The Pawnbroker E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Amid the danger and death of a decaying 19th century city, the Pawnbroker plies his trade. A man of evil temper, he craves the one thing that will bring him the fulfillment he covets.

In the present day, two teenage boys explore an abandoned Tudor-style house. An eerie atmosphere fills the boys with a sense of dread, and they realize that something sinister is in the air.

As the past reaches the present, the boys must uncover the mystery of the house... and face the ancient evil only known as The Pawnbroker.

Leseprobe

The Pawnbroker

A Horror Story

Stuart G. Yates

Copyright (C) 2017 Stuart G. Yates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

Edited by Lorna Read

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Also by Stuart G. Yates

UnflinchingIn The BloodTo Die in GloryVarangianVarangian 2 (King of the Norse)Burnt OfferingsWhipped UpSplintered IceThe Sandman ComethRoadkillTears in the Fabric of TimeSallowed BloodLament for Darley DeneThe Tide of TerrorOgre's Lament - The Story of Don Luis

For my lovely daughter, Emily. I'm so proud of you, the way you never give up and always strive for the very best. This one is for you, because you love a good horror, from your dear old dad.

The Beginning

In the late 1860s, the narrow, twisting streets of the city were covered in thick grime which, like a leech, sucked everything good and wholesome from the very bricks and mortar of the surrounding buildings. A labyrinth of decay and unwashed humanity gave the warrens a particular stench, a cancer of filth, spreading remorselessly amongst the swarming populace. Here, people shared their lives with pestilence, rats and corruption. Having no chance for any other kind of existence, they accepted their plight without complaint and survived.

Life was cheap, as easily taken away as created, danger and death interlacing every breathing moment. That most wonderful of nature's gifts – the bringing of new life into the world – proved the most dangerous of times, for both mother and infant. Understanding of sickness, disease and infection remained rudimentary, doctors being as ignorant as they were a thousand years before. An accident could sever a limb, crush a bone or render a worker blind, thus ending any hope of placing food on the table. Necessity forced children, often as young as five or six, to work and keep everything in balance. Families were large, sharing crumbling dwellings with others, sometimes as many as twelve to a single room, crammed into airless, dank cellars. Parents hardly dared speak lest the youngest woke and set up endless wailing as the constant pain of hunger gnawed at the lining of their shrivelled bellies, sending mothers and fathers frantic with the noise. An unending nightmare, a constant struggle to make ends meet and get through just one more day.

Amongst this squalor, the pawnbroker roamed in his ephemeral undertaking. Flitting into people's homes and preying on their desperate need, he spied out valuable trinkets or family heirlooms, offering them a pittance for items worth a hundred times more. At least, as he often told them, he offered some relief to their pitiful existence.

“It's pearls,” said the toothless crone, standing amidst the chaos of filthy, squabbling children, that morning in chilly autumn. The pawnbroker wrung his hands, seeming to fill the tiny room. Swathed in black, shoulders hunched, patient, he waited like some great predatory bird, his offer made. In the corner, a younger woman, perhaps the mother of the feral brood, rocked herself backwards and forwards, mumbling meaningless sounds. Both he and the crone ignored her.

Mouth widening slightly into what might be mistaken for a smile, the Pawnbroker's voice sounded as cold and as chill as a January morning. “You are mistaken, old woman. They are mere stones, polished to resemble pearls.”

They held one another's stares. From out of the gloom, a man appeared, broad across the chest, huge arms dangling like an ape's, his eyes black-rimmed, breath stinking of drink. He shuffled forward, seizing the jewellery from the crone's grasp. “If she says it's pearls,” he droned, words slipping from between wet, slack lips, “then it's pearls.”

“I'll give you two shillings,” said the pawnbroker, “and that is more than they are worth, even if they were real.”

Such confrontations were bread and butter to the pawnbroker and he knew, in the end, his would be the triumph. He pulled in a long breath and dipped inside his pocket. The money jangled in his palm and the light in the big man's eyes raged. Licking his lips, voice thick, breath coming in short pants, he said, “Make it half-a-crown and they're yours.”

