Dream House (8 page)

No more words come out of my mouth—or out of Alfred's, predictably—so I withdraw indoors. But the thick walls and locked doors can't keep away a growing feeling of fear. I'm besieged by a multitude of worrying possibilities which make my head spin and my stomach ache, and I'm starting to feel nauseous.

Sitting myself down on the arm of the sofa, I grab some paper and a pen from one of the shelves of the bookcase and start quickly jotting down all the impressions and facts that I've gathered over the last ten days:

1) The Blooms are nowhere to be found.

2) During my first few days here, a strange old woman kept insisting that I had to leave the house.

3) I've been having recurring nightmares whose protagonist is a little girl who claims to be afraid of something called “the Derfla.”

4) Alfred, the gardener, has been acting oddly and seems to be hiding a secret.

5) Thanks to Avery, my neighbour, I've been able to learn more about the events in Alfred's past which gave rise to the legend of the Derfla in the first place.

6) My conversation with Avery also proved to me that I didn't just dream up the Derfla, that it's something local adults use to scare children into behaving themselves.

What connects all of these things?

I'm so close, yet so far away from discovering the one piece of the jigsaw puzzle that I need. I can't give up now.

Here's my theory, for what it's worth: since the Blooms' disappearance, the only person that I've come across on the property is Alfred, who is always distant and standoffish. Is it possible that both the elderly woman and the young girl in my dreams have been trying to warn me about something awful that's going to happen? Is it possible that Alfred the gardener has done something to Marvin and Amabel?

And is there even the smallest chance that he's been playing games with me in order to eventually get rid of me?

In my mind, the answer is clear.

I raise my eyes from the floorboards I've been staring at blankly for the last hour and take a look outside. It's only early afternoon, but the sun is already starting to sink in the sky in preparation for disappearing behind the hills.

I spend a good fifteen minutes hanging around by the window, just to make sure that Alfred isn't about. There being no sign of him in the back garden, I head for the corridor in the direction of the cellar to be certain that he's gone away for the day—I can get a decent view of the gate from there.

I'm creeping down the hallway as quietly as I can when I hear a sound coming from downstairs.

And as soon as I do, my breath freezes in my mouth.

“It's too risky,” a female voice whispers. “We need to wait, as we discussed.”

I fling open the door and walk through it, but as I expected, there's nobody to be seen. Certain that someone must be hiding somewhere within these walls, I close the door behind me, leaving myself in complete darkness, and run down the stairs to the centre of the room.

The frightening things that happened during my first visit down here are at the forefront of my thoughts, but I try to push those memories away and focus on the here and now.

If Alfred actually is the person who is playing games with me, he could have been drugging me all this time. All the voices, all the weird events might only be in my mind, and I've got no way of separating what's real from what isn't. The only thing that I must make sure of is that he isn't able to get close to me when I'm not looking. I have to be completely vigilant at all times and never let my guard down.

The problem is that's a lot easier said than done.

Checking on the gate through the small cellar window, I see Alfred trimming the bushes along the sides of the pathway. I stay put and wait for him to finish, not missing a single one of his movements, until he stalks out of my field of vision and forces me to find another spot from which to observe him.

Once I've climbed back up to the ground floor, I decide I'll turn off all the lights to try to make him think that I'm not home, then immediately afterwards find myself a good hiding place that still allows me to observe his every move. I crouch behind the old sofa so I have a clear view through the big French windows while still remaining hidden—if needed, I can also walk over to the door to spy on him through the peephole without being spotted, obtaining a view over two sides of the house.

I stay huddled up like that for hours, until I feel my body aching and my eyelids starting to droop.

T
HE CLOCK
strikes 3:00 a.m., and the sound of its chimes makes me jump. I must have fallen asleep for a few hours. But I can't go to bed now—I have to stay awake.

I'm lying on the floor, unsure what I should do next. Twisting my head around, I check that I'm alone.

Alfred doesn't seem to be about, so I stand up and start looking for a flashlight to help me find my way in the darkness. I hunt through every drawer in the living room and kitchen without luck before remembering the candle that I dropped on the floor in shock a few nights ago. I carefully make my way through the gloom to the corridor and am pleased to see the candle still lying where I left it. I pick it up and use a match from the box by the stove to light it.

At the same moment, a light comes on across the back garden.

It's coming from Avery's house.

I stand there in silence, staring out at that lonely window which glows with such bright light—light which after my prolonged stay in complete blackness looks a lot brighter to me than it actually is.

My heart starts beating faster. Not because I'm worried or scared, but because I'm
glad
to see that light in the darkness. It's comforting, somehow. It makes me feel safer.

Framed by the neighbour's window, I see the movement of a silhouette which stops dead at its centre, as though looking right at me.

Is it Avery? Can he see me?

