Dream House (6 page)

And right then, something even worse happens. Right before my eyes.

Hearing a tapping noise from the kitchen, I turn round, unable for a second to locate exactly where it's coming from. And then I do.

The fridge.

The magnetic letters on the chrome door are moving.

With spasmodic little jerks that grow more assured as I watch, a T begins making its way hesitantly towards an E. It's joined by a Y, which rattles as though fighting to free itself, and an instant later all the letters are twitching and shifting.

Slowly at first, then with increasingly decisive movements accompanied by delicate clicking, sliding sounds, they start skidding across the shiny surface of the fridge, gradually positioning themselves to form a sentence.

I watch, spellbound and horrified.

For you, dear Amethyst
, it reads.

At this point, I'm seized by complete, total panic. I start trembling and spin round, searching desperately for anybody, anything, that might be making this happen.

But I'm the only one here.

Or at least, I'm the only
human being
here.

Terrified, I race over to the French windows in the hope of finding some sign that Avery is at home so I know that a chance exists of running away and finding somewhere safe . . . but outside, everything is pitch black.

It takes all of my courage, but I decide to turn off all the lights in the house and run as quickly as I possibly can into my bedroom, closing the door behind me and pulling the curtains shut across the window. Here, enshrouded in obscurity, is the only place I can still feel safe.

I lie awake in my bed for what seems like hours, unable to relax and jumping in fear at the slightest noise. At one point, I swear I can hear footsteps outside my door, followed by whispers, but I don't dare move an inch.

Most of the night passes like this, until finally the new day arrives and the first beams of morning light begin tentatively poking through the curtains of my window.

I haven't closed my eyes once, and my entire body feels achy and sore. I can say with some certainty that it's been the worst night I've ever suffered my way through in my entire life.

But despite everything that's gone on, despite all the bizarre things that I've seen, all the weird stuff that's happened, they still haven't managed to scare me off: I'm not going to run away.

I'm going to wait for the Blooms to come back.

And as the light forces the darkness away, my body and mind finally allow me to rest, and I sink into a deep sleep.

11
:30 A.M.
Time to get out of bed.

The air feels a lot colder than usual, and a strong wind is blowing impetuously against the house.

With a thrill of excitement, I remember the camera that I left filming on the bathroom windowsill the evening before and rush to retrieve it. In no time at all, I'm holding it in my hands and trying to find the video. The display says that it recorded for two hours and thirty minutes, only stopping when the memory card was full.

After giving the magnetic letters in the kitchen a couple of cautious pokes to make sure they're not going to start moving by themselves, I clear away the food from the table, covering the bowls with cling film and storing them away inside the fridge. Then I place the camera on the dining table, take a seat, press Play, and start watching.

For a good fifteen minutes there's no sign of anybody on the footage and everything appears to be completely normal—but when I get to the sixteenth minute, for a fraction of a second something changes slightly. I rewind and replay it.

In that brief instant, two events follow one another in rapid succession: the door of the shed opens, and random flashes of light appear, seemingly corrupting the footage. The next frame—like the following two hours—is a mixture of weird sounds and broken images. But not once does Alfred appear.

I think back to the previous evening—did I actually see him leave? Was he up to something in the house? Maybe his working day was over and he'd set off for home. But then what would have caused the camera to act this way? Is it possible that perhaps he spotted it through the window? And if he did, how did he manage to corrupt the footage without letting himself be seen even once? Or is it just a coincidence?

I feel more confused than ever, and the only thing that comes to mind is Avery's comment about the gardener, the warning to keep my distance. He obviously knows something about Alfred that I don't, and I need to figure out what it's all about.

After several days of wearing the same girly pyjamas, I finally slip back into my clothes, then brush my hair and splash my face with cold water.

I pause for a moment in front of the mirror to stare at a reflection that I'm slowly beginning to feel strangely disconnected from. The dark rings under my eyes are getting worse, and my lips are chapped, but what's most unsettling is the look on my face. Is this really me?

Trying not to let my appearance worry me any more than it already does, I walk away from the mirror, checking my breath in my cupped hand as I go: deadly.

In a half-hearted attempt to conceal it, I eat a yoghurt, too preoccupied now with getting out of the house as soon as possible to dedicate much thought to the problem of my halitosis, and soon afterwards I'm outside.

I squat down by the gateway at the back, somehow confident that Avery will turn up and stop to talk.

The wind blowing my hair all over the place, I wait. Without changing my mind. I have to stay here and wait for him. He's coming—I need to believe that.

After watching it struggle in the gusts of wind buffeting the earth, I rip a lonely daisy out of the ground and hold it between my hands.

The last few sunbeams which gave some warmth to the air are now departing, allowing the night to gradually take over the world.

At last, I hear his voice whisper, “Are you okay?”

Without wasting a single moment, I tuck the flower into my jacket sleeve and hoist myself up to my feet.

“I need to talk to you,” I tell him as I brush my hands clean.

“Were you waiting for me?” he asks.

I nod in response, and continue. “The other day you told me to stay away from Alfred. Why?”

He casts a glance at the shed to make sure the gardener isn't around, and then, his expression as serious as my own, begins to explain.

“There are rumours about him in this village.”

“What kind of rumours?”

“Alfred has a past. Like all of us—except that his is pretty dark.”