A long, stretched-out moment followed, as the pawnbroker ruminated on the offer. Calculating the value of the pearls to be in excess of five pounds, he screwed up his mouth in a show of anguish. “Very well,” he said at last and pushed the coin into the man's grimy fist whilst at the same moment relieving the crone of her treasure.

Outside in the stinking passageway, he allowed himself a chuckle of self-congratulation and ran the genuine pearls through his fingers. He must wait the mandatory fortnight, to give these desperate people the opportunity to return to his shop with the repayment, but he knew this was not likely; the half-crown would disappear down the big man's throat in a pint or two of gin. It was always the same. So, he'd hold onto them for a short time, before selling them on for a handsome profit. He had customers in Belgravia who would gladly give him well over the odds for such a string.

Hearing the footfall, he turned, alert and saw the oaf bearing down on him, those great, bearlike hands open, preparing to grasp and wrestle him to the ground, steal everything he carried. But the oaf, handicapped by drink, should have known better. The pawnbroker slipped inside those strong arms and sank his blade deep into the brute's side. The oaf gasped, incredulous, and the pawnbroker pressed his mouth close to his stricken attacker's ear.

“Hunger will no longer trouble you, my friend,” he said and pushed the blade deeper still, the sharp blade slicing through internal organs. The big man groaned, a low, lamentable expulsion of fetid breath and the pawnbroker held him close, as one might an infant, and guided him to the ground, allowing the man's weight to free his body of the knife. Watching him crumple into a quivering heap, his life's blood leaking across the cobbles, the pawnbroker smiled and wiped his blade on the dying man's jacket before turning and disappearing into the maze of alleyways and side passages.

Gliding through the streets, he pondered on what had occurred. Usually, no one ever followed him. Such attacks were rare, most people grateful for the few coins he sprinkled into their eager palms. They would spend their money, perhaps on a few rotten potatoes, or more likely, if the husband caught wind of the transaction, on drink. Few attempted to win back their treasures. If ever they did, they failed, ending up like the big man – dead. None of this mattered to the pawnbroker. He remained unaffected by the deprivations he witnessed, the suffering, the violence. He traded in making money, accumulating his wealth, avarice his close companion. Nevertheless, he dreamed of discovering a truly valuable piece – a diamond-encrusted ring or necklace, anything that would transport him to the heady heights of comfort he so longed for and give him the means to escape this bleak, unrelenting existence.

In the close-knit community of his fraternity, his methods were causing concern. Pawnbrokers were not looked upon kindly by the desperate populace at any time, but he threatened to undermine even the very faintest sense of professionalism that some were attempting to create. There were rumblings, rumours and ramifications, and they summoned him to answer charges that he was bringing their profession into disrepute.

Unbeknown to his colleagues, the pawnbroker had already had a meeting. A meeting like no other. For too long, he had dwelt in the seedy, blackened world of sweaty, rundown offices. He had employed the talents of some local pickpockets, paying them well. They had crossed him, tried to swindle him, selling their ill-gotten wares for themselves and he'd reacted swiftly. A retribution both harsh and deadly. One damp and dismal morning, the bodies of two young boys, aged between eleven and thirteen, were washed up on the seashore at Egremont. Just nameless boys, lost to their parents many years before; both had had their throats cut. No one knew them and no one cared. The authorities undertook some sporadic investigations but, with little to go on, interest soon waned. They placed several posters around town – a meaningless gesture, for the majority of people who populated the neighbourhood could not read, and those that could bore them no mind. No one came forward and soon the bodies, wrapped up in coarse, jute sacks, were buried in a communal grave, forgotten.

