The House on Everley Street (Death Herself Book 2) Page 3

  “And why should I believe you?” she asked, turning to him as the light from the fire caught her features. “You've already shown that you're more than willing to deceive me. I put my whole life aside to take you in, and this is how you repay me. With lies and deceit.”

  He shook his head, unable to stop looking at the tin. The flames were already dying down, having burned through the pages in less than a minute. There'd only be ash left, and although he knew that he could write down most of the stories from memory, he also knew that there'd be little point doing so if he was no longer able to read them in his mother's handwriting. They were gone.

  “Go to your room and wait for me,” his grandmother said after a moment.

  He turned to her. “Please -”

  “Go to your room,” she said firmly, “and wait for me. Don't make me tell you again. I'm exhausted enough already.”

  He knew exactly what was coming, but at the same time he also knew there was no point trying to argue with her. Heading back into the house and then upstairs, he'd already removed his shirt by the time he reached his room, and he got down onto his knees and leaned forward against the bed. Waiting, he heard his grandmother moving about in the kitchen below, getting everything ready, and finally he heard her feet on the stairs as she slowly made her way up to him. He didn't even turn to look as he heard her entering the room. He simply waited, listening to the sound of her labored breathing and contemplating the pain he was about to endure. Still, he'd always known this was the price to be paid for disobedience, so he figured he only had himself to blame.

  “She used to burn me sometimes,” he remembered his mother whispering one night, long ago. “Only when I was bad, though. It was always my fault. Just be good, and she'll never do it to you. You can be good, can't you?”

  “I promise,” he'd told her.

  He'd been wrong.

  “I hope you know this gives me no pleasure,” his grandmother said after a moment. Even without looking, he could tell she was already smoking the cigarette she was going to use. “I'd much rather have a smart grandson, an honest grandson, but you're a filthy little liar, just like your mother. If you're not careful, you'll end up the same way as her. Is that what you want, eh?” She paused. “Still, you're young, there's time to beat it out of you. You're lucky you've got me to put you on the straight and narrow. Or do you want to be like your mother?”

  “No,” he whispered. It was a lie, but he knew it was the right answer.

  He waited, and now that she was silent he realized it was about to happen. She was most likely choosing her spot and savoring the anticipation. Even though she always said she didn't enjoy what she did to him, he felt certain she was lying.

  Suddenly he felt the cigarette's tip pressing against his back, just below his left shoulder-blade. He gasped and leaned forward, gripping the sides of the bed as he held his breath. The cigarette was still burning, and several more seconds passed before he felt it being pulled away. He took a series of sharp, deep breaths, trying to fight the agony. He knew that even the faintest cry would anger his grandmother further and cause the punishment to last longer, but the pain was intense and he had to bite his lip and hold his breath again as he squeezed his eyes tight shut. Finally, slowly, he began to feel a little strength returning.

  “Hurts, doesn't it?” his grandmother muttered.

  Opening his eyes, he realized she was about to strike again.

  As soon as the tip burned into his flesh for a second time, this time at the small of his back, he let out a brief, involuntary cry. Squeezing his eyes tight shut, he tried to think of his mother's stories, but when that didn't work he started to think instead about the future, about finding a way to get out of the house and away from his grandmother's punishments. All he wanted was to live a life where he wouldn't be punished for every small infraction, but at the same time he knew that these impulses were probably wrong. After all, his mother had been the same, and she'd ended up dead on the bathroom floor in their old house, with half a bottle of bleach having been poured down her throat by her own hand. If his instincts were going to lead him the same way, he supposed he should be grateful that his grandmother was around to help him. She always told him he'd thank her one day, and now he figured that maybe she was right.

  One day.

  “What are you?” his grandmother asked after a moment, pulling the cigarette away from John's burned back.

  “Weak,” he whispered, as he tensed for the next touch.

  “What was your mother?”

  He paused, with tears in his eyes. “Weak.”

  “And what will I not let you be?”

  “Weak.”

  “You will either grow up strong,” she continued, “or so help me God I won't let you grow up at all.”

  This time, when she pressed the cigarette against his back and began to sear his flesh, he couldn't help himself. He let out a loud cry of pain. For that reason, among others, his punishment continued for another hour, well into the night.

  Chapter Three

  Today

  “Are you... Are you John Myers?”

  Looking up from his fried breakfast, John saw that the girl from the counter, the same girl who'd taken his order a few minutes ago and who had been conspicuously gawking at him ever since, was now loitering nervously at the other end of the table. It had obviously taken her quite some time to pluck up the courage to make an approach.

  “Um...” John paused, before realizing that there was no point denying anything. Despite his best efforts over the years, his face had been plastered all over the back pages of his books. “Yes, I am.”

  “Oh my God,” the girl continued, taking a book and pen from her pocket and setting them on the table. The book, by some rather unbelievable coincidence, just happened to be one of John's more obscure novels, The Beast From the Georgian Swamp. “Like, seriously, oh my God! I'm a huge fan of your books, I've been reading them since I was, like, seven or eight years old. I've read every single one of them, even the bad ones!”

