The Blood House Page 2

  Chapter Three

  Today

  Footsteps approached the front door. Voices talking, two men making smalltalk. And then finally, for the first time in almost seventy-five years, an old bronze key slid into the warded tumbler lock.

  Once the key had been fully inserted, the cavity in its tip lined up perfectly with the multiple cylindrical slats that formed the main mechanism. Flakes of rust came loose as the key was turned, and there was a faint clicking sound as the notches slid over the various obstructions that would deny access to any other pattern. This, in turn, caused a bolt to move out of its resting position, accompanied by a low, quick clunking noise, and then the entire lock shuddered slightly as the hinges creaked and the door was pushed open.

  “Welcome,” Mr. Daniels said, taking the key from the lock and stepping aside. “Please, won't you go first?”

  “You weren't kidding, were you?” Owen replied, making his way into the house and stopping in the hallway, at the foot of a narrow, steep staircase. “The place smells... fusty.”

  “As I told you,” Mr. Daniels continued with a faint smile, “the house hasn't been disturbed since the previous tenants departed in the early 1940s. The late Mr. Marchionne left very strict instructions regarding the way the house was to be rented out, and we have been obliged to follow those instructions to the letter.”

  Looking around, Owen spotted an old, faded photograph on the opposite wall. He stepped over and saw a sepia image of a heavily-bearded elderly gentleman, with the name Cesar Marchionne inscribed carefully in the corner.

  “That's him,” Mr. Daniels said, stepping over and smiling as he looked at the photo. “Cesar Augustus Marchionne, the man who designed and built this house with his bare hands. By all accounts, he was one of the great geniuses of his age. It's said that in the late nineteenth century, there wasn't another man in the whole of England who possessed even a fraction of Cesar's Marchionne's brilliance.”

  “Huh,” Owen muttered, scrunching his nose as he looked at the photo for a moment. “And he still owns the house today, right?”

  “His family trust owns the house,” Mr. Daniels replied, handing him the key, “and as executor of that trust, I am beholden to carry out his wishes. He left very clear instructions in his will.”

  “Weird,” Owen said with a grin. “I mean, if the guy's been dead for over a century, how can he still decide who does and doesn't get to rent this place?”

  “The legal framework is quite comprehensive,” Mr. Daniels explained, glancing over his shoulder and watching for a moment as Owen's wife and daughter remained sitting in the car. He could hear raised voices, as if they were arguing, although he couldn't quite make out what was being said.

  “Just my daughter,” Owen told him. “She still hasn't quite accepted that we've moved out here to the middle of nowhere. She thinks if she sulks enough, we'll change our minds and go back to the city. Kids, huh?”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Daniels muttered, watching for a moment longer before turning back to him. “You had a chance to study the tenancy agreement, I take it?”

  “All eighty-plus pages.”

  “There really aren't that many rules,” Mr. Daniels continued, stepping past him and making his way through to the front room. Stopping, he looked around at the ancient, worn furniture that had sat untouched for decades. “You can, of course, spruce the place up a little, but the contract is quite clear.” He paused, before turning to Owen. “You are to make absolutely no structural changes to the house whatsoever. Not even so much as hammering a nail into a wall. Is that understood?”

  “Loud and clear,” Owen muttered, noticing that every item of furniture appeared to be bolted to the floor.

  “You must make sure that your wife and daughter also comply with these rules.”

  “No problem.”

  “All of them.”

  “Like I said, no problem.”

  Mr. Daniels paused for a moment, eying Owen with a hint of suspicion.

  “I mean it,” Owen continued, testing one of the armchairs and finding that it, too, had been secured in place. “I totally get that the house comes with a bunch of crazy rules. I'm just glad we were able to rent a place at all. With the way things are going lately, I thought we'd only be able to afford a shoebox, but this house...” He looked around for a moment. “I mean, it's huge. It's out of the way, it's miles from civilization, but it's massive. I've always dreamed of upping sticks and coming to live somewhere remote. The city can smother the imagination sometimes.”