A few weeks later, the pawnbroker employed another youth, a young lad by the name of Randolph, and at first things did not fare much better as he proved a useless pickpocket, almost getting himself caught more than once. Luckily for him, Randolph had seen something that might perhaps save him from the pawnbroker's wrath. Amidst the confusion of noise and crush of people that was Liverpool Pier Head, Randolph had spotted an interesting altercation between two men. One of them was as brown as a nut, but an Englishman nevertheless. Burly and tough-looking, he had berated a porter who had accidentally pulled one of the man's pieces of luggage onto the ground so awkwardly the sides had split. What Randolph saw nearly caused his eyes to pop out of their sockets. Jewels, a whole string of them, spilled out from the gash. The man was quick to stuff them back inside, whilst the porter hurriedly found some binding to lash around the leather case, but Randolph saw it all.

After the incident, and with the porter looking suitably shame-faced, Randolph followed the man, as expertly as he could, all the way onto the ferry that took him across the River Mersey to Birkenhead. From there, the man ordered a hansom cab and employed more porters to bundle the great case inside. Randolph, smart lad that he was, was close enough to hear the address.

The pawnbroker grinned when he heard the tale.

“This could be the one, my lad,” he hissed, pouring himself a glassful of port wine by way of celebration. He didn't offer any to Randolph, but instead pressed a florin into the boy's hand. “There, you've done well. Now, I'm going to think up a little plan and then… then, I might be needing you again. Until then, you run along and leave me to my wine.”

* * *

Randolph knew the pawnbroker's reputation all too well and he had no desire to cross him. If he could make as much as a florin every time the old man sent him out on a job, then that was enough for him. The thought of such earnings proved a wondrous one to Randolph, as he slipped out of the pawnbroker's lodgings and made his way along the streets towards the dockland area of Birkenhead. Bending his head to avert his eyes from any curious looks from passers-by, he did not know of Rooster's close proximity until he collided with the large midriff of the man. Randolph jumped, but was too slow to make good any escape attempt. Rooster had him by the throat in a blink, pinning him against the wall.

“Now then, little magpie,” wheezed Rooster, his grizzled face close to the boy's, “tell me what you've been doing for our friend the moneylender. I followed you and I want to know what you and him are up to – be quick now, or I'll break your neck.”

Those great, thick fingers squeezed and Randolph squawked, telling Rooster everything. And Rooster listened, and he, too, plotted.

* * *

That very evening, the pawnbroker stooped on bended knee before a large, gold incense burner of intricate design and, cupping the smoke with his hands, drew the intoxicating fumes closer to his face. The strange incantation was the one he always followed, taken from an ancient book passed to him many years before by a man from the Eastern part of Europe. It was a curious book, offered by a curious man.

Having come to the country some years before, the man, known only as Mancezk, found employment as the servant of a wandering magician, and assisted him in his travelling show. As they moved along the coast, from Blackpool down to Rhyl, people came and stood amazed at the flamboyant and mesmerising tricks the magician performed. But then, at one of the many bazaars on New Brighton pier, the magician mysteriously took ill and died. Some suspected poison, others the punishment of ancient, mystical gods. Whatever the truth, his servant gained the magician's possessions. Selling or discarding almost everything, Mancezk kept the book. He could not fully explain why, to himself or to anyone who might have asked. There was something magnetic about it and often he would wake in the middle of the night and reach out to stroke its green leather cover. Sighing as its creamy smoothness sent him in a state of bliss, he would sleep soundly until the morning.

Hard times struck and he sought out the pawnbroker and exchanged the book as surety against a small loan. Almost as soon as he held the book in his hands, the pawnbroker knew it was something special. Leafing through its pure velum pages, he felt a strange, preternatural stirring spread outwards from the pit of his stomach, to overwhelm every fibre of his being. That he could read it was a miracle, for the text was in some ancient tongue, long since lost, but a silent and powerful force guided him. A force which sought contact with an evil human entity. As for Mancezk, a Parish Beadle, on his way to check the veracity of a woman's claim of destitution to the Board of Guardians, found his body at the foot of an embankment, his throat cut deep, almost severing the head from the neck.

