Read Online The Unquiet House by Alison Littlewood - Free Book Online
Authors: Alison Littlewood
Tags: Fiction
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It was
old
. She imagined those notes moving through the empty corridors, reaching the drawing room downstairs where people had once danced, taking each other in their arms and spinning, spinning, across the floor.
She opened her eyes onto the tight black space within the cupboard and closed them again. She was hungry; dull pains in her stomach were echoing the ones in her head. No one had come: of course, no one had come. Emma was alone: that was the way it was, the way it would stay, for ever and ever, amen.
Her throat hurt. She thought of the bowl.
Thirsty
.
No: someone must come. Someone would surely come.
After a while she curled up on the floor. It was cold there, and hard. She had no idea what time it was. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. It wouldn’t hurt any more if she could only sleep.
*
Emma lifted her head and listened to the sound of footsteps outside the door. Someone was walking about the room. The music was still playing, but the sound was distant, as if it were coming from a long way away. It could be the middle of the night, but she had no way of telling. It went around and around and the footsteps moved with it. Now she imagined two people, and in her mind they were dancing. She opened her mouth to speak, but somehow she didn’t make a sound; she didn’t want to – she didn’t want to see who was out there, didn’t want them to see her.
The sound cut off suddenly, music and footsteps and all, and there was only her own rasping breath. Her throat was dry. The feeling was coming back into her limbs, pins and needles where her arm had been trapped beneath her, soreness in her hip from lying on the floor, pain in her hand where she’d banged it against the door. Her head was the worst, the ache dull and
heavy
; she couldn’t think. Silence was thick in the air and all around her, pressing in close.
There had never been any sound, never been anyone there. She must have been dreaming.
After a moment she lowered her head again and she slept.
*
Eventually, the light came back. In the distance she could hear a dull
beep-beep-beep
and she realised that her mobile phone was ringing somewhere.
Dad
, she thought, and shook her head. No, not him. Not now, not ever again.
She pulled herself up, her limbs stiff and cold. There was more light coming under the door. Her head felt a little clearer. It was simple, wasn’t it? Door, rail, boxes: all she had to do was move them. Had she really spent the night in here?
She’d turn the handle and the door would open, just like that. She turned it, paused, and pushed. The door didn’t move. She thought of the dirty cloth, the bowl with its dirty water. She needed the loo. Soon she would need it badly. At least if she had to go to the toilet in the silly little bowl she wouldn’t be so tempted to raise it to her lips; to close her eyes and drink.
*
The sound was small at first, and yet familiar to her now. It felt, on some level, as if she’d been hearing it on and off for hours, though when she tried to think, she couldn’t identify when it had started. It was footsteps: footsteps on the stairs.
She half-sat, staring into the darkness. It didn’t matter, wouldn’t help: it was the old man, that was all, looking for his suit or his pipe. He’d never really find them because he wasn’t really there. He wouldn’t be there again tomorrow or the next day; it didn’t matter how many times she heard him or saw him.
She shook her head. The footsteps were coming up the stairs: slow this time, very slow.
‘Emma?’
She frowned. The voice was quiet, so low she wasn’t sure she’d heard it. How did the ghost know her name? Did it know
her
, really – had it been watching her all along? Then recognition came, and with it a flood of warmth.
‘Charlie!’ Her voice was dry, little more than a croak. She stood, ignoring the stiffness in her limbs, and hammered against the door. Her hand hurt but she didn’t care. The door shook under her blows.
old
. She imagined those notes moving through the empty corridors, reaching the drawing room downstairs where people had once danced, taking each other in their arms and spinning, spinning, across the floor.
She opened her eyes onto the tight black space within the cupboard and closed them again. She was hungry; dull pains in her stomach were echoing the ones in her head. No one had come: of course, no one had come. Emma was alone: that was the way it was, the way it would stay, for ever and ever, amen.
Her throat hurt. She thought of the bowl.
Thirsty
.
No: someone must come. Someone would surely come.
After a while she curled up on the floor. It was cold there, and hard. She had no idea what time it was. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. It wouldn’t hurt any more if she could only sleep.
*
Emma lifted her head and listened to the sound of footsteps outside the door. Someone was walking about the room. The music was still playing, but the sound was distant, as if it were coming from a long way away. It could be the middle of the night, but she had no way of telling. It went around and around and the footsteps moved with it. Now she imagined two people, and in her mind they were dancing. She opened her mouth to speak, but somehow she didn’t make a sound; she didn’t want to – she didn’t want to see who was out there, didn’t want them to see her.
The sound cut off suddenly, music and footsteps and all, and there was only her own rasping breath. Her throat was dry. The feeling was coming back into her limbs, pins and needles where her arm had been trapped beneath her, soreness in her hip from lying on the floor, pain in her hand where she’d banged it against the door. Her head was the worst, the ache dull and
heavy
; she couldn’t think. Silence was thick in the air and all around her, pressing in close.
There had never been any sound, never been anyone there. She must have been dreaming.
After a moment she lowered her head again and she slept.
*
Eventually, the light came back. In the distance she could hear a dull
beep-beep-beep
and she realised that her mobile phone was ringing somewhere.
Dad
, she thought, and shook her head. No, not him. Not now, not ever again.
She pulled herself up, her limbs stiff and cold. There was more light coming under the door. Her head felt a little clearer. It was simple, wasn’t it? Door, rail, boxes: all she had to do was move them. Had she really spent the night in here?
She’d turn the handle and the door would open, just like that. She turned it, paused, and pushed. The door didn’t move. She thought of the dirty cloth, the bowl with its dirty water. She needed the loo. Soon she would need it badly. At least if she had to go to the toilet in the silly little bowl she wouldn’t be so tempted to raise it to her lips; to close her eyes and drink.
*
The sound was small at first, and yet familiar to her now. It felt, on some level, as if she’d been hearing it on and off for hours, though when she tried to think, she couldn’t identify when it had started. It was footsteps: footsteps on the stairs.
She half-sat, staring into the darkness. It didn’t matter, wouldn’t help: it was the old man, that was all, looking for his suit or his pipe. He’d never really find them because he wasn’t really there. He wouldn’t be there again tomorrow or the next day; it didn’t matter how many times she heard him or saw him.
She shook her head. The footsteps were coming up the stairs: slow this time, very slow.
‘Emma?’
She frowned. The voice was quiet, so low she wasn’t sure she’d heard it. How did the ghost know her name? Did it know
her
, really – had it been watching her all along? Then recognition came, and with it a flood of warmth.
‘Charlie!’ Her voice was dry, little more than a croak. She stood, ignoring the stiffness in her limbs, and hammered against the door. Her hand hurt but she didn’t care. The door shook under her blows.
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