The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller (62 page)

“It’s okay, no-one’s in,” said Charlie, noticing the change and trying to reassure her. “Eric’ll be out at work—sorry, Eric’s my housemate—so there’s no-one to worry about.” Minnie didn’t respond to this, and instead the view began to cast about the front doorstep, looking for something.

“Where’s this spare key hidden then?” she asked, her voice very low and discreet. “There’s nowhere for it to be hidden under.”

“You have to crouch down,” said Charlie, whispering himself on reflex—not wanting the hiding place to be overheard—then realising that doing so was idiotic. He raised his voice again. “At the back of the step, on the right hand side, it’s crumbled away slightly and left a gap. We stash it in there.”

Without a word, the view lowered and then angled up, showing the upstairs windows as Minnie craned her head back, leaning in with her shoulder. A few seconds passed.

What…did the curtain just move upstairs?

“There’s nothing here,” said Minnie, softly. “There’s a gap, but no key.”

“Of course there is,” said Charlie, annoyed at what he took to be a half-assed effort on her part. “Check again.”

“Charlie, I felt all round it. It’s only a small gap, barely enough room for a key as it is, and there isn’t one there. This is, as suspected, bullshit.” She didn’t sound victorious, or even angry. She sounded scared, the word
bullshit
coming out almost as a squeak.

Eric. He’s forgotten to but the bloody key out.

“Eric’s obviously forgotten to leave it out,” Charlie said, frustrated now. This was typical; Eric, always so reliable, except on the one day it was really required of him. “This means nothing. And hey, how would you have known the gap was even there in the first place?”

Minnie sighed, and the view moved to the floor in silence for a moment, showing one of her trainers pawing in aimless arcs on the path. Charlie’s heart sank; despite the important point about the gap in the step actually being there, she didn’t buy it, instead fearing the worst.

“Look, Minnie, I promise you—“

Both of them jumped as the front door opened, the view leaping a foot back from it and Charlie actually falling onto his backside. The floor in his darkened room was solid, and yet didn’t hurt; it wasn’t hard or soft, it was just something for him to stand on, it seemed. But there was no time to consider that.

The person responsible for the door opening was a short, elderly woman, easily in her eighties. She was wearing a green jumper and jogging bottoms, with an apron covering the whole ensemble, and her feet were covered with nothing but a pair of brown socks. Her white hair was scraped back into a high ponytail, though some of it had escaped in thin strands that stuck out in all directions. She wore glasses, and the expression on her aged face was a mix of confusion, suspicion and indignance.

“What are you doing?” she asked, looking Minnie up and down and putting one foot out of the door onto the step, holding on to the doorframe with one hand. Minnie didn’t answer, the view just showing the scene before her. Had he been of normal mind, Charlie would have realised that she was frozen, waiting for him to explain or give her a clue as to what to say, without Minnie having to ask question of an invisible companion to get the answers needed. At that moment, however. he simply wasn’t capable; his blood had ran cold upon seeing the old woman, and his world was rocked even further upon its battered and strained hinges.

He had never seen the old woman in his entire life.

His mind raced; Eric’s mother?
No, you’ve seen pictures!
Had Mr Bansal, the landlord, hired her as a cleaner?
He’s never done that in ten years, and he knows I’d hit the roof if he sent someone round without telling us first!
Had Eric invited her round?
What the hell for?

Everything drew a blank, and Charlie just stood there and gaped in shock. The mutual silence went on long enough to draw another enquiry from the old woman. Her free hand went up, palm out, and her head began to shake back and forth in slow defiance.

“I not interested, whatever it is. I don’t want it. The sign says we don’t buy from salesmen, so we don’t buy from salesmen.
Or saleswomen
,” she added, gesturing her hand up and down Minnie’s frame. The view scanned around dumbly, as Minnie looked for the aforementioned sign. The old woman caught the look.

“Here,”
she said, annoyed, reaching around the doorframe and pointing to the front room window from the outside. “In the corner. You’ve seen it, I know you’ve seen it.”

Minnie looked, as did Charlie, and his shock dropped into straight up terror. He felt like ice had just travelled around his entire body, and his mouth gaped at the sight before them.