  “Thank you,” he replied with a frown.

  “I always knew you grew up round here,” she continued, “but I thought I read that you, like, never came back. Like, dark memories or something.”

  “I don't come back,” he replied, wanting nothing more than to get back to his breakfast. He always found fan encounters deeply uncomfortable, but he also knew that in the twenty-first century a wrong word could easily be tweeted around the globe. “This is the first time I've been back for a number of years.”

  “Getting nostalgic, huh?”

  “Well -”

  “Or are you researching a new book?”

  “I -”

  “That'd be so cool,” she continued. “Like, writing a book set in the town where you grew up, that'd be amazing!”

  “Um -”

  “Then again, I guess you don't need someone like me telling you what'd be good for your next book. I bet you've got ideas, like, stuffed in all your drawers!”

  He paused, not really sure how to answer.

  “Could you...” The girl paused, before sliding the book toward him. “Could I have your autograph? I swear, I just happened to be reading this behind the counter today, it's like fate brought you here. I know that probably seems unlikely, but how else do you wanna explain it?”

  “Sure,” John muttered, grabbing the book and pen before quickly scribbling his name. “You want me to make it out to anyone in particular?”

  “Hannah. My name's Hannah. And don't worry, you won't see it for sale online. I'm going to keep that copy forever and ever.”

  “Hannah.” He added a few more words, before sliding the book back to her and remembering to smile. “Hi, Gary. Nice to meet you.”

  “So have you got any new books coming soon?” she asked, with a big, excited grin plastered across her face. “It's just, according to your website there's nothing due after The Curse of Satan's Claws, and a few of us were talking and wondering whether you're gonn
a leave, like, another big gap between books. 'Cause, you know, it's not like anyone wants to pressure you, but in these gaps between publication, we have to reread your old books and watch the movies that get made. Which suck, by the way. Almost all of them.”

  “I'm working on something,” John replied.

  “Another horror novel?”

  “Another horror novel.”

  “Awesome, and...” She paused, before laughing nervously. “Sorry, I don't mean to act like a complete idiot, I'm just completely freaked out by this. No-one famous ever comes into this dumb little place, they can all afford way better food. Trust me, you do not want to know what's in those sausages you just ate.”

  John looked down at his plate. He'd eaten the sausages first, since they'd tasted so good.

  “Everyone said you were too big now to ever come back to Bournemouth,” Hannah continued. “They said you just spend all your time in, like, London or abroad. Not that that's a bad thing, obviously. I mean, you're, like, rich enough to do whatever you want, I guess. I know the people from the local book festival tried to get you down a heap of times and you were unavailable or something, but I also know you're famous for not really liking public appearances, so I totally get it.”

  “I've been very lucky.”

  “Actually,” she added, “people kinda said you hated Bournemouth.”

  “Hate's a very strong word,” John replied, hoping that the girl would take the hint and leave him alone. “I grew up here, I barely left until I was eighteen years old, and the world's a big place. I'd like to see as much of it as possible, and unfortunately that doesn't leave much time for retreading old ground.”

  “And you don't have any family round here anymore?”

  He paused, feeling a little more uncomfortable. “No,” he said finally. “No family.”

  “So have you been to the set of the movie version of The Claws of Satan's Bride?” she asked, clearly happy to spin rapidly from one topic to the next. “I heard Todd Wilkins is playing Karl, that sounds like the best casting ever! A few of us were talking, and we figured that Noelle Simmons would make the perfect Adrienne.”

  “I haven't been to the set, no,” John replied. “I don't really do that kind of thing. Film sets are pretty much the most boring places on the planet, usually, especially for writers.”

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah. Huh.”

  John waited, but he was starting to feel that his new friend wasn't going to go away any time soon. Fortunately, a moment later the cafe's door opened and a couple of new customers entered, although Hannah didn't immediately rush to help them and actually seemed a little starstruck.

  “Maybe you're needed over there,” John pointed out, gesturing toward the counter.

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the customers.

  She turned. “Oh. Sure, I'll... Yeah.” She turned to go.

  John breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Oh,” Hannah added, turning back to him and pulling a leaflet from her pocket, “I know it's a bit of a stretch, but I figured maybe you'd be interested in this.”

  John sighed as he saw that the leaflet was for some kind of sci-fi reading group.

  “We meet on the first Tuesday of each month,” Hannah explained, her eyes glistening with excitement, “which just so happens to be tomorrow. Serendipity, huh? I always carry a few leaflets with me during my shifts, in case I meet someone who might be cool enough to want to come. If you'd be willing to stop by our humble group and say a few words, and maybe record something for our next podcast, that would be amazing. I think I speak for the whole of the group when I say that we'd literally die.”

  “I...” Pausing, John realized that telling the truth might not be the fastest way to get left alone. “I will certainly try to show up,” he said finally, making a show of folding the leaflet and slipping it into his pocket. “No promises, though.”

  “Cool,” Hannah said, taking a few steps back. “Totally, amazingly cool.”

