The Unquiet House Page 8

  PART TWO

  1973 – The Second-Best Suit

  CHAPTER ONE

  Frank didn’t know how Sam Holroyd knew that Mire House was haunted, but Sam wasn’t saying and he couldn’t just ask. Sam didn’t brook being asked to explain himself. He’d said it was haunted and so it was and that was why they were all afraid, dutifully opening their eyes wide. There were four of them. Sam, at twelve, was a full year older than Frank, and there was Sam’s brother, Jeff, who was eight and Frank’s little brother, Mossy. Mossy’s real name was Michael, but he’d been rechristened Mossy for his short, thick hair. A rolling stone gathers no moss, their dad always said and Frank always wished it was true. He liked to be outside, going about the farm. If anyone was a rolling stone it was him, and yet still Mossy clung, most of all when he was least wanted.

  ‘There was a mad old bag who built it,’ Sam said. ‘People have seen ’er. If she grabs a hold of you, you’re dead. Anyone’ll tell you.’

  Frank frowned. No one ever had told him, and it was them who lived nearest; their farm was just up the lane and his dad had never mentioned anything at all. Still, it wasn’t the sort of thing his dad talked about. Which of the sheep had caught on pregnant and which hadn’t, that was more the kind of thing his dad discussed when they sat down for tea at the big old table, things that made his mum flick a tea-towel at him and tell him to eat his stew. Not ghosts or anything interesting.

  Sam led the way down the lane, stomping especially hard as if to show he wasn’t afraid. His boots were caked in mud like Frank’s own, though they looked newer. Sam’s dad had the farm on the other side of the hill and it was bigger than theirs, a fact Sam never minded pointing out. Sam thought he was better than Frank as well as richer. His trousers were flared and he kept boasting how he was growing his hair to look like Marc Bolan’s; though Frank knew Sam’s mum would never let him, he never said anything.

  They rounded the corner and broke into a run past the church – Frank was never sure why they did that, he hadn’t asked about that either – and skidded to a halt behind the garden wall of Mire House. Frank didn’t know why anyone would want to live in a place called Mire House, but it was grand enough: grey as the rain and twice as bleak, as his dad always put it. Now it wasn’t raining and white clouds were gathered behind it as if they’d arranged themselves as a backdrop. Frank wished he was anywhere else, walking in the fields maybe, alone with his thoughts, hearing only the wind whistling through the old church bells. If he left now, though, Sam would wait for him in the schoolyard on Monday, making buk-buk-buk noises and waggling his elbows.

  Sam twisted around. His dark hair hung across his face and his eyes gleamed through it. ‘It’s your turn,’ he said, and then those magical words: ‘I dare you.’

  Frank shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. ‘What d’you mean, my turn?’

  ‘It were me went in t’ bull pen.’

  ‘You put one leg in.’

  ‘Aye, well, it were more’n you.’

  Frank let out a spurt of air. He bobbed up and looked at the house and saw more of those pale clouds, reflected in the front windows. It looked as if they were hiding secrets. It didn’t matter to him, really, if there was an old lady there, did it? It was far more likely that the old man who owned the place would get hold of him. He wasn’t made of smoke; he would have real hands, real knuckles. He might even have a belt or a cane.

  ‘You have to go and look in t’ window.’

  ‘Do not.’

  Sam looked down on Frank through hair that wasn’t curly enough to be Marc Bolan’s. Suddenly Frank wasn’t even sure he liked his friend Sam at all. Sometimes he was mean. He’d found a bird’s nest once, a tight round thing that was lined with down and had four small blue eggs in it. It had been in the hedge at the top of the long field and he’d pulled it free and held it out and laughed. ‘You have to crush them,’ he’d said, holding one out with his index finger and thumb, demonstrating. ‘Like this.’ And he’d squeezed hard, just with that single finger, and he’d gone red in the face, which had made Frank want to smile. He didn’t smile though. He’d only watched, because that was what he was supposed to do, and at first he didn’t think anything was going to happen but then the egg shattered and a spurt of blood came out, and something else, not like the usual kind of egg at all; something that was damp and lumpy and gooey, and it fell to the grass and Sam had made a high-pitched noise in his throat and they’d run.