Now, having consumed almost the entire bottle of port, the pawnbroker sat, candles lit, a pentagram drawn upon the floor and recited the words. The incantations grew in intensity until, his voice rising in both volume and pitch, they became one continuous invocation of something dreadful. Inexorably, the atmosphere changed, an overwhelming chill spreading outwards from the centre of the room, and within it a blood-red glow containing a face – at one moment full, the next a flickering shade. Not the face of a human being, but the face of a creature beyond the realms of this world.

In the last few flickering moments before the candles burned out, the creature loomed forward. Hugely muscled, its head a swirling mass of protrusions, sharp, jagged, vicious-looking, limbs sinewy, imbued with preternatural strength, great hands clenching and unclenching. More massive than the solid granite of ancient mausoleums, this creature was related to death. It wallowed and celebrated in it, reeking of decay and corruption.

With eyes wide with wonder, the pawnbroker sat agog without recoiling, relishing the creature's presence. And its voice, rumbling, edged with wicked intentions, told the pawnbroker what he needed to do. As he listened, his soul grew hard. Even before this, the pawnbroker's soul was already lost, but now the creature claimed it for its own. In return, he imbued the pawnbroker with something more powerful and so much more seductive – pure evil.

“I'll do as I deem fit,” he told those others of his profession who had summoned him to their enclave.

“Then you shall cease to part of our brotherhood,” spat the chair of the meeting, a grizzled old man named Mathias, whose fortune was made through the desperation of the poor.

“You dare to think such a threat will divert me from my ambitions?” The pawnbroker levelled his gaze on each of the men assembled around the large table, the flickering oil lamps set in each corner casting their faces in deep shadow, distorting their features, making them seem more ghouls than human beings. He cackled, “I pity you.”

“Pity us?” said Mathias, rising from his chair, knuckles pressing hard on the table top. “Damn your arrogance! You go too far in your dealings with the poor. You fill them with fear and then swindle them out of what miserable possessions they put in your way.”

“You do much the same, so do not dare to preach to me, Nathanial Mathias.”

“I keep my accounts transparent,” returned Mathias, ignoring his colleague's barbed accusations, “as we all do in this room. But not you. No one knows where your dealings end up, or at what price.”

“And there have been accusations,” said another voice, floating out of the gloom. “Accusations of violence, or threats.”

“Prove it.”

“We don't have to prove it,” said Mathias, “it is what we all know. Therefore desist, or you shall be barred from our profession, your license to trade revoked, and the authorities made aware.”

The pawnbroker sat and considered the man's words.

He did not comment.

He merely slipped out of the room, leaving all of them to consider what might happen next.

Chapter One: The Old House

The present…

The two boys cycled up to the brow of the hill and stopped. They had been riding their bikes for a long time and both were almost out of breath. Perhaps, if they had turned their bikes around at that point, their lives would have been very different. Perhaps. But a dark and malevolent force was already at work, insidious and evil, utterly irrepressible and irresistible, making any independent decision unlikely, if not impossible.

Ignorant of any of this, for the time being at least, Jamie, the bigger of the two, looked at his friend. “I think we're lost,” he said, his voice cracking with concern. “We'll never find our way home.”

Tim, his friend, gave Jamie a look, eyes creased up, mouth pulled tight in a mocking smile. “What's the matter? Scared?”

“No,” said Jamie, defensively, not able to return Tim's unwavering stare. “I'm not scared.”

“Sure?”

“We've been riding for ages and I think we're lost.” He did his level best not to reveal to Tim the worries flitting around inside him; worries which had been building for the last hour or so as he became aware of various features he felt sure they had ridden past more than once. “The woods… following the trail… it didn't seem right. Couldn't you feel it?”

Everything had started out fine. They had followed the main road that ran the length of the old wood, then Tim had spotted a gate that was almost hidden amongst the thickly overgrown gorse flanking it on either side. “Let's explore!” he had cried and, without waiting, he had rushed headlong through the entrance and along the path.

