Upstairs
Created | Updated Oct 30, 2011
Awix takes us to a very interesting house. This one will make the hairs stand up on the back your neck. Trust us on this.
Upstairs
With a vague pang of annoyance she found herself awake again. The bedroom was picked out in a luminous palette of blues and greys – deep in the heart of the night. She was still jetlagged, still operating on her home time. Annoyance flickered again even as she framed the thought - this is your home now, she told herself.
He was still asleep, of course. He had been working himself too hard over the last few days, mostly with the move, then by collecting her from the airport. It had been a long journey for them both and it seemed that fatigue had muffled whatever joy their reunion should have brought them. There would be time for that, she told herself. They were together again now.
Doom, whispered the house.
The estate agent guessed that the viewer had not long been back in the country – he still had traces of a tan and seemed slightly out-of-touch when it came to some things happening in the news. That made sense, he supposed. The viewer seemed a likeable guy, if a little distant, not that it should really make any difference either way.
He stopped the car outside the house and they both got out. The viewer looked at it for a moment before speaking.'It's a bit isolated, isn't it?'
'Well, secluded, maybe.' One had to be a master of connotation in this job, the agent thought. You're only fifteen minutes walk from the pub. Twenty from the local supermarket.'
'That'll please my wife.' The viewer said it blandly enough.
'She couldn't make it today?'
This time the viewer smiled. 'She's not in the country yet. Her visa hasn't come through.'
That surprised him. 'She still needs a visa, even if –'
'Oh, yes. Marriage certificate or not, I still need an address and a job before they'll even consider the application.' The viewer didn't seem particularly eager to discuss it and took a step towards the house. The agent knew that from the outside it looked like a slumped and crumbling ruin, the roof uneven and the walls unsafe. It wasn't the easiest sell he could imagine, even without... well, anyway.
'Anyway,' said the agent. 'The Old Mill, a very characterful property in my opinion. Well-positioned for privacy but also within easy travelling distance of several major towns and transport links.'
'It looks...' The viewer wobbled his head. 'I don't know. Hunched up, somehow.'
'Characterful,' the agent repeated, smiling.
'Hhm.'
'Let's take a look inside,' he suggested.
She turned over, unsure if she'd actually heard anything. Certainly he showed no sign of waking, but the noise had been so faint – a single beat upon a distant drum, resonant, almost metallic. She lay there, listening out for any repetition of the sound – but none came. Perhaps she had imagined it. She had to stop being such a superstitious little girl. She lived in a modern country now, she was an adult, a wife.
It was partly that thought that drove her out of bed, in the end. Normally her fear of the dark would have overridden her thirst and kept her there, swaddled under the sheets – but, she told herself, that was no way for her to behave, was it? She slid as quietly as she could out of the bed and over to the door, nearly tripping over her luggage on the way.
She didn't know this strange new house at all, hadn't even seen it by daylight. Out in the countryside here it was eerily quiet. She was used to coughing engines and humming traffic in the night, not this uncomfortable peacefulness. I am out of my place, she thought, allowing herself a moment of panic and uncertainty, but then the steel voice of her better self cut in: don't be a child! This is your house now. Whoever heard of a woman being afraid of her own home?
Doom, whispered the house.
'As you can see, it will require a lot of renovation work to actually be habitable, but there's enormous potential here,' the agent said.
The viewer looked around the interior of the main part of the house. At the moment the general decor followed a scheme of bare stone, dust, and dead insects, but it didn't take much imagination to see what could be achieved here.'Yes, I can see what you mean. Put some new dividing walls in, redecorate, obviously, rewire...'
'The low asking price does presuppose that a good deal of work will need to be done on the place, yes,' the agent said.
'I'm surprised the current owners don't do it themselves. It'd probably help them shift it,' the viewer said, glancing at the agent. The agent forced a smile onto his face.
'They're just keen to dispose of the property as quickly as possible,' he said.
'I thought the price was low, even considering the renovation costs,' the viewer said.'Can I see the rest of it?'
It had definitely been a little louder that time, but then she was perhaps closer to the source than she had been before. The urge to run back to the bed and burrow under the covers was almost irresistible – but she tightened her grip on the door handle until it had gone. She was still thirsty, and there was water in the kitchen. She would get herself a drink before going back and trying to sleep.
