A House in London Read online

  Copyright 2016 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  Dark Season Books

  First published: February 2016

  This edition: July 2016

  This book's front cover incorporates elements licensed from the Bigstock photo site.

  Short of money after moving to London, Jennifer Griffith accepts a job babysitting for a wealthy couple. When she arrives at their house, however, she quickly learns that this particular baby isn't quite what he seems. Although she agrees to go through with the job for one night, it doesn't take long before she starts to regret her choice. Something dark lurks in the shadows of the house, something that wants something from Jennifer. Something that won't let go, not even after she heads home...

  A House in London is a horror novella about a girl who always dreamed of a house in London, and who finally discovers a nightmare waiting in the shadows.

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  The Babysitter

  Part Two

  Saturday Night

  Part Three

  A House in London

  Epilogue

  A House in London

  Part One

  The Babysitter

  I

  She felt so small down there on the pavement, at the bottom of the steps that led up to the grand old house.

  A London bus roared past behind her as Jennifer double-checked the address she'd scribbled down on a piece of paper. 1480 West Grosvenor Street, one of the most prestigious residential buildings in the heart of the city, stood on the corner of two busy roads close to both the Bank of England and the great cathedral of St. Paul's. A part of London Jennifer had never really visited before. She'd usually stayed south of the river ever since moving to the city twelve months ago.

  Crunching the piece of paper up again and stuffing it into her pocket, she hesitated for a moment longer before realizing that she had to make a choice. Either give up and go home for the night, and call the Diebolds to let them know she was unavailable, or get up there and knock on the door. She took a deep breath, before starting to make her way up the stone steps. There was no reason, she told herself, to be scared. It was just a house.

  Nearby, the bells of a city church rang above the sound of traffic.

  After ringing the buzzer next to the door, she stood and waited. A moment later she spotted a camera tucked high above in the corner of the doorway, its dark lens watching her intently. She stared up at the camera for a few seconds, imagining someone tracking her on a monitor, and then she turned and looked back out at the street. A couple more buses were passing, along with taxis and cyclists and a few private vehicles. As ever at twilight in London, a changing of the guard was taking place. Workers were going home, and diners and daters were heading out to the city's hot spots. Jennifer couldn't help remembering the days, long gone now, when she'd dreamed of moving to London. Now that she was here, however, everything seemed so -

  Suddenly hearing movement inside the house, she whipped around just in time to see the door start to swing open, revealing a warm, brightly-lit interior. As the door slowly opened wider, she was finally able to see the elderly gentleman who had come to meet her, and she forced a smile as she waited to find out whether this was Mr. Diebold or, as seemed more likely, simply his manservant (or whatever such people were called now). Judging by the grandeur of the house, she figured the Diebolds were definitely the type of people who'd have staff. At the very last second, she also remembered to stand up straight and display good posture, which she'd read was something that high society people valued a great deal. No more slouching.

  “Miss... Griffith?” the elderly man said with a faint, expectant smile.

  “Call me Jennifer,” she replied, holding out a hand for him to shake. “Please.” She'd practiced this moment over and over in her head during the bus journey, desperate to make a good first impression.

  The man seemed a little surprised, but he shook her hand nonetheless and then he shuffled back while gesturing for her to step inside.

  “You must forgive my tardiness in answering,” he told her, “but I'm afraid I don't get about as quickly as I once did. It's the knees I have trouble with. I'm not a young man anymore.”

  “It's no problem at all,” she replied, stepping inside and immediately smelling mahogany and furniture polish. She knew she mustn't stare too much, but she couldn't help noting the sheer opulence of the hallway: huge oil paintings hung on the walls, while a chandelier hung down above from the high ceiling. A wide spiral staircase rose up on one side of the room, leading to the house's upper levels. “This is such a beautiful house,” she continued, turning to the old man as he slowly pushed the door shut. She winced as she realized her Lancashire accent had briefly broken through, ruining her attempt to sound clipped and less northern. “So beautiful,” she added, remembering this time to sound southern.

  “Now you must forgive me,” the man said, fumbling with trembling arthritic hands as he slid the door's bolt back across, “for I have been...” He paused, sounding a little short of breath, and then slowly he turned to her. “I have been frightfully rude in not introducing myself properly. My name is Arthur Diebold, and I believe we spoke on the telephone yesterday afternoon at about three o'clock.”

  “That's right,” she replied with a smile. Suddenly remembering her CV, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the single, folded sheet of A4 paper. She'd meant to get it laminated, but she just hadn't had the time. “Here's a list of my previous jobs,” she told him, holding the piece of paper out. “You can call any of the numbers on there and they'll be glad to give you a reference.”

  “I'm sure,” he said, taking the CV but only giving it a cursory glance before turning and slowly leading her across the hallway. “I don't have my spectacles,” he explained, limping and slightly hunched, “but I'm sure there'll be no need to telephone anyone tonight. I pride myself on being a good judge of character, Miss Griffith. A forty-year career as a High Court judge taught me to sort the wheat from the chaff, and I had a very positive feeling about you as soon as we first spoke yesterday. By the way, did I detect a hint of an accent in your voice? Lancashire, perhaps? The Blackpool area?”