Jamie sighed. This was so typical of Tim, he thought; always impulsive, never stopping to think or consider the rights and wrongs of a situation. Jamie was so much more cautious. Well, that's how he saw it. A lot of his schoolmates would replace 'cautious' with 'boring'. He didn't want to appear like this to anyone, especially not Tim, so Jamie reluctantly followed, eying the old gate, half-hanging from its rusted hinges. Why had Tim brought him to this spot? And why had he just plunged on, regardless of any danger that might be lurking ahead? Jamie accepted he wasn't as adventurous as Tim, even though he was much older and bigger. Somehow, he just never seemed able to climb as well as Tim, or swim as well, or, more importantly, fight as well. Tim could do anything. Or at least that's how it all seemed to Jamie as he pushed forward, dismissing his fears.

Jamie knew he was lucky to have a friend like Tim. When most of the other boys at school called him names or simply ignored him, Tim remained his faithful companion. So Jamie tagged along, doing everything that Tim wanted to do. Even coming on this bike ride, to goodness only knew where.

After no more than fifty paces, the path narrowed, hyphenated by fallen branches and clumps of tangled bracken, forcing the boys to dismount. With his eyes glued on every step he took, Jamie felt the presence of the trees on either side, looming dark and dangerous, like a living thing, simmering hot within the press of undergrowth and soaring tree-trunks. Sweat lathered Jamie's face, his shirt clung to his back and his wet hands slipped from the handle-bars. Looking up briefly, he saw Tim's back as his friend strode resolutely on, and wished he could possess the same courage.

“I'm not sure about this,” he said at last. “We said we'd be home by four.” Looking at his watch, he raised his voice. “It's now nearly half-past.” The idea of Mum being angry or, worse still, worried, was more of a concern for Jamie than the threat of Tim's displeasure.

Tim's voice, when he stopped and glared at him, seemed to echo Jamie's thoughts. “Half an hour late? Is that all you're worried about?”

“But it won't be half an hour by the time we get back, will it? It'll be more like an hour and a half.”

Tim let out a long sigh, a scowl developing on his hard face. “If you're so bothered about what your mum will say, why don't you go home right now?”

Jamie's feeble resistance disappeared and he looked away, miserably admitting defeat.

“Besides,” added Tim, “there's something ahead through here. Notice the way the trees thin out as if it's the beginning of a lawn or something? Let's go and have a quick look.”

So they pushed on, emerging from the wood to stand in what might once have been a large, ornamental garden. The deliberate planting of big bushes here and there seemed to confirm this suspicion, but everything appeared tired and bedraggled, with weeds sprouting everywhere. Whoever had laid out the shrubs had long ceased tending them.

“If this is a garden,” said Jamie, stepping up next to his companion, “that means it's private property and we're trespassing.”

The garden's state of abandonment gave the surroundings a sinister air which, coupled with the almost complete and total silence of the woods, made Jamie feel uncomfortable, out of control, like a little, lost child. But before Jamie could offer an objection, Tim pressed on, ignoring him, stepping out from the darkness of the trees to take in more of the surroundings.

Jamie came up behind him and only just managed to stop before he crashed into Tim's back. Both boys stared at the house standing silent and enormous before them.

Tim whistled through his teeth.

“Whoa!” exclaimed Jamie.

The house loomed large and rambling, its great black and white walls towering upwards. It was built in a Tudor style, with large, panoramic windows that allowed those within to gaze upon the sprawling gardens. At some point in its history, this must have been a magnificent dwelling, throbbing with the comings and goings of important guests, a small army of servants dashing through its many rooms and corridors, the entire place alive with noise and expectation. Jamie wasn't sure how old it might be, but it certainly seemed in need of extensive repair; many of its windows appeared cracked, some of the timbers rotten. A lonely house, Jamie thought, not much sign of life, its grandeur nothing but a distant memory. It reminded him of something from a corny horror film and he didn't like it. He shuddered.

“Let's go and explore!” shouted Tim and, without waiting, he rushed forward, leaving his bike behind, racing across the unkempt lawn towards the main entrance.