  Frank was never sure what had happened to the nest. He supposed Sam must have thrown it down onto the grass, but when he went back he didn’t find it, though he did see the thing that had come out of the egg, the feathers clotted tight to its fragile bones, its eyes closed and scaly-looking, never having opened. Its claws looked far too large and they were the exact same colour as Frank’s hands. Its body had burst open and tiny black insects were crawling in and out of it. He had wondered if he was supposed to feel sick, but instead he felt tired and resigned and a little sad. He had kicked the dead thing under the hedge before walking away.

  Now he knew he had to go and look in at the window of Mire House. It wasn’t even the thought of what Sam would do on Monday; it was because the idea was now out there, and it would stay out there until it was something he’d done and it was in the past.

  He didn’t look at Sam again – he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction – but he felt Mossy’s hand on his back, two sharp pats, as he pushed himself up. He felt a momentary guilt that he’d ever wanted to get rid of his little brother.

  He crept alongside the wall until he reached the gatepost. The fancy hexagonal pillar was strangely narrow and looked expensive; he was used to the big rugged slabs at the farm. Beyond it, weeds were pushing up through the driveway. Everything was still; there was not even the bark of a dog or the slinking shadow of a cat. It didn’t look as if anyone lived here. No wonder Sam said it was haunted. It wasn’t somewhere Frank ever came, even though they lived so close by. His dad always said, Stay away from that there feller, and he was happy to do so. It was more fun playing at the farm anyway, or sneaking away to the river, though he was strictly forbidden to go there too.

  Suddenly he wondered if the place really was haunted. Perhaps it would be worse, after all, if the hand that landed on your shoulder was made of mist.

  He leaned in, looking around the garden. There wasn’t much cover. He took a deep breath just as he heard Sam’s whisper behind him: ‘Chicken …’

  He remembered the best way to do something you didn’t want to do: something his dad had told him once. The words came to him now: Do it like you mean it. Look as if you belong.

  He couldn’t remember why his dad had said that, or what he’d been tasked with – standing at the front of school assembly and doing a reading perhaps, or walking through the top field when the heifers were out – but he knew it was good advice. He stood up, as straight as he could, then he began to walk, quite steadily, up the drive. He hadn’t realised the gravel would be so loud under his feet. He kept going, hearing a gasp behind him – he knew that was Mossy – and he went to the nearest window. It was higher than he’d thought; he’d need to stand on tiptoe and pull himself up. That wasn’t good. It wasn’t what people did when they were somewhere they belonged, doing something they had every right to do.

  He leaned against the stone and looked back down the drive, seeing a flash of movement: Sam, ducking behind the gatepost. He was watching, making sure Frank did what he was supposed to do. His heartbeat quickened. He didn’t want to move but knew he couldn’t stay where he was, trapped between the wall and Sam’s gaze. It was like being in assembly, with everyone looking at him and waiting for him to do something. He let out a sigh. There was no other sound, nothing he could detect inside the house, no car in the lane; only the brief wailing call of a curlew coming from across the fields. He wished he was up there now, with only the wind in the grass for company.

  He couldn’t crouch here any longer. He pulled his boots from where they’
d sunk into a narrow strip of empty flowerbed, reached up and caught hold of the sill. The old paint was flaking; he could feel bits sticking to his skin. Then he looked in at the window.

  He didn’t know what he expected to see. The room was dark and old-looking but grand too, with ceilings much higher than at the farm, where his dad had to stoop to pass under the doorways. The furniture barely filled it: a table, an old dresser, two high-backed chairs. One of them was facing the window and there was someone sitting in it.