  “I...” She paused, surprised that he'd noticed. “Sorry,” she said after a moment, walking slowly alongside him and taking care not to get ahead, “I usually try to hide it.”

  “And why would you do that, hmm?” he asked with a smile. “Silly girl. I happen to think the dialects of this country's northern regions are exceedingly beautiful in their rhythms and cadences. You should be proud of where you're from.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, suddenly feeling a little foolish. Blushing, even. “To be honest, I started to hide it when I moved to London last year. One of my careers advisers said I'd have a better chance at getting a job.”

  “Deary me,” he muttered as they finally reached the door that led through into the reception room. “I would have hoped such foolishness had ended many years ago. It matters not where a person is from, but rather what they do with themselves. When I was on the bench, some of the foulest, most loathsome individuals who appeared in my dock happened to speak with perfect, cut-glass accents that one would usually expect to hear only from royalty or -”

  Before he could finish, he broke into a series of sudden coughs, and it took a moment for him to clear his throat.

  “I'm sorry,” he stammered, “so sorry, I... Unfortunately, I have been
suffering from a head cold of late, although you needn't worry. I'm past the infectious stage now.”

  “I've never been in a house like this before,” she replied, looking around the high-ceilinged room and seeing huge oil paintings depicting various men and women, some on horses and some, she couldn't help noting, bearing a strong resemblance to Mr. Diebold himself. “Has it been in your family for a long time?”

  “Oh, many years,” he explained. “Since it was built, in fact, in the late seventeenth century. I've been working on a history of the building in my spare time.”

  Stepping forward and looking at the chairs arranged around a large oak table, Jennifer couldn't help noticing that this was precisely the kind of house she'd dreamed of as a child. Other girls might have fantasized about princes and castles, but she'd always wanted a big house in London. Nearby, a large vase stood on a wooden plinth, and she immediately shuddered at the thought of such a thing crashing to the ground. She knew she couldn't ask about values, of course, but she felt quite certain that the vase alone was most likely worth more than most people's entire houses. She paused for a moment, her eyes wide with awe as she turned and saw a large chandelier high above, and slowly she began to realize that although she could never realistically hope to live in such a house, it was a rare privilege just to step into one.

  Hearing a cough nearby, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that Mr. Diebold seemed amused by her reaction. She'd been so caught up in her sense of wonder, she hadn't heard the last thing he'd said.

  “Oh,” she stammered, “I'm sorry, I was just... Did you...”

  His smile widened. “I simply asked whether it was history that you studied at university.”

  “Oh, no, it was...” She swallowed hard. “Advertising.”

  “I see. One of the oldest professions.”

  “It wasn't very... I mean, it was just... I didn't...” She grimaced slightly as she realized she wasn't explaining herself too well. “It wasn't what I really wanted to do, but I thought I should be practical. I was going to study history at first, but my careers adviser at school told me I should try advertising because it wouldn't be hard to find a job once I'd graduated.”

  “And was this the same careers adviser who told you to hide your accent?”

  She smiled again. “It was, actually.”

  “And has it been difficult to find employment since your graduation?”

  She nodded. “Very. I got a first-class degree, but the market isn't so good right now. I'm sure it'll pick up, though. Everyone keeps saying it has to eventually.”

  “So I understand,” he replied. “And are you, like so many of today's young people, still living at home with your parents?”

  “My...” She paused. “Um, well, actually my parents...” Her voice trailed off.

  “I'm so sorry,” he replied, “do forgive me, I remember this came up on the telephone yesterday.”

  “It's fine.”

  “It must be so hard being alone in the world,” he continued, “with no family.”

  “I get by,” she told him. “In some ways, it taught me to be...”

  Again her voice trailed off, and the discomfort was clear in her eyes. The conversation had suddenly taken a personal turn, one that she hadn't anticipated.

  “I always try to remind myself how lucky I have been,” Mr. Diebold continued as he checked his watch, “to have enjoyed the benefits of a large and moneyed family. I'm sure I would have been quite lost if I had been a young man alone in today's society.” He paused again, as if there was something else he wanted to say but he couldn't quite get it out. “Now,” he added finally, checking his watch again, “I would love to give you a tour of the whole house and bore you with all my stories, but unfortunately time is not on our side this evening. My wife and I have some friends coming to town for dinner, and we must meet them at a restaurant in Covent Garden at seven on the dot. I'm afraid they are tiresomely punctual people who won't hesitate to complain if we are so much as a minute late.”

  “Of course,” she told him. “I understand completely.”

  “But feel free to take a look around the place while we're out,” he continued. “Nowhere is off-limits, although I must warn you, the house has many nooks and crannies. One could even, I suppose, get rather lost.”

  “It's just so beautiful,” she replied, before hesitating for a moment. The house seemed so silent, and she was starting to wonder whether there had been a misunderstanding. “On the phone,” she continued cautiously, “you told me that this was a babysitting job...”

