie her down. After all, although he'd been certain earlier in the day that she was dead, there had been a few twitches and clicks from her body that had left him a little worried. He'd considered calling an ambulance, but he was worried they might take her away and make her better, and then bring her back again, and then everything would start again.

He wanted to be free, which meant getting rid of her as fast as possible.

Halfway across the basement, he'd begun to build the wall, using breeze-blocks he'd pulled from behind the greenhouse. He'd done some research at the local library and he'd managed to mix together a thick gray paste that seemed to be holding the blocks firmly in place, and after working methodically for several hours he'd been able to build part of a wall that even he found impressive. Reaching down, he grabbed another of the heavy blocks and carried it over, before putting it in place on a layer of paste he'd been smoothing out when the phone rang a few minutes ago. He figured it would take the best part of a whole day to finish the wall, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was getting his grandmother out of sight and -

Suddenly he heard a faint gasp. Looking toward the table, he saw no sign of movement, and he told himself that dead bodies had a habit of releasing trapped air. A moment later, however, he heard another gasp, and this time he thought he saw, in the gloom, his grandmother's face moving slightly.

“No,” he whispered, his eyes wide with shock, “you're dead. You have to be.”

He got back to work on the wall, hoisting block after block into place. He didn't really have a plan for after the wall was in place, but he figured he'd come up with something. There were a few more gasps from the table, but he was able to ignore those and focus exclusively on the task at hand, and once the wall extended three-quarters of the way across the basement he stepped back for a moment and admired his handiwork. Having never done anything remotely like building a wall before, he'd worked carefully and methodically, and he felt that he'd done a surprisingly good job. All that remained was to get it finished and -

Suddenly his grandmother let out a faint moan, and this time there could be no doubt: he turned and looked at her, and he saw to his horror that she was trembling slightly, causing the ropes around her torso to start rubbing against her night-dress.

He froze for a moment, before telling himself that he was simply imagining the whole thing. Reaching down, he grabbed another breeze-block and put it in place, working faster this time and starting to become a little sloppy. Ignoring the continued moans from the table, he grabbed another block, but this time he fumbled as he put it in place. The block slipped from his hands and fell, landing on the front of his foot and causing him to cry out in pain. He pulled his foot free and limped back, feeling a growing sense of discomfort around the area of his big toe. Still, he figured he could examine the damage later. For now, as his grandmother continued to moan, he ignored the pain and pulled the breeze-block up, this time sliding it quickly and firmly into place.

“Jonathan,” a voice whispered suddenly, its tones slurred and barely understandable, “what are you doing?”

He froze, trying to convince himself that his imagination was running out of control.

“I...” the voice continued. “Jonathan... I...”

Slowly, he turned and looked over at her, and he saw that his grandmother had turned to look at him. Her face seemed distorted somehow, as if one side was almost melted, and he knew enough about medical situations to realize that she'd most likely suffered a massive stroke.

“If you don't...” she hissed, struggling to speak, “let me... up... I swear I'll kill you... just... like...”

Staring at her, he shook his head.

“You're just like your... mother...” she whispered.

Reaching down, he picked up another breeze-block and for a moment he considered going over to the table and crushing the old woman's skull. His hands were trembling, but he knew deep down that he could never do anything so direct. It would be better to simply hide his grandmother away and pretend she was gone forever, so he put the breeze-block in place and began to add more paste. He figured she'd waste away quickly enough.

“No,” she hissed, trying to raise he voice but unable to get above a pained, slurred whisper. “No! Somebody help me!”

Grabbing one of the rags he'd brought down to cover the floor, John hurried to the table and placed the fabric firmly over the old woman's mouth, quickly tying a gag that rendered her cries virtually inaudible. To make doubly sure that no-one would hear her, he put another rag in place, and then another, before stepping back and watching as she struggled in vain. She could clearly only use one side of her body, with the stroke having paralyzed the rest, and he figured that she'd probably just die fairly quickly if he left her alone. When he'd found her on the bedroom floor, he'd been certain she was already dead, and he'd had time to get used to the idea. The thought of going back to how things used to be, of returning to that hopeless life, was too horrifying to contemplate.

Ignoring her continued attempts to get free, he went back and got to work finishing the wall.

***

“You're becoming quite the regular visitor, aren't you?” said the woman behind the library counter as she looked at the books he was checking out. “It's good to see people taking literature seriously.”

He smiled politely, but really he was just waiting for her to scan his books so he could leave.