  Finally left alone to finish his breakfast, John took a couple more mouthfuls before stopping again as he realized his stomach was twisting in knots. He knew he was just delaying things, and after a moment he reached into his pocket and took out the front-door key he'd picked up from the estate agent's office just half an hour earlier. Turning the key around between his fingers, he realized it wasn't the same as the key he remembered using twenty years ago, but then he assumed the house had probably changed a lot in that time. He also assumed that other owners would have made a lot of alterations in the meantime. Most likely, there was very little of the old house remaining.

  Still, it was time to stop making assumptions. Despite the sense of nausea in his belly, he knew it was time to go and see the place.

  Chapter Four

  Twenty years ago

  Opening his eyes suddenly, he realized the phone next to the bed was ringing.

  He sat up, a little startled, and saw that it was a couple of minutes before 8am. Sighing, he realized that the only people who ever called so early were his grandmother's friends. For some reason, old people just seemed to get up at the crack of dawn, and they always seemed to assume that everyone else was the same. Crawling across to the other side of the double bed that had once been his mother's, he was about to take the receiver from the cradle when he realized he could just let it ring. Whoever was on the other end and whatever they wanted, it was guaranteed not to be urgent.

  He waited, listening in case his grandmother was downstairs, and then the phone fell silent.

  “Thank God,” he muttered.

  Falling back down onto the bed, he winced a little as he felt the burn marks on his back. He'd become so used to them, he barely even noticed the pain anymore. Taking a deep breath, he lay and listened for a moment to the silence of the house. He knew his grandmother would be up and about already, and by 8am she could be out in the garden or even off at the supermarket. She always let him sleep in, though; she said he was a growing boy and that he needed his rest, which he figured was true enough. At just eighteen years old, he was supposed to be taking a gap year before going to university, although so far all he'd done over the summer was lounge about, read a lot of books, try writing several novels, and occasionally look at websites showing what other, more normal teenagers did with their time.

  Not many of them, it turned out, spent all day, every day at home with their grandmother. Looking over at the wardrobe, he thought of the spot where he'd kept the tin with his mother's writing. The spot was empty now, and he felt the same sense of emptiness in his chest.

  Suddenly the phone started ringing again. Figuring that it must be Dorothy, who never gave up until someone answered, he grabbed the receiver and lifted it from the cradle. Resistance was futile.

  “Hello?” he said wearily.

  “Good morning,” Dorothy said, sounding bright and perky, “and how are you this fine morning, Jonathan?”

  “Fine, thank you Mrs. Ormerey. Do you want to speak to my grandmother?”

  “If it's not too much trouble, dear.”

  “I'll see if she's in.”

  Setting the receiver down, he hauled himself out of bed and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist before heading to the door and leaning out to the landing. He waited, hearing nothing but silence, but although his first reaction was to assume that his grandmother was out of the house, there was a faint, flickering doubt in his chest. Something just seemed to be tugging at his senses, and whispering in his ear that although the house was silent, it was a different kind of silence compared to other mornings. He turned and looked back at the phone for a moment, before stepping out onto the landing and heading to the top of the stairs.

  “Gran?” he called out.

  No reply.

  Silence.

  But still... The wrong type of silence, the type that seemed poised to surprise. It was as if the entire house was holding its breath.

  He looked toward the bathroom, but the door was open and
there was no sound coming from within. Making his way toward the window, he looked out at the garden, but even though the sun was shining and there was only a gentle breeze, his grandmother was nowhere to be seen. Plus, the greenhouse door was shut, which was never the case if the old woman was pottering about out there. He glanced along at her bedroom door and saw that it was slightly ajar, which was unusual since she always kept it closed when she was in there and wide open when she wasn't, so he made his way over to check, rubbing the back of his neck in the process. He figured old Dorothy could just wait a little while longer, and that maybe she'd learn not to call so goddamn early.

  Pushing the door open, he saw his grandmother sitting on the floor, with her back against the wall.

  “Gran?” he said with a frown.

  He waited.

  No reply.

  “Gran?”

  Silence. Louder silence than before.

  He took a step forward. The old woman's eyes were shut and she looked to be unconscious, while her bed was ruffled and had clearly been slept in. Still, considering her arthritis and osteoporosis, the sight of her on the floor was somewhat startling. Reaching down, he nudged her shoulder.

  “Gran?”

  Again, he waited.

  Not even a twitch.

  Slowly, in the pit of his stomach, a glimmer of fear and hope was starting to grow.

  He took a step back, wondering what he should do next, before realizing that Dorothy was still waiting. Turning, he hurried back to his bedroom and picked up the receiver, before pausing for a moment. He knew he had to say something, but he didn't know what, not yet. All he could think about was the fact that suddenly the whole world seemed to be on the verge of a massive change.

  “She's not home,” he stammered, not wanting to cause a panic. “I'll tell her you called, though.”

  “Please do so,” Dorothy replied. “Tell her I'm home all day, whenever she wants to call me back.”