  Frank stared. The man was stocky with hunched shoulders and he wore black clothes. One hand held a pipe and smoke rose from it, forming a pale cloud in front of his face. It was the only thing that caught any light. Frank wondered why he didn’t light the lamp that stood behind the chair or sit closer to the window, but they were only passing thoughts; mostly he was frozen. He could see the man’s eyes, nothing but dark pits. He was facing the window but Frank had the feeling he wasn’t really seeing anything because his gaze was fixed on something far away – or on nothing at all. But he knew the exact moment when the man’s eyes focused and he looked at Frank.

  Neither of them moved. Then the man whipped the pipe from his mouth and stood up. As he strode towards the door he threw the pipe onto a table and Frank saw ash spilling across the surface. He got a clear look at the man’s greying shirt and his waistcoat, knowing all the time that he should be running, but he still hadn’t moved. He let himself drop to the ground and rubbed the flakes of paint from his hands. They wouldn’t come off and he felt a moment of panic. He heard the rattle of a door handle and he ran, scattering gravel, as behind him the front door opened.

  He heard a voice, deep and gruff and angry: ‘Bloody little buggers.’

  Frank let out a gasp and then he was laughing, the sound whipping from him and rising into the air. Mossy stood in the gateway, wide-eyed and staring, and that was funny too; he laughed louder and grabbed his brother’s arm as he passed, spinning him around and dragging him away. All he could see of Sam and Jeff were their backs, the flashes of the soles of their boots as they ran away up the lane. They were a good way ahead, too far ahead.

  He glanced back; the lane was empty. The man was standing in the middle of the driveway, his hands clenched, his face scrunched up in fury. He had beetle-brows and his legs were bowed and his waistcoat was taut across his belly, as if it was a size too small.

  Mossy pulled on his hand and he started to run again, already thinking of all the things he was going to say to Sam for the way he’d run away and left them.

  CHAPTER TWO

  If she grabs a hold of you, you’re dead.

  Frank couldn’t stop thinking of those words. He hadn’t been scared when Sam had told him about the ghost, not really, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He’d been scared of the old man, that was for certain. If he got caught trespassing he’d get a good hiding, and his dad would probably say he’d asked for it. But it was more than that. The memory of the old man’s eyes, suddenly shifting focus and fixing on his, had stayed with him. He rolled over on his bed. He should never have gone into the garden. It felt as if he’d set something in motion. He’d never really thought about the house before, even though it was so close; not even when he’d cut down the path at its side to get to the river. It was like a blank spot in his mind, something he’d never really considered. Now that he had, things had changed somehow, the thought was there, all at once beckoning and taunting him. He hadn’t liked the place, he knew that now. He hadn’t even liked stepping over the boundary between the grounds and the lane, falling under its shadow. It hadn’t felt like a good place; the person who lived there hadn’t looked like a good man. He wondered now whether its resident had cast a pall over the house or if it was the other way around.

  He kept trying to remember when he’d had the thought about whether it would be better if a hand seized your shoulder to find it was see-through; to know that he could pull away and find it was nothing solid after all. If she grabs a hold of you, you’re dead.

  But ghosts couldn’t grab, could they? Their hand would slip straight through. And what if a thing like that happened in daylight? Ghosts were supposed to come out at night, but having looked in at the window of Mire House, he wasn’t so sure that was true. Maybe it could happen in the daytime, when it might be hard to see a ghost. If a misty hand had touched him when he’d been running down the drive, how would he even know?

  Maybe that was why he couldn’t stop thinking about the place – because somehow something had already touched him. It was all Sam Holroyd’s fault. If he hadn’t dared him …

  Frank shook his head. He was being stupid, wasn’t he? He’d only looked in at a window. He hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. For all the old man knew he might have called around there to see him on purpose. He had an image of himself walking up to its great front door and knocking, inviting the fierce old man round for tea, and he let out a giggle.