Around the house everything seems quiet, and the air is unnaturally still, so I put on my shoes and head outside, hoping he'll notice me. But it's not until I've turned the two corners of the house that I realize Avery is no longer by his window—he's already walking to meet me by the gate.

Instantly, I feel a smile forming on my face, and I blush at the thought that I'm so pleased to see him.

“How did you—?” I start to say, but before I can finish my sentence, he breaks in.

“I saw you coming out.”

My smile gets wider—which, considering the situation, makes me feel a bit silly. For a moment I just stand there looking at him. His usually messy hair looks even more tangled than normal, suggesting that he probably just woke up. He's somehow managing to look cute anyway, though.

Then I see the sweatshirt he's wearing. Across the chest in giant capital letters is the word “FLAWLESS,” and at the sight of it I can't hold back a dorky guffaw.

He looks down at the source of my amusement, and then back up at me.

“What, you mean you don't agree?” he asks, feigning perplexity.

We both laugh, and I start to relax a little bit.

“I'm glad you saw me coming out,” I confess.

There's a moment of charged silence between us, which he breaks with another question. “So how is it that you're awake?”

I consider not telling him the truth, to try to make myself sound a bit less pathetic, but then decide that it'd be better to open up and be honest.

“I can't sleep. I have a . . . weird feeling.”

“What do you mean?” he asks kindly.

“I keep . . . hearing things,” I admit. “And seeing people. In the house.”

“And does that keep you up?” he says, seemingly unruffled by my words.

“No,” I say. “I have to stay awake. I
need
to.”

“Maybe you should try to get some sleep instead. It might just be that you're overtired.”

“Never mind,” I answer, irked by his hint that it might all be in my head. “Forget it.” I turn quickly on my heel and start walking off.

“Wait,” he says, raising his voice, “that's not what I meant.”

“Then what
did
you mean?” I ask sharply, without turning back round to face him.

“I mean . . . that it's hard,” he explains. “Being on your own for a long time. I know how it feels.”

Repenting, I walk back to the gate and look him in the eyes, feeling an urgent need for him to understand me.

“I'm not imagining things.”

“I know,” he whispers back, without breaking eye contact.

We stare at each other, and it's clear that we are both feeling something—there's a connection between us.

Still speaking in a low voice, I tell him, “I don't know if I'm safe here.”

His eyes shift to the dark bulk of the house behind me.

“What
exactly
is it that you're afraid of?” he asks, his expression becoming more intent.

“I have this feeling that won't go away. The sensation that I'm being watched, constantly . . . and I'm afraid that the person behind it all is Alfred.”

I immediately realize how silly I must sound, but it's too late to take it back.

“I can stay out here and check that nothing weird happens,” he offers, suddenly every inch the solicitous young gentleman. “If you feel like you're in danger, you can always come over and find me. I won't leave.”

Overwhelmed by his kindness, I move nearer to him, reaching the limit of the gate between our gardens. We're so close that I can almost feel the warmth of his body next to mine.

“I can't let you stay out here alone, though,” I say, after the silence has drawn itself out for a few instants.

“Oh, I don't mind,” he reassures me.

I consider his offer, and then a thought pops into my head.

“Tell you what—we could
both
spend the night out here, until the sun comes up. But I wouldn't want you to feel that you have to . . .”

“Sure,” he answers, without hesitation.

And so just like that, we find ourselves sitting with our backs propped against the two sides of the gate. The only thing illuminating our surroundings is the gently flickering candle that sits in a little pool of its own hardened wax on one of the stones of the path.

I can hear him breathing, in and out, and the rhythm of it soothes me to the point that I close my eyes and start to sleep.

When I wake up, it takes me a few moments to work out where I am. I turn around to check if Avery is still there and, disappointed to find that he's not, I get up from the ground and brush my hands clean on my jeans.

“Hey!” shouts a voice from behind me.

Somehow I manage to spin around in time to catch the apple that's flying through the air towards me.

There he is—Avery, walking this way through the dewy grass, another apple in his hand.

“I did
tell
you that I wouldn't leave you,” he says, with a wide smile on his face. “Nice catch, by the way!”

I return his smile and thank him for the apple, and he takes a bite from his.

“You seemed pretty concerned last night,” he says as soon as he has finished chewing. “Would you like to talk about it?”

I reflect for a second and try to straighten out my thoughts, then, finally, let it all out.

“Maybe . . . maybe I'm crazy, but I'm starting to think that Alfred might be drugging me,” I say. “All the things that I see, all the weird things that have been happening to me . . . I can't explain it, and it just feels natural to blame all of this on him.”

“Why would he do that, though? I mean, what possible motive could he have? Have you thought about that?” he asks.

“Well, I know that this will sound ridiculous, but I'm scared he might be up to something big.”

“Like what?”

“Like, where are the Blooms? You said it yourself—Mrs. Bloom didn't like the idea of having him around.”