I let him go on.

“He moved to White Hills with his young wife about twenty years ago. They were newly married, they didn't have much in the way of money, so he started working as a gardener for some of the more well-off families in the village.”

Intently, I follow his every word.

“Over the years, he gradually managed to put enough money aside to be able to afford a family home, on the top of that hill,” he says, pointing at the highest peak visible beyond the cornfields.

“I don't see it,” I cut in. “Where do you mean, exactly?” But he ignores my question.

“At that time,” he goes on, “his wife, Lilly, was pregnant. The day she gave birth, Alfred took a day off to be with her. The next day, he turned up for work, and he looked—a mess. Completely done in.”

“What happened?” I whisper.

Without taking his eyes from mine, he continues.

“Lilly had died in childbirth.” Avery lowers his eyes. “Then, two days after—after the tragic event, Alfred went missing. People started looking all over town for him, in all the local pubs. But there was no sign of hide nor hair of him anywhere.”

As he speaks, I file each word away in my memory.

“Later that night, his house was set on fire.”

My eyes widen as I listen to the end of the story.

“By the time the fire brigade managed to get the blaze under control, the house was completely devastated. The police investigation found the babies in their cots . . . but it was too late to save them,” he concludes.

Twins.

“What about Alfred?” I ask.

“The next day he showed up in the village with a burn across his face—and that was proof enough for some people that it was he who'd done it,” he replies.

“Did he confess?”

“No, he never said a word about it. The police questioned him, but he was never charged with anything. People in White Hills started to believe that he'd killed his sons, though. Because he thought they'd caused Lilly's death.”

He pauses for a moment before adding, “And that's when all the grown-ups started telling kids scary stories about the Derfla, so they wouldn't go out wandering the streets at night.”

“The Derfla!” I burst out, shocked by this last part of the story.

Confused by my reaction, he shoots me a funny look and then picks up his story again.

“The people round here were convinced that Alfred was a murderer, so right away they started trying to force him out of his job and out of local social life. Pretty much everyone just started ignoring him, acting like he wasn't there at all. And they used a backwards version of his name—Derfla—to try to . . . well, connect him with evil. Make him into a kind of a monster, I suppose.”

Another piece of my puzzle clicks into place, and so I ask, “If that's what people say about him, how come he's still working for the Blooms?”

“The Blooms, they're nice people,” he says with a shrug. “Mr. Bloom didn't want to give up on Alfred, so he allowed him to stay on in the shed in exchange for working on the property. That went on for quite a while, until one day Mrs. Bloom accused him of stealing a picture from the house.”

“A picture? Why on earth would he do that?”

“Mr. Bloom's theory was that someone was trying to set Alfred up—someone who wanted him out of the village for good.”

“How do you know all of this?” I ask, brushing away the lock of hair tickling my nose.

He smiles. “Well, I grew up in that house,” he says, gesturing with his head to the huge grey edifice behind him. “So obviously, I got to hear all the stories about my neighbourhood. And anyway, on the day of the fight about the picture—the one Mrs. Bloom accused him of stealing—I was out playing in the garden and I could hear all the shouting.”

I burst out laughing, and the atmosphere suddenly turns awkward.

“What do you find so funny?” he asks coolly.

“The fact that you've apparently
always
had a thing for spying on people,” I say with a chuckle.

He frowns dismissively—but then a rueful smirk appears on his face, and it's not long before he's laughing softly too.

The wind gathers strength, so I pull my jacket tighter around me for extra warmth. Ready now to get back inside, we exchange polite goodbye smiles and head off towards our respective front doors.

After just a few steps, though, I turn again and say out loud, “Do you believe he really did it?”

He takes a few moments to gather his thoughts and then turns towards me with a pensive expression on his face.

“I don't know, if I'm honest . . .”

He shakes his head.

“But I wouldn't take any chances.”

I
OPEN MY
eyes at the creak of my bedroom door opening, but continue feigning sleep while I listen to light footsteps which cross the parquet, stumble against the chair by the desk, and let out a soft gasp of surprise.

I'm lying with my face turned the other way, so I can't see who it is, but I'm not afraid. In fact, I almost feel like I know who's sneaking about in the room: the young girl from my dreams.

Is
that who it is?

I sense movement near the wardrobe, as if the person is trying to quietly open it. Too curious to wait another second, I suddenly sit bolt upright in bed and look in front of me.

I was right—it's her again.

“What are you doing in my room?” she asks, surprised to see me appear from under the blankets.

“Is this
your
room?”

She nods, adding, “You need to leave. If you don't, he'll find me.”

“The Derfla? Is he still after you?” I whisper.

Obviously terrified by the sound of that name, she starts trembling and nods again, her frightened eyes searching the room.

“Why do you think he's looking for you?”

“Because he created me,” she explains, as though stating the obvious. “And now it's—it's time for him to
eat
me.”

I can't hold back my amusement at this childlike logic. It's like when children who should know better let themselves get so worked up about the Bogeyman that they actually start to believe he exists. Her words provoke an involuntary giggle from me, but it's obvious straightaway that my reaction has upset her, so I put on a serious face and ask, “What makes you think he
created
you?”

“Because—because I don't have any parents,” she replies.

“What do you mean?” I say, genuinely taken aback. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I don't!” she shouts.