Jamie raised his voice, calling, “Just a minute, Tim,” but it was no use; Tim's mind was made up. Jamie shrugged, admitting defeat once again. He sighed and, pushing his bicycle, followed his friend.

A small hill ran up to the house. There was no sign of any fence or wall separating the grounds from the little wood out of which the two boys had emerged. Then Jamie realised – the boundary had been the gate they had gone through earlier. There had been no signs, at least none that he could remember, proclaiming that this was private property, so surely they wouldn't get into trouble simply because they were curious? But, as he approached the main doors, Jamie grew more uncertain, the awful thought they were trespassing pressing down upon him.

The closer he got, the bigger the house seemed, like some slumbering prehistoric beast. Its huge walls rose up to tower overhead, its great leaded windows peering down, all-seeing eyes watching their every move. Nevertheless, there were no apparent signs of life and when Tim pressed his face up against a window to look inside, Jamie followed.

There was nothing, just empty rooms. No furniture, no sign of habitation. Bare white walls, a sprinkling of broken plaster across the stripped wooden floors. “No one's lived in here for years,” said Tim.

They moved on, keeping close to the building, Tim leading the way, all the way around to the far side of the house.

As they turned the corner, they stopped, and gasped. Before them lay a huge, open expanse of lawn stretching on into the distance. An impressive set of stone steps led down from a broad stone patio onto vast ornamental gardens, laid out in neat, geometric patterns, punctuated with several fountains in the midst of man-made lakes. Putting down his bike, Jamie edged forward as if in a trance and gazed out at the sprawling vista before him. The atmosphere of abandonment was acute, everything oddly empty, more like a still, lifeless photograph than actual reality. There was no sign of it having been looked after. In fact, it looked quite the opposite. No gardener had tended the lawns for many, many months, possibly years. Ornamental fountains stood silent, the lakes, which must have once been so crystal clear and sweet-smelling, were now stagnant and sterile. It was a depressing sight, made all the more so by the curious silence that hung heavy and threatening all around.

There was something about the fountain which beckoned Jamie to move forward; an irresistible force, urging him to investigate still further. He descended the wide steps, gaze fixed upon the sad, forlorn fountain decorated with three nymphs embracing one another, arms reaching skywards, faces alive with expectation.

“What are you doing, Jamie?”

Jamie shivered, dragging himself from his disturbing thoughts and turned to see Tim standing there, hands on hips. Jamie shrugged, the moment broken, and ran back to join his friend.

Together again, they both stood and stared, taking in the wide frontage of this magnificent edifice, in the centre of which loomed enormous double-doors, black with age, with an impossibly huge brass door knocker set in the middle. Waiting. But for what?

Massive, leaded windows flanked the huge entrance. The two boys exchanged a look. Tim licked his dry lips and then, seeming to reach some decision within himself, took a deep breath and curled his fingers around the metal handle.

“What are you going to do?” whispered Jamie frantically.

Tim smiled back at him, a mocking smile full of contempt. “Knock at the door, idiot.”

Jamie looked about him. Nothing stirred, either from the garden or from the tree-line, yet that sense of somebody watching crept over him again and he shivered. The entire place was just too creepy for words.

He started as Tim rapped the heavy metal knocker against the door.

The sound boomed through the house.

They waited, hearts thumping.

There was no answer.

“Let's go,” said Jamie quickly, his voice barely a whisper.

Tim grinned. “Don't be soft,” he mocked, “I'll give it another go.” And he did, a harder, louder knock this time.

Again they waited, listening intently to the gradually fading sound echoing throughout the huge interior.

Nothing.

Tim turned to his friend and shrugged his shoulders. “No one in.”

Jamie closed his eyes, releasing a long sigh of relief. “Oh, that's good. Let's go home now. At least we won't get in any trouble from the owners.”

Tim shook his head. “What are you on about now?”

“Well, it's obvious, isn't it? That gate we came through, it must have been the entrance to this place.”

“Well, of course it was, you potato head.”