  “Then you've found the perfect location,” Mr. Daniels told him, reaching into his pocket and taking out the tenancy agreement, which he proceeded to set down on the table before offering Owen a pen. “I merely require your signature, and then I can leave you to get on with the business of settling in.”

  “And I'll set up a standing order for the rent tomorrow,” Owen replied, taking the pen. “Don't worry, I'll pay on time every month. You can trust me, I'm not the kind of guy who's late with that sorta thing.”

  “I'm sure you aren't,” Mr. Daniels said with a smile, watching keenly as Owen scribbled his name at the bottom of the form.

  “So do you mind if I ask you a question?” Owen continued, handing the pen and paper back to him. “I mean, I totally get that this house comes with a load of rules, and I get that it's your job to enforce those rules, but...” He paused, before glancing at the photo of Cesar Marchionne out in the hallway. “The guy's been dead for more than a century. Doesn't there come a point when his last will and testament gets tossed aside? It just seems weird that he could leave this house behind but attach so many goddamn strings to its use.”

  “Mr. Marchionne's rules are very clear,” Mr. Daniels replied, “and the rest of the Marchionne Corporation is only funded by the trust fund if the house is taken care of. Anyone who wishes to rent this property must abide by those rules without exception. If you don't think that you can do that, I would urge you to turn around and leave immediately.”

  Owen shook his head. “We're here now. For better or for worse, this is our home for the next year.” Peering through to the hallway, he could just about see the car parked outside, with his wife and daughter still arguing inside. “A certain fifteen-year-old somebody is just going to have to accept that fact.”

  Chapter Four

  “We're in the middle of goddamn nowhere!” Jenna said firmly, staring at her mother with barely-disguised annoyance. “Look out the window, Mum! Do you see anything even remotely nearby? We are in the middle of -”

  “Nowhere,” Helen replied with a sigh. “Yes, I know, you keep saying that but -”

  “What if we get horribly murdered?”

  Helen frowned. “Why would that happen?”

  “We're thousands of miles from the nearest town.”

  “Not thousands,” Helen pointed out. “Fourteen, fifteen at most.”

  “Far enough that no-one'd hear us screaming while an ax murderer slaughtered us.”

  “I don't think there are many ax murderers around, honey.”

  “You're my parents,” Jenna continued. “You're supposed to be keeping us safe, as a family. Moving us to the ass-end of nowhere is crazy! Besides, what about my life back in the city? What about my friends?”

  “You can make new friends.”

  “Like who?” Jenna hissed, raising her voice slightly. “There's no-one around!”

  “We'll fix your bike and you can -”

  “Ugh!” Jenna sighed, slumping down in the car's back seat. “I'm begging you, Mum. Talk to Dad and make him see sense. I know you don't want to be out here either. I know you feel the same way as me.”

  “We need to get our finances on an even keel. Once we've -”

  “Ugh!” Jenna grunted again, slamming her fist against the seat. “This is so unfair! I can't believe you're going to home-school me! That's, like, what hicks do in America!”

  “That's not true,” Helen told her. “Home-schooling has a fine tradition and can
be a viable alternative to mainstream education. Plus it means we get to spend some time together, which is a bonus, right?” She waited for a reply. “Right, honey?”

  “This is so unfair! Why do I have to suffer, just 'cause Dad can't hold down a decent job?”

  “Jenna -”

  “And because he's not man enough to pay what he owes to his old company.”

  “Quiet!” Helen hissed, glancing at the house to make sure they couldn't be overheard. “Don't let your father hear you say things like that, Jenna. He's struggling enough as it is! It's not like moving out here was part of some great life-plan! It's just a way for us to recover from the setbacks we've experienced lately, and for your father to get some time to work on a few projects.” She paused, still watching the house. “Besides, it's not that bad. It's a decent size, and you've got miles and miles of unspoiled countryside to explore.”

