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Authors: Gary McMahon
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she felt her chest tighten. The punch dummy had moved again. It was closer to the bed – just by a fraction, but enough that she noticed it. She fought to control her breathing. She didn’t want to wake Moira and cause a commotion. Surely it was just her imagination. The barren landscape, the old house, the weight of all that darkness outside… it was playing with her mind, causing her to conjure images where there was nothing to be afraid of.
But she wasn’t scared. Even now, aware that an inanimate object might be moving across the room by itself, fear was not the dominant emotion. Again, she felt a deep and profoundly moving sadness, a sense of loss and abandonment that matched her own deep-seated sense of defeat.
“Are you here?” She had no idea who she was speaking to, but there was definitely a presence there, and it would be rude not to at least acknowledge it. “Don’t be afraid.”
Was that it? Was whatever dwelled here, in this abandoned house, afraid of them? Had they disturbed its peace?
“I’m sorry… we didn’t meant to butt in. We won’t be here long, just a few days. Then we’ll be gone.”
Gone… it was a thought more than a voice, not even a whispered one. Gone, but still I can see you. I can always see you.
It wasn’t him; it wasn’t Tony. His ghost had not followed her here, but someone or something knew about what had happened to him and the bad things he’d done to her when he was alive. But it wasn’t mocking her. This was more complicated – and clumsier – than simple mockery. She suspected that someone or something was trying, in its own confused way, to make contact.
The house creaked silently. The noise was nowhere but inside her head.
“Would you like me to stay?”
The sounds ceased. Whatever was in the room with her paused, and it waited.
“You do… you want me to stay.”
Alice had never felt so needed in her life. It was like a physical ache, or a pressure in the air.
Just then, Moira started to talk in her sleep. There were no words, just a low mumbling. Alice looked over at the other bed, and saw the woman swatting her hand near her face, as if she were trying to shoo away a fly. The punch dummy now stood at the side of Moira’s bed. She had no idea how it had been able to move there without her noticing, but somehow it had made the short trip across the room.
Alice held her breath.
Moira pushed off her unzipped sleeping bag and stood, her oversized nightshirt riding high on her chunky thighs. She took tiny little steps as she moved away from the bed, and too late Alice understood what was happening.
She sat up in bed. “No!”
The punch dummy was back where it should be, close to the wall, nearer to the eaves.
Moira’s eyes flickered open and she looked right at Alice, her face white with surprise. For a moment that seemed to last forever and yet was over in a heartbeat, she stood motionless above the entrance to the loft room, one foot near the edge. Then, almost comically, she pitched to one side and fell through the opening. The noise she made was like thunder; it shocked Alice into motion. She ran across the room and fell to her knees at the top of the stairs. Looking down, she saw Moira lying there, at the bottom, her left leg bent sideways at an unnatural angle.
Someone came clattering along the corridor, slamming into the wall in his haste. It was Clive. He was only half awake; his hair stuck out from his head in tendrils and wearing only a pair of underpants.
“She fell,” said Alice, wondering why she sounded as if she were trying to convince him of her innocence. “She fell down the stairs.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The three men managed to move Moira carefully into the other room and lay her down on the threadbare sofa. She was moaning but she wasn’t weeping. Her leg was already starting to bruise.
“What happened?” Clive’s face was stern. He was once again assuming the mantle of their leader, the one who was in charge when
But she wasn’t scared. Even now, aware that an inanimate object might be moving across the room by itself, fear was not the dominant emotion. Again, she felt a deep and profoundly moving sadness, a sense of loss and abandonment that matched her own deep-seated sense of defeat.
“Are you here?” She had no idea who she was speaking to, but there was definitely a presence there, and it would be rude not to at least acknowledge it. “Don’t be afraid.”
Was that it? Was whatever dwelled here, in this abandoned house, afraid of them? Had they disturbed its peace?
“I’m sorry… we didn’t meant to butt in. We won’t be here long, just a few days. Then we’ll be gone.”
Gone… it was a thought more than a voice, not even a whispered one. Gone, but still I can see you. I can always see you.
It wasn’t him; it wasn’t Tony. His ghost had not followed her here, but someone or something knew about what had happened to him and the bad things he’d done to her when he was alive. But it wasn’t mocking her. This was more complicated – and clumsier – than simple mockery. She suspected that someone or something was trying, in its own confused way, to make contact.
The house creaked silently. The noise was nowhere but inside her head.
“Would you like me to stay?”
The sounds ceased. Whatever was in the room with her paused, and it waited.
“You do… you want me to stay.”
Alice had never felt so needed in her life. It was like a physical ache, or a pressure in the air.
Just then, Moira started to talk in her sleep. There were no words, just a low mumbling. Alice looked over at the other bed, and saw the woman swatting her hand near her face, as if she were trying to shoo away a fly. The punch dummy now stood at the side of Moira’s bed. She had no idea how it had been able to move there without her noticing, but somehow it had made the short trip across the room.
Alice held her breath.
Moira pushed off her unzipped sleeping bag and stood, her oversized nightshirt riding high on her chunky thighs. She took tiny little steps as she moved away from the bed, and too late Alice understood what was happening.
She sat up in bed. “No!”
The punch dummy was back where it should be, close to the wall, nearer to the eaves.
Moira’s eyes flickered open and she looked right at Alice, her face white with surprise. For a moment that seemed to last forever and yet was over in a heartbeat, she stood motionless above the entrance to the loft room, one foot near the edge. Then, almost comically, she pitched to one side and fell through the opening. The noise she made was like thunder; it shocked Alice into motion. She ran across the room and fell to her knees at the top of the stairs. Looking down, she saw Moira lying there, at the bottom, her left leg bent sideways at an unnatural angle.
Someone came clattering along the corridor, slamming into the wall in his haste. It was Clive. He was only half awake; his hair stuck out from his head in tendrils and wearing only a pair of underpants.
“She fell,” said Alice, wondering why she sounded as if she were trying to convince him of her innocence. “She fell down the stairs.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The three men managed to move Moira carefully into the other room and lay her down on the threadbare sofa. She was moaning but she wasn’t weeping. Her leg was already starting to bruise.
“What happened?” Clive’s face was stern. He was once again assuming the mantle of their leader, the one who was in charge when
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