The lightswitch in the hallway click-clacked back and forth uselessly under her fingers. Of course, she remembered: he'd said there were still all sorts of problems with the electricity. The rewiring of the place was still a work in progress. They'd gone to bed by torchlight. There were candles in the kitchen, he'd said.
She shuffled along the hallway, trying to remember the lay-out of her new home. Some of the walls were new and smooth and what you'd expect from a modern house, but others were old and rough and uneven, the stones jammed together almost at random, as though a chaotic past was ripping its way through into the present.
The first room she went into was small and looked like a spare bedroom, and was almost completely filled with boxes – his things, not hers. With all their money invested in the house it had been too expensive to fly many of her possessions over. He'd joked that maybe they should have flown all her things over instead, and just left her there. She hadn't found it amusing. She often didn't understand his humour at all.
Eventually she found the kitchen, and there were indeed candles in their holders on the worktop, with a box of matches next to them. Years of being told never to waste matches had made her an expert at getting them to strike, and this one sparked into life at the first attempt. She lit one of the candles and went over to the sink.
Rather than a distant world of blue and grey, faint but detailed, she was now in a bubble of yellow and orange light, everything more than a few feet away banished into darkness. But, for all of that, the candle flame was reassuring. She found what looked like a clean glass on the top and poured herself a glass of water. It tasted like the water from back home. That time, her self-censor seemed willing to let the thought pass.
She wasn't remotely tired, she thought. If she went back to bed now all she would do was toss and turn and probably wake him up – sharing a bed was still something they were growing used to – and she didn't want that, didn't want to give him any reason for dissatisfaction with her, not after all the trouble he'd gone to. So she sat at the kitchen table and sipped at the glass of water.
Doom, whispered the house.
The agent took him through into the kitchen, which was, if anything, even less prepossessing than the main room. The viewer looked around it, then crossed to the far door and peered through it. 'What's down here?'
'Oh – utility room, or annex. It doesn't actually lead anywhere.' The agent led him into the room. It was completely empty but for the cobwebs, with only bare stone lit by a narrow transom window high in the exterior wall.
'Thought it might be the back stairs or something,' the viewer said, with a slightly sheepish smile.
'No,' the agent said, grinning.
'Can I see the upper floor?'
The agent shook his head, smiling. 'No, I'm afraid not.'
'Unsafe?'
'No, there isn't one. This is a single-storey property.' He paused. 'We should really list it as such, but most people would just assume it's a bungalow, and... well, as you can see, it isn't.'
'Are you sure – I'm sorry, that's a stupid question.' The viewer peered up at the high ceiling. 'From the outside I could've sworn...'
The agent smiled as he led him back through the house. 'Everyone makes that mistake. I understand that there were plans for a first floor when it was originally designed, but... there was trouble. The workmen refused to do it.' Suddenly aware he was probably giving too much detail, the agent cleared his throat. 'Well, anyway, that's basically it. Is there anything else you'd like to see?'
The viewer shook his head and smiled. 'No, I think I've seen enough. But... no offence, but I think this place has history. Just from the look of it. Why hasn't someone else snapped it up already? And what was this problem with the workmen? Why didn't they just get someone else?'
'Ahhh... I'm really just supposed to stick to the facts, and not tell stories,' the agent said.'It's not very professional of me if I –'
'I expect I can find it on the internet,' the viewer said with a smile.
The agent nodded, an admission of defeat. Well, if the worst came to the worst, he wouldn't be the first person to fail to shift the Old Mill. 'I get the impression you're a rational man.'
'I certainly hope so...'
'Well – there are stories about this place.' He glanced around.'Let's go outside.'
That had definitely been closer. The sound rolled lazily around her as it faded, but she was almost relieved, because now she knew exactly what the sound was – just a door banging. Not even that, but simply jolting in its frame. A big door, a heavy door, probably an old door... Probably one of the workmen had left a window open and a door was banging in the draught. Well, the sensible thing would be to find the door and shut it properly – the window too, if she could. She'd never be able to sleep, anyway, constantly listening out for the next sound it made.
It seemed to be coming from beyond the kitchen, in the part of the house she hadn't actually been into yet. She picked up her candle and went through the far door from the one she'd come in by. Beyond it was either a wide corridor or a narrow room, running down the side of the house – bare stone, with a single high window. There were more boxes in there and a washing machine waiting to be plumbed in. Her own washing machine! She couldn't help but stroke the top of it, allowing herself a smile as she did so.