  “I hate the countryside.”

  “You've barely set foot outside the city before.”

  “That was a deliberate choice on my part.”

  “You just need to get used to the area.”

  “I hate nature.”

  Helen sighed.

  “I do!” Jenna hissed. “I hate grass, I hate mud, I hate soil, I hate insects, I hate all kinds of weather, and I especially hate people who go on and on about how I should love nature! Ugh!” She sighed. “Just in case you're going to get your hopes up, Mum, let me be very clear about one thing. I am not going to get used to life out here. I am not going to learn to love living in a dilapidated old dump. And I am not going to start enjoying the natural world. I am going to hate every minute of our time in this shit-hole, and I am only going to get through it by thinking about how much better things will be one day when I finally make it back to civilization. Is that clear?”

  “You don't think you're being a little dramatic?”

  Jenna shook her head.

  “You're very much like him in some ways, you know,” Helen continued.

  Jenna rolled her eyes.

  “I mean it, sweetheart. You and your father are way more similar than you'd like to admit. You're both stubborn, you're both set in your ways, and you both think you know best. You also share a streak of frustration.”

  Sighing, and muttering some obscenities under her breath, Jenna opened the door and slid out of the car. Turning, she used a hand to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun, and she watched the dark, decrepit old house for a moment.

  “God,” she said finally. “Look at it. We haven't just come to live in the sticks. We might as well have traveled back in time.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and unlocked the screen. “And I am shocked, truly shocked, to see that I have precisely zero bars of signal in this hell-hole.”

  “Your father's going to speak to the man about getting a land-line installed,” Helen replied, making her way to the back of the car and pulling another bag out of the trunk. “We won't be completely cut off from the world.”

  “A land-line? What is this, the medieval period?”

  “There'll be internet too. Dial-up, but still internet.”

  Jenna turned to her, and for a moment she watched her mother hauling a couple more bags out and dropping them onto the dusty ground.

  “But three people were murdered here, right?” she asked finally.

  Helen paused, as if the question had caught her completely off-guard.

  “Relax, Mum,” Jenna continued, “I know about this house's questionable history. I'm assuming you and Dad decided not to tell me 'cause you didn't want to freak me out, but I know. I did my research.”

  “We were going to tell you eventually,” Helen said cautiously.

  “Sure you were.”

  “We just didn't think this was the more appropriate time to bring up something so gruesome!”

  “The Cavendish family, right?” Jenna asked, before turning and looking at the house again. “Seventy-five years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish and their daughter were murdered here. And judging by the time-line I overheard you and Dad discussing, I'd say that means the house has been empty ever since then, so there haven't been any other tenants in the intervening years. Not until we move in today.”

  “They weren't murdered,” Helen replied. “That's sensationalist rubbish. They just...” She paused again. “They disappeared.”

  “Forever,” Jenna pointed out, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “And when the cops came looking for them, they found blood smeared all over the house. Apparently there was even a blood-trail running out the front of the house into the yard.” She looked around at the barren patch of land. “Probably right around here somewhere.”

  She turned to her mother.

  “I'm basically right, aren't I?”

  “It all happened three-quarters of a century ago.”

  “It's gross. They never even found the bodies. What if they're, like, buried on the property?”

  “Don't tell me you're starting to believe in ghosts now,” Helen said with a sigh.

  “As if!” Jenna rolled her eyes. “I'm not a total dork. I'm just saying it's creepy, that's all. I mean, why has no-one else rented the house since then?”

  “Your father said something about an eccentric owner who left all these weird rules in his will.”

  “Seriously?” Jenna scrunched her nose again. “That's pretty lame.”

  “Are you going to help me with these bags?” Helen asked.

  Sighing, Jenna wandered over and hauled one of the bags onto her shoulder. At the same time, she reached into the trunk and pulled out her baseball bat.

  “Do you really need that thing?” Helen asked.