In the bottom left-hand corner of the window was a large, faded yellow sticker with black writing. It read:

NO DOORSTEP TRADERS, NO SURVEYS

The sticker had obviously been there for a very long time, peeling slightly at the edges, its surface bleaching after many years of catching the sun. Charlie didn’t know how they’d missed it on the way in, due to its size, but it was clear as day to them now; to Charlie it was like a rubber stamp that declared his reality void. He’d lived in that house for ten years, looked out through that window every day.

There had never, ever been a sticker on the window.

As Charlie goggled uselessly, he heard Minnie’s halting voice start up, coming to their rescue after realising she wasn’t getting any help.

“Sorry…Madam…but I’m…”

“Pardon?” said the old woman, cutting Minnie off and speaking louder than she had before. She seemed to realise that Minnie was on the back foot, and looked like she’d decided to take control of the conversation. “I can’t hear you I’m afraid, you have to speak loudly, speak up.”

Charlie heard Minnie take a deep breath, and tried to come back to himself, to help, but got nowhere, seeing the gluey remnants of the stickers previous, fully-stuck edges, now left as ghosts of their former glory where the corners had peeled back.

Where the fuck did that sticker come from?? Who the fuck is this woman??

“
Sorry
Madam,” he heard Minnie say, as if from far away. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m not selling anything. I think I might have the wrong house, if I’m honest.”

The old woman eyed her suspiciously, but her body seemed to relax slightly…if not completely. Minnie’s words—or the surprisingly confident tone she injected into her voice from nowhere—had had an effect.

“Wrong house…who are you after then? What number are you after? This is 17,” she said, leaning out again and tapping the numbers stuck to the outside of the house. “
17,”
she repeated, as if Minnie hadn’t heard

“Yes, this is the number I was given, but I might have been told wrong,” said Minnie, sounding businesslike but not stern, not forceful. She was coming across like a softly spoken schoolteacher. The transformation was surprising and impressive. “I was looking for a Charlie Wilkes, is this his house? He might have lived here before, and moved?” The old woman scoffed in response.

“You’ve been told wrong love, there’s no Charlie Wilkes here,” she said, almost looking satisfied by giving the news. “No-one on this street even and I know them all, apart from the Punjabi lot up the road,” she added with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Who told you he lived here?”

“But he could have moved, maybe?” Minnie repeated, ignoring the question. “Did he live here before you?” Another scoffing noise came in response, the old woman leaning against the door frame and crossing her arms in front of her chest. She was no longer defensive or alert, but that didn’t mean her outward personality had softened in any way.

“Unless he lived here sixty years ago, but I doubt he’d be anyone you’d know,” she said with an unpleasant chuckle. “My husband and I bought this house in 1954 and we’ve been here
ever since
.”

Her words were a slap, and they catapulted Charlie into action.

“That’s bullshit!”
he yelled, thrusting an accusatory finger at the screen, veins standing out on his forehead. “That’s fucking
bullshit,
she’s lying! I’ve lived in this house for ten years
, ten years!
Tell her she’s talking bullshit Minnie,
I’m telling you, this is bullshit!”
His shouts grew into hysteria of his own, confusion fuelled by terror and a crazy, cold sensation all over his body.
They’ve done something to my house, someone’s done something to my house and put me in here, this is bullshit!”

The only sound now was his heavy breathing and the brief noise of a passing car on the road behind them. Charlie saw the old woman’s face grow confused. He realised that Minnie hadn’t responded to her—she’d been listening to Charlie’s rant instead—and now the old woman was wondering what was going on again.

“So. Not here,” the old woman added, waving a hand to emphasise Charlie’s absence and waiting for a response. Charlie looked past her into her kitchen—
his
kitchen—and saw souvenir magnets he’d never owned pinning grandchildren’s crayon drawings to the fridge.

Wallpaper as faded and peeling as the sticker. Bran cereals on top of the cupboards, a half-eaten bowl of catfood.

This was real. This wasn’t his house, and never had been.

THIS EXTRACT CONTINUES IN
THE BLACK ROOM, PART ONE: IN THE BLACK ROOM,
AVAILABLE NOW ON THE AMAZON KINDLE STORE.

www.lukesmitherd.com

@travellingluke

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