  “Absolutely,” he said, with something of a frown. “Of course.”

  “You also said that it was a little unusual,” she continued, “and that you'd explain once I got here. If you take a look at my CV, you'll see that I have extensive babysitting experience from my time at university. I used to work several nights a week for a whole load of different families, and any of them will be more than happy to speak to you if you want to call them and check my references.”

  “I really don't think there'll be any need for that,” he replied, shuffling steadily toward her and lowering his voice a little, as if he didn't want to be overheard by anyone else in the house. “However, as I intimated, there is something you should know about. It's a rather delicate matter, but -”

  “Darling?” a shrill female voice called out suddenly, accompanied by the sound of footsteps clattering down the spiral staircase. “Was that the babysitter arriving? Is she here?”

  The old man opened his mouth to say something to Jennifer, before hesitating with a trace of fear in his eyes.

  “Oh, how wonderful!” the woman shrieked as she tottered into the room on pink high heels. Made up to the nines and almost bursting out of a garish floral dress, she trailed an overpowering smell of perfume as she clattered across the marble floor and wrapped Jennifer in a large, exceedingly familiar embrace. “You're just how I pictured you,” she continued, squeezing her tight. “Yes, you'll be absolutely perfect, I'm sure. Perfect in every way.”

  “Um, thank you,” Jennifer replied, waiting for the embrace to end. “I'm just very grateful that you chose me. I'm sure there were a lot of applicants.”

  “Oh, not as many as you'd think,” the woman continued, finally letting go of her and stepping back. Her generous bosom, barely covered by her dress, wobbled with every breath. “Now my dear girl, has my husband offered you a drink yet?”

  “Um -”

  “I hadn't the chance,” Mr. Diebold admitted. “Also, I thought perhaps -”

  “Scandalous!” the woman exclaimed. Tottering around Jennifer, she made her way to a drinks cabinet in the corner. “Baby won't mind if you have one drink, my dear.”

  “Oh, I'm fine,” Jennifer told her, “really...”

  “Nonsense. Are you a wine drinker?”

  “Not really.”

  “Spirits?”

  “I've never really had much -”

  “Oh all you girls are drinkers these days,” she continued, interrupting her. “You don't have to stand on ceremony around us!”

  “I just -”

  “You must try this delightful rioja,” the woman continued, interrupting her yet again as she took a bottle of red wine from the cabinet. “It was brought to us by a friend who owns a vineyard in Spain. He absolutely prides himself on the quality of his wines, and I must say, he produces the most impeccable vintages year after year. One would think he must have made a deal with the Devil! I don't know whether -”

  “My dear,” Mr. Diebold said suddenly, clearing his throat rather loudly, “I'm afraid we are a little pushed for time.”

  Glancing over at the grandfather clock in the corner, the woman seemed genuinely shocked. “Why, yes we are,” she said after a moment, before looking down at the bottle in her hands as if she wasn't quite sure what to do next. If anything, she seemed a little disappointed. “I suppose you'll just have to sample this once we're gone,” she added, turning to Jennifer. “You absolutely must, yo
u know.”

  “I really don't drink all that much,” Jennifer protested. “Thank you for the kind offer, though.”

  “The time, dear,” Mr. Diebold muttered, with a little more stress in his voice.

  “Oh, we'll be fine,” the woman replied, setting the bottle down and then hurrying over to Jennifer. “I can't believe he hasn't even introduced us yet. My name is Vivian and, yes, I am married to this darling old man. Just because he's twenty years my senior, that doesn't mean he's a doddering old fool. Quite the contrary in fact, sometimes he makes me feel old! Can you believe that?” Shrieking with delight, she planted a loud, smacking kiss on her husband's cheek, although the old man seemed a little taken aback by such a strong show of public affection and quickly wiped his face with a monogrammed handkerchief that he pulled from his suit's breast pocket.

  “And the child I'll be minding tonight,” Jennifer said with a startled smile, “is he...”

  “That's another area where my darling Arthur puts younger men to shame,” Vivian continued with a broad, dirty grin. “He's my third husband, but he's the only one who managed to get his seed to do the business, if you know what I mean. You wouldn't guess it to look at him, but Arthur is quite a goer in the bedroom department! He can still get his little soldiers to where they need to be!” With that, she patted the front of her husband's trousers and then winked at Jennifer.

  Jennifer opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out. She wasn't quite sure what to say.

  “Look at you!” Vivian roared, hurrying over to her and pinching her cheeks. “I do believe, my dear, that I've made you blush!”

  “We really should get on with things,” Mr. Diebold said, clearly a little uncomfortable. “Vivian, my dear, why don't you go and finish getting ready, and I'll speak with Miss Griffith about the -”

  “Oh, let's just go and introduce her to him,” Vivian replied, grabbing Jennifer's hand and half leading, half dragging her back to the hallway and over to the stairs. “Men,” she added, winking at Jennifer again. “Sometimes they do love to natter, don't they? But let's not dawdle, you simply must meet our darling little Ivan!”