  He stifled it when he heard a quiet knock on his door. Then it was pushed slowly open, before he even had the chance to call out. Mossy was standing in the gap. Frank scowled. He was about to say something – get out, probably – and then he saw the expression on his brother’s face. He looked tired and a little sheepish. He was already wearing his pyjamas. Frank didn’t like Mossy being in his room, but he couldn’t bring himself to send him away. His brother climbed onto the bed and sat next to him. He hadn’t said a word.

  ‘What do you want?’ Frank’s voice was soft. This time, when Mossy looked up, Frank realised he’d been crying. ‘What’s up?’

  Mossy shrugged. Then he whispered, ‘Were you scared?’ Frank looked at him. He hadn’t liked the way the house had lodged in his own thoughts; he didn’t like the idea that Mossy had been thinking about it too.

  ‘I was scared,’ his brother said.

  Frank sighed. He wasn’t going to admit to being scared. Mossy didn’t usually admit it either and it was better that way: he’d have to learn. If he admitted to being scared of things in front of the others, it’d be even worse. ‘It was nothing,’ he said. ‘Just an old man.’

  Mossy turned his head and looked at him. ‘Not him,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t scared of the old man.’

  Frank felt his arms go cold all at once, each little hair prickling as it spread over his skin. He didn’t like the look in his brother’s eyes. He didn’t want to think about what it might mean. He glanced towards the window. Their house was set back a way from the road, in a wide yard all of its own. There were outbuildings around it; from here, all he would see were the barn and the lane and the fields. If he pushed aside the net curtains and opened the window and leaned out, he would be able to see the church steeple. He would need to lean further to see the house, but he knew it was there, on the other side of the churchyard – the graveyard – and the old man was inside it, smoking his pipe perhaps, staring into space with those blank eyes.

  He took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Then Mossy pushed himself to the edge of the bed. ‘Night night,’ he said, and Frank automatically replied as his little brother walked out of the room.

  I wasn’t scared of the old man.

  Frank wrapped the covers tightly around his shoulders and leaned back against the pillow. When he closed his eyes, though, it wasn’t the old man he thought of; it was Sam Holroyd, the so-called friend who’d run off and left them. Sam Holroyd, who’d dared him to step across that border in the first place.

  His lip twisted. The place was still there. It wasn’t going away. Perhaps next time it was Sam who needed to go up to the door: maybe he even needed to go inside.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was early on Saturday morning and a light ground mist still hung over the grass. Everyone was there except Mossy, who had chosen to stay and help Dad put new chicken-wire around the hen coop. It wasn’t something he’d normally do and he hadn’t really told him why, but Frank thought it was something to do with what he’d said the night before: I wasn’t scared of the ol
d man.

  Now they were at the big house again but it was clear that no one was going inside because the old man was standing in the garden. He was motionless, staring out at the road. The only thing that moved was the curl of smoke from his pipe.

  Frank still hadn’t asked what it was his little brother had been scared of and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  They crouched in the lane, Frank and Sam and Jeff, occasionally bobbing up to see what they could see. Sometimes, the old man did move; he raised the hand in which he held a thick wooden stick and punched it down again into the ground.

  Frank looked at Sam. ‘It’s your turn,’ he said in a low voice. ‘As soon as he goes in you can go and knock on the door. You ’ave to count to ten before you run.’ He didn’t say Sam should go inside, though he knew that was exactly what he should do; the only thing that could make up for Mossy’s fear. He thought Sam would argue anyway, but what he didn’t expect was: ‘I’ve already done it. It’s your turn again.’

  ‘You have not. We was all the’er last time, and you was first away.’ Frank leaned over and spat. It was something he’d just started to do; he’d copied it off his dad.

  ‘An’ then I went back agin later. Din’t I, Jee?’

  Jeff’s eyes had started to shine. He looked at his brother as if he’d just come up with a brilliant idea.

  ‘You’re lyin’.’

  ‘Not.’