Read Online Haunted Shadows 1: Sickness Behind Young Eyes by Jack Lewis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jack Lewis
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Horror, British, Genre Fiction, Religion & Spirituality, Ghosts, Occult, Ghosts & Haunted Houses
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look on his face it was obvious he hated having to play along with the
pretence I had made. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t thought of it himself. Tough
luck , I thought.
“We are,” I said.
“How nice. And are you two…”
My head tipped back and nearly rolled
off my neck. “Hell no,” I said.
“She’s my daughter,” said Jeremiah.
“And she’s a little brat.”
Sharon gave a smile, the smallest one
her pursed lips could carry.
The kitchen door across from us
opened and Peter walked out with a tray. There were four cups, and in the
centre steam rose from the spout of a teapot. It twisted into the air like
cigarette smoke and then vanished against the ceiling.
Despite the inviting look of the tray
of tea, there was something about the house that made me feel uneasy. I felt
like I had to be constantly on my guard, as if things crawled behind me, shapes
that sat in the darkest corners they could find and watched us.
“Take your coat off if you like,”
said Peter.
“I would but I’ve got a cold.”
Peter leant forward. His eyebrows
arched at an angle. “Are you saying our house is cold?”
Sharon put her hand on his arm. “The
girl’s sick,” she said. “This man here is her father.”
Peter picked up the tea pot and
poured steaming golden liquid into each cup. He pushed one toward me. I picked
it up and looked inside, and I saw tiny molecules of dirt smeared into the
china, like someone had done half a job washing the cups.
Peter leant back and folded his arms.
“You’re nothing alike.”
“She wasn’t blessed with my looks,”
said Jeremiah.
He looked at Sharon, having marked
her as the most responsive of the pair.
“Do you have children?” he asked.
The words seemed to cut into the air
and then drop right out of it, as though hands had stretched out and knocked
them away. A silence pressed over the room. The windows were only single-glazed
and looked like a gust of wind could break them, but the sounds of the
countryside didn’t break though. It was as though the chirps of the birds and
bleating of the sheep didn’t want to enter this house. It was a place where
emotions were smothered and happy thoughts died.
I thought that Jeremiah had gone in
too heavy. He could have come up with something subtler to say, words that
wouldn’t hang like a bad smell. I guessed that after their tragedy, the Jenkins
family had spent countless hours being bombarded with questions about their
daughter and how they coped without her. It was a wound that was still raw, and
every time it started to heal someone else would come along and rip off the
scab.
Peter leant forward and swallowed.
His face was the colour of elephant hide, and his hair looked brittle enough to
fall out of his scalp.
“We never had children,” he said.
12
Peter led us up carpeted stairs so
narrow that it felt like one false step would send us all toppling down them.
The further up we got, the more the damp smell grew. It was like there was a
room up here full of sodden clothes and wet walls, a place that never really
dried. I looked at the walls and saw framed paintings of the bleak countryside,
the same style as the one in my room at the pub. The guy was definitely a local
artist. From his paintings, I got the impression that what he saw in the village
haunted him.
“Bathroom’s through here. No shower,
but you could get someone to put one in.”
He pointed to his right. The bathroom
was cramped, with barely enough room for the dirty bath and sink. There were
wet footprints on the carpet. I was glad we weren’t really looking, because
there was no way in hell I would buy this house. Just walking through it made
me want to put on more layers and pull my hood over my face. It felt like
someone watched me as I walked.
“Two bedrooms. We use the one on the
end. There’s a walk-in wardrobe, but we don’t bother with
pretence I had made. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t thought of it himself. Tough
luck , I thought.
“We are,” I said.
“How nice. And are you two…”
My head tipped back and nearly rolled
off my neck. “Hell no,” I said.
“She’s my daughter,” said Jeremiah.
“And she’s a little brat.”
Sharon gave a smile, the smallest one
her pursed lips could carry.
The kitchen door across from us
opened and Peter walked out with a tray. There were four cups, and in the
centre steam rose from the spout of a teapot. It twisted into the air like
cigarette smoke and then vanished against the ceiling.
Despite the inviting look of the tray
of tea, there was something about the house that made me feel uneasy. I felt
like I had to be constantly on my guard, as if things crawled behind me, shapes
that sat in the darkest corners they could find and watched us.
“Take your coat off if you like,”
said Peter.
“I would but I’ve got a cold.”
Peter leant forward. His eyebrows
arched at an angle. “Are you saying our house is cold?”
Sharon put her hand on his arm. “The
girl’s sick,” she said. “This man here is her father.”
Peter picked up the tea pot and
poured steaming golden liquid into each cup. He pushed one toward me. I picked
it up and looked inside, and I saw tiny molecules of dirt smeared into the
china, like someone had done half a job washing the cups.
Peter leant back and folded his arms.
“You’re nothing alike.”
“She wasn’t blessed with my looks,”
said Jeremiah.
He looked at Sharon, having marked
her as the most responsive of the pair.
“Do you have children?” he asked.
The words seemed to cut into the air
and then drop right out of it, as though hands had stretched out and knocked
them away. A silence pressed over the room. The windows were only single-glazed
and looked like a gust of wind could break them, but the sounds of the
countryside didn’t break though. It was as though the chirps of the birds and
bleating of the sheep didn’t want to enter this house. It was a place where
emotions were smothered and happy thoughts died.
I thought that Jeremiah had gone in
too heavy. He could have come up with something subtler to say, words that
wouldn’t hang like a bad smell. I guessed that after their tragedy, the Jenkins
family had spent countless hours being bombarded with questions about their
daughter and how they coped without her. It was a wound that was still raw, and
every time it started to heal someone else would come along and rip off the
scab.
Peter leant forward and swallowed.
His face was the colour of elephant hide, and his hair looked brittle enough to
fall out of his scalp.
“We never had children,” he said.
12
Peter led us up carpeted stairs so
narrow that it felt like one false step would send us all toppling down them.
The further up we got, the more the damp smell grew. It was like there was a
room up here full of sodden clothes and wet walls, a place that never really
dried. I looked at the walls and saw framed paintings of the bleak countryside,
the same style as the one in my room at the pub. The guy was definitely a local
artist. From his paintings, I got the impression that what he saw in the village
haunted him.
“Bathroom’s through here. No shower,
but you could get someone to put one in.”
He pointed to his right. The bathroom
was cramped, with barely enough room for the dirty bath and sink. There were
wet footprints on the carpet. I was glad we weren’t really looking, because
there was no way in hell I would buy this house. Just walking through it made
me want to put on more layers and pull my hood over my face. It felt like
someone watched me as I walked.
“Two bedrooms. We use the one on the
end. There’s a walk-in wardrobe, but we don’t bother with