“Sound-proofing for the home studio,” the woman read from the first book's cover. “Are you a musician?”

“I...” He paused. “No. I mean, it's something I'm thinking about for the future.”

“Caring for stroke victims,” she continued, looking at the second book. “Oh, has someone in your family suffered a stroke?”

“No,” he told her, “I just... I thought it'd be good to read up on something like that. You never know when you might come across someone who's hurt. I mean, if you did the wrong thing, you might end up accidentally killing someone
them.” He stared at the book, watching as the woman scanned it and then stamped the plate on the inside of the front cover. “Better to be safe than sorry,” he continued, “right?”

***

“It's okay,” he said a few days later, as he finally finished installing the third layer of insulation that he hoped would stifle any sounds his grandmother made, “it'll be over soon. This is just to avoid any unfortunate accidents.”

Whereas the breeze-block wall had ended up as a surprisingly professional-looking job, the sound-proofing hadn't gone so well, but he figured it wouldn't be necessary for too long. Looking over at the table, he realized his grandmother had barely moved all day, even though he could tell she was still alive. He'd given her no food and no water, preferring to let nature take its course, but now he knew that the final moment had come. The room was ready to be sealed, which meant he had to say goodbye.

Stepping over to the table, he looked down at her gagged, tired face.

“Can you hear me?” he asked.

He waited.

Silence.

“Hey.” He nudged her shoulder, and this time she opened her eyes. “I'm going now,” he told her. “I know you probably think I'm evil, but after everything you did to me...” His voice trailed off for a moment, but he figured there was no point going through it all again. The old woman undoubtedly remembered all the beatings to which she'd subjected him, all his screams, all the punishments he'd endured, everything she'd done to him, but now the misery belonged in the past. “This is just how it has to be,” he continued, turning and heading toward the small gap in the breeze-block wall.

He stopped suddenly as he heard a faint, muffled groan. Turning, he saw she was tugging at the ropes with weak arms, but he was confident she wouldn't be able to get off the table, and her voice had been so badly damaged by the stroke, she could barely even whisper.

Hearing a scratching sound nearby, he looked down and saw a couple of rats scurrying out of a hole in the wall, just next to a damp patch. For a moment, he worried that the rats might start gnawing on his grandmother's flesh, but he quickly forced such ideas out of his mind and instead slipped through the gap before pushing the final breeze-block into place. He had to work hard to keep his mind blank, and to block out all the thoughts that were racing through his head, but finally he finished setting the last block and he stood back.

The wall was complete.

It was tempting to try to imagine what was happening on the other side, to think about his grandmother tied down and alone in the cold, dark space, with only rats for company. At the same time, he knew he'd only end up losing his mind if he dwelt for too long on such matters, so he took a deep breath and forced himself to think about other, happier things. It wasn't easy to switch his thoughts, but he figured he'd get better with practice. Once he was certain that there were no sounds escaping from the hidden room, he switched off the lights and carried them up into the kitchen before putting them neatly away. After a moment, he looked down at the floor and imagined his grandmother below, but he quickly reminded himself that he shouldn't think about her. Instead, he got to work on other chores, and to his surprise he found that he could quite easily keep his mind from dwelling on the morning's events.

And then, with no warning, he heard someone knocking on the door. He froze, uncertain as to whether or not he should answer, but a moment later there was another knock. Making his way cautiously to the hallway, he looked through and saw a pale shape on the other side of the frosted glass, with a hint of red in the center. Whoever it was, it definitely wasn't a policeman, and he figured he couldn't hide forever. After taking a deep breath, he made his way over.

“Hey,” Alison said with a smile, as soon as John opened the door. She was wearing a cream sweater with a big ladybird on the front. “Long time, stranger.”

Startled, he stared at her for a moment. He'd spent the morning tidying the house, lost in his own thoughts... or at least that was what he told himself. For a moment, he felt as if maybe there was something he'd forgotten, as if his mind had divided into two completely separate halves, but that sensation passed quickly enough. Instead, he focused on the surprise of seeing Alison standing in front of him. After all, she was one of his few friends, or at least she had been, back when he still
had
friends, back in his school days.

“Are you gonna invite me in?” she asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow, “or do I have to force my way through the door? Which, to be fair, wouldn't be so easy after my recent op.” She looked down at his foot. “Are you limping?”

“Oh, it's nothing,” he replied. “I just hurt my toe when...” Pausing, he realized he didn't remember how he'd hurt it. “It's nothing. Come in.”