Doom, said the house.
Out by the car, the agent permitted himself part of his daily cigarette allowance.'No-one ever asks why it's called the Old Mill, when it clearly isn't either a windmill or a watermill.'
'And the reason is...?'
'Eighteenth century recycling, apparently. The story goes back a bit further, though. Around the time Charles the First was crowned, the local landowner had a mill built on the edge of his estate, a few miles from to his own design – something new about the alignment of the millstones, or something. The whole family was a bit eccentric. The new design didn't work out and the building fell into disuse... for a while. Then the mill designer's grandson discovered the place and started using it.'
'For what?'
'The stories don't really say.' The agent glanced at the viewer a bit sheepishly. 'If you read between the lines, you get the impression he was into... well, some pretty nasty stuff. Enjoyed ceremonies. Blood. Rituals and things. I know how ridiculous that sounds...'
'Sounds like typical minor aristocracy to me. Presumably the man got discovered?'
'Eventually. This was around the time of the Civil War so the country was in turmoil.' The agent found he was enjoying the telling of the tale, but was equally glad to be out in the sunlight as he did so. 'People had often gone into the mill building, but just on the ground floor. There was nothing there to give any sign... but then one night a group of hungry soldiers decided to shelter there. Looking for food, or something, they broke into the upper floor of the building. And what they found apparently horrified them more than anything they'd seen on the battlefield.'
It was ahead of her, now, and definitely louder. She picked her way forward, holding the candle ahead of her, her other hand running over the coarse stone of the ancient walls. The end of the room came in sight: set into the wall was a door, grey wood studded with metal like those of churches she'd seen. Not the kind of door she wanted in her modern home, she thought, momentarily irritated with him for leaving it in place. Still, they could have it replaced easily enough. The door seemed to be securely latched, so it couldn't be this one that was making the noise.
Carefully she thumbed the latch and pulled the door open. Stone steps rose before her, curling up and out of sight. Something about that prickled at her memory... but she dismissed it and focussed on the rough, bare masonry. No trace of modern workmanship here, she thought – perhaps the builders hadn't reached this part of the house yet.
Doom.
'Being found out must've been bad news for the son and heir.'
'He was lynched. Apparently his own father urged the mob on as they did it. The mill building was torn down. They tried to torch it but the story says that the fire refused to burn there...'
'We're talking about another building, though. Not this one.' The viewer indicated the property behind him.
'Well, the line died out at that point. Another family took over the land, newcomers to the area. After many years had passed they started asking why a pile of high-quality stone was just lying there on the edge of the estate. Obviously, no-one had dared to touch it. These stories have long legs out in the country. Anyway, the new owners decided to build a cottage from the stones. Waste not, want not.'
'And that cottage is this des res.'
'Essentially, yes. But people were frightened – the memory of the stones, or something. They built the ground floor, though they had to be paid two or three times the standard rate to do it, and they insisted that the clergy blessed the site every day. But no power on Earth could make them even commence work on a first floor. That was where... well, that was where the bad things had happened.'
'So they amended the design, which is why the place looks the way it does.' The viewer grinned. 'Interesting story. And, no doubt, it's lingered down the years? No-one local will come near it?'
'Something like that. The odd new story, pops up every few years, you know.' The agent forced a smile onto his face – the fact that the client was clearly prepared to dismiss the whole thing should have cheered him up completely, but he found he'd spooked himself quite badly with all that he'd been saying. 'Glad to hear you're not superstitious.'
'Me? No.' The man paused. Better not tell my wife, though. She'd refuse to set foot in the place if she heard any of that.'
The agent checked his watch. 'Is it okay if we go back to the office? I have another viewing somewhere else...'
'Sure. I'll talk to my bank and then get back to you, if I may...'
'Certainly. There's no immediate rush.' The two men got back into the car and left the old house squatting in the sunlight.
The sound had come from upstairs. The door at the top of the staircase, perhaps. She started up the steps. Dry air gusted around her and blew out her candle – but she froze for only a moment. There was nothing to be afraid of here, she told herself. She smiled the strongest smile she could summon and then continued her ascent into darkness.
Behind her, at the bottom of the stairs, the door swung shut with a sonorous clang.
It was late the next day before the police were called, not that it would have made any difference.