“Yes, and no one stopped us because no one is in.” Jamie struck a pose, hands on hips, chin jutting out, looking smug. “So, let's go home before they get back.”

“Why? What could they do?”

“Er… get us arrested?”

Tim ignored the sarcasm in Jamie's voice. “I'm going to try the door, see if it's open.”

As his fingers closed again around the huge, bulbous door handle, Jamie, gripped by an irresistible impulse, jumped forward and tore Tim's hand away.

“No,” he said, his voice cracking with fear, “no, Tim. You mustn't.”

“You're such a wimp,” said Tim, sounding angry. He gave Jamie a sharp push in the chest, sending him staggering backwards. He landed awkwardly on the ground, too shocked to feel any pain, more embarrassed and surprised at his friend's unexpected show of force. The fact Tim could turn like that made him question other things, too. His friend appeared determined not only to explore, but to break in. But then, as Jamie climbed slowly to his feet, he noticed Tim had frozen in the act of turning the handle. All thoughts of the injustice he felt at Tim's assault dwindled away, replaced by a strange tingling at the base of his neck. There was something wrong. “What's the matter?” he whispered, hardly daring to speak.

Tim turned and looked at him, his eyes wide. “It's unlocked,” he gasped and then, without a moment's hesitation, he pushed the huge door open and stepped inside.

Chapter Two: Message from the Past

As the two boys stood side by side in the massive hallway, the silence, eerie and unnatural, pressed against them, seemingly from the very walls themselves. The atmosphere grew cold, forcing them both to shiver, their breath steaming from trembling lips. They exchanged looks.

“There's something very wrong in here,” whispered Jamie.

For the first time that day, Tim agreed, offering a feeble nod. “It feels so lonely.”

The wide entrance hall ran towards a broad staircase, the steps of which were bare white wood. It curled upwards and around to the right, the balustrade, like the walls and everything else, appearing cracked along its surface, its ancient paint blistering and peeling. Beneath their feet, the tiles were thick with dust and the air reeked with the thick, clammy smell of damp. “No one's going to disturb us,” said Tim, turning to his friend. “Nobody has been in this house for years.”

This observation should have given Jamie some sense of comfort, but all he experienced was a sense of growing dread. He peered upwards to the ceiling and shivered. “It's like the house is telling us to 'get out'.”

“Don't be daft. Houses aren't alive.”

“This one is, I know it.”

“You're letting your imagination run wild, Jamie.” Tim forced a laugh, but to Jamie it sounded strained, almost as if his friend were putting it on, trying to present a brave face. “It's old and it's empty – and that's it.”

“But the air, it's so heavy – like lead. It's full of … something. Danger. Can't you feel it?”

If Tim did, he didn't admit it. “I can't feel a thing,” he said and pointed down the hallway. “Let's explore a little more.” Without waiting for an answer, he pressed on.

Sighing, Jamie reluctantly followed his friend to the staircase which ascended into the gloom. To the left of the stairs stood a closed door and farther down on the right, two more, also closed, their harsh whiteness like an immovable barrier, giving out a bleak warning – DO NOT ENTER. Turning away, Jamie surveyed the immediate area. Everywhere, the dim outlines of shapes danced in darkened corners, features barely discernible in the half-light. Deep shadows lurked in every mysterious recess.

Unable to ignore the dread growing inside him, Jamie took breath and tapped Tim on the shoulder, saying quietly, “I think we should go.”

With one foot on the first tread, Tim's face twisted into a scowl. “Are you nuts?” he whispered harshly. “This place is fantastic. It's like something out of an old history book. Hey, perhaps that's it – we've gone back in time hundreds of years.”

“Don't be stupid, it's just an empty house.” Jamie looked along the blank walls, noticing the faint outlines where once paintings had hung. “Abandoned.” On impulse, he tried one of the light switches; nothing happened. “Anyway,” he continued, “I don't think it's that old. It's like one of those houses we talked about in school when we did the Victorians. I'd say it's only about a hundred years old.”