  “Admit it, Mum,” she muttered, “you're not happy about moving out here either. You're just as pissed-off as I am. I mean, why should our lives suffer just 'cause Dad's a loser who couldn't hold down his job?”

  “Hey!” Helen snapped, turning to her. “Don't you dare talk about your father like that!”

  “I'm right, though, aren't I?” Jenna replied, taking a step back with the heavy bag weighing her down. “Dad's the one who got fired. Dad's the one who couldn't get another job. Dad's the one who'd bet the savings on an investment that tanked. Dad's the one who made some dodgy dealings with company money, and who's now being sued for a couple of hundred grand. Ergo, Dad's the one who's responsible for us ending up here.” She waited for her mother to reply, but she quickly saw that she'd hit home with some of her comments. “What's worse,” she added, “is that loserdom is contagious. Dad's a loser, and he's turning us into losers too. You can't deny that.”

  Sighing, she turned and started to lug the bag toward the house, leaving Helen to pull some more heavy bags from the trunk.

  Chapter Five

  “So Cesar Marchionne built this entire house from scratch?” Owen asked as he wandered into the master bedroom. “With his own two hands and no help from anyone else?”

  “I told you he was an impressive man,” Mr. Daniels replied, leaning heavily on his cane as he limped through. “Mr. Marchionne spent five years alone out here, completely separated from the rest of the world while he worked on the construction. He wasn't just an excellent inventor, he was also a very practical man.”

  Stopping next to the bed, Owen looked down at the worn, faded fabric.

  “And we can't change any of the furniture?” he asked. Pulling on the bed's frame, he found that it was bolted to the floor. “Nothing at all?”

  “The terms of the tenancy agreement are quite clear,” Mr. Daniels continued. “You may, of course, change the soft furnishings. The sheets, the cushions, the curtains, that sort of thing. In fact, you might find that they're a little dusty.”

  “But we can't move anything solid, huh?”

  “Nothing solid.”

  Hearing loud footsteps clattering into the room below, Owen turned and looked toward the door.

  “Your daughter, I assume?” Mr. Daniels asked warily.

  “Teenager,” Owen replied. “Fifteen delightful years
old, and not exactly thrilled at the idea of coming to live out here. You know what kids are like, I guess?”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Daniels said with a faint smile, as the footsteps started thudding up the stairs.

  “Dad?” Jenna called out. “Which room in this godforsaken hovel is mine? Are we -”

  Stopping in the doorway, she spotted Mr. Daniels.

  “Oh,” she said cautiously. “Hey.”

  “Mr. Daniels,” Owen continued, “this is my daughter, Jenna. She's still at the very start of the journey that'll lead her to embrace life out here.”

  “As if,” Jenna muttered, hauling the bag over her shoulder and dropping it to the ground, causing the floorboards to thud and the walls to rattle slightly.

  “Careful!” Mr. Daniels hissed, taking a step toward her. He glanced at her baseball bat with a hint of concern. “Please... This is a very old house!”

  “Sorry,” Jenna muttered with a frown.

  “Your room is the next one along,” Owen told her, “and please try to show a little respect for the place, honey. It's an old building, it was built at a time when teenagers tended to be more delicate.”

  “I can be delicate,” Jenna replied, grabbing the straps of the bag and starting to haul it through to the hallway. “If I want to be. Oh, and Dad, I know about the Cavendish family who were horribly slaughtered in this house. Seriously, you didn't think you could hide that little fact from me, did you? Nice try, but no cigar.”

  As he heard his daughter dragging the bag to the next room, Owen turned to Mr. Daniels.

  “I hope the house's history won't be a problem for your family,” Mr. Daniels said calmly, as if he was suppressing a faint smile. “It's only natural that once a building has stood for many years, it will have seen certain... events take place within its walls. I'm sure that any house over a certain age must have played host to death.”

  “What was it, three people who vanished?” Owen asked. “I read something about it online. A family moved in and then after a few days...” He paused for a moment. “They never found them, did they? They found blood, but not the family themselves?”