“Believe it or not, this place used to be a holiday home,” I begin.“We’re talking years ago, at the time my father was married to his first wife, Eileen.I’ve been told they bought it because of how remote it is.A place for when they just wanted to get away from life for a bit.Sounds perfect if you ask me.But it wasn’t.This place….”I glance around the room for dramatic effect.“My mum came here once with my father before I was born and swore she would never return, and they never have.”
The Beast rolls his eyes.
“Am I boring you, big man?”I ask.
“No, but I’m guessing something happened?A shadow on the wall one night?A candle blown out during an important dinner?”There’s a dry smugness to his voice, one he saves for talking about the super-rich.
“No, better than that.”I widen my eyes and lower my voice to make it sound more sinister.“My mum didn’t like the house from the minute she arrived, and she told me that she found out the previous owner had been a guy named Hollins who went mad here one winter when he got snowed in with his family.He started to see things that weren’t there, rubbed his eyes with sandpaper until they bled, and scratched his skin off with a razor blade.
“His wife tried to get help, ran from the house with their two children in tow.But the snow was too thick, and they died of hypothermia on the mountain.Hollins remained in the house, unable to leave as the madness took hold.He was found weeks later, when the snow had thawed and one of the locals came up to see if the family were okay.Imagine their horror when they found his wife and two kids frozen to death on the roadside and then got here to find Hollins hanging from the chandelier.”
Silence slithers over the room as Willa shivers.
“Shit.”She exhales and hugs her body.“I’d heard rumours amongst the staff about this place and about how no one ever wanted to come here, but no one knew why.Did all that really happen?”
I hold it as long as I can before I let out a shriek of laughter.“No, but you should have seen your face!”I slap my leg, and Willa scowls.I’m laughing—really, I am—but the sound feels strange in this place, like it doesn’t belong.
And maybe it doesn’t, because beneath the laughter, something stirs—a memory.One I haven’t thought about in years.
I remember the look on my mum’s face when I was about eight years old and came across the photo of her at Belial House.
My mum was having a good day.I knew because her hair was tied back, and she kept smiling at me.I liked the days when she felt good.It made me feel good too.We were in my bedroom, looking at some photo albums.Most of the pictures were of me as a baby or a toddler, my dark hair in pigtails with chocolate smeared around my mouth.My mum wasn’t in a lot of the photos, maybe because she was the one taking the pictures.But when I turned the last page, a photo slipped out and landed on my knee.
It was of my mum.She looked a little younger, her face not as lined, her cheeks rosier, and she was standing in the doorway of a grand house made from dark stone, with large ornate windows and a fancy roof.The building was surrounded by trees.It wasn’t a place I’d seen before.
“Mummy, where is this?”I asked, holding the photo out.My stomach did that funny thing when I worried or when I had to eat something I didn’t like.
Her happy face changed to one that didn’t look like my mum’s at all.
She snatched the photo from my hand, and her eyes turned watery.Her shoulders dropped, and she went from looking mad to seriously sad.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she said.“I didn’t mean to snatch.I just don’t like this house.”She stuffed the photo in her back pocket and pulled me in for a hug.
“But where is it?Have I ever been there?”
“It’s called Belial House, and it’s far away from here,” she began.“It’s a holiday home that belongs to your father, and no, you’ve never been there.”
“Why not?”
She didn’t answer me straight away, like adults did, just stared off in the middle distance, her eyes glazing as if lost in the memory.
“I’ve only been once, before you were born.Your father took me for a holiday, and I didn’t like the house very much.”
With wide-eyed innocence, I asked, “Why not?”
“Well, there was just something about it that I didn’t like.”She looked at me, her thick hair falling into her eyes.
“What didn’t you like about it?Did it smell?”I considered it was like when I went to the dentist, and that horrible cleaning smell would cling to my throat and make me want to throw up.
“No, it wasn’t the smell.It was a feeling.A creepy feeling, like the house had eyes and was watching me.”Her voice got lower at the end of her sentence, like she was drifting away from me.
“Do you think it was haunted?”
“I don’t know.Maybe.”
“Well, that’s silly.”I folded my arms.
“Silly?”
