The sound of a careful and well-paced,
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A harsh shiver coursed down William, entrapping him to the spot as the floorboards above him creaked. He lifted his head to the ceiling, this time following the sound with his eyes. It was methodical and had rhythm. Perhaps that was what drew him away from the journal. It wasn’t the sporadic creaks and groans of pipes telling the manor’s story, but something else.
It sounded like footsteps.
Fire poker in hand, William crept back up the stairs. Although the footsteps had stopped before he’d thrown the journal down and left the living room with his weapon of choice in hand, his mind still reeled with unwanted possibilities.Rats, he thought. But that wasn’t an option unless the rats were a hundred pounds and walked on careful, slow feet. Squatters seemed more likely, which was what made him take the fire poker and raise it before him like a sword.
“If you can hear me,” he started, feigning confidence but failing as his voice cracked. “I’ve had areallylong day, I’m cold and tired, but I’m also a Gemini in need of a good drink. If there is… or you are… hiding in my house, I’m not opposed to smacking you bloody…”
No one responded.
Although William had checked most of the rooms earlier, he had been searching for a fuse box rather than a person. Anyone could have seen him arrive and hidden beneath sheets or behind the countless pieces of furniture littering each room. The thought that he’d been watched made him sick. But more so, he felt angry.
Anger was a default emotion for William, and a new one at that. Since Archie’s death, William had flares of fast, hot fury assault him at times even when such an emotion wasn’t warranted. His therapist told him it was a natural response to grief, and in time it would fade. But he found that his ire kindled, burning hotter as time continued.
In truth, it was what came before Archie passed that spoiled the person William once was. Since then, he’d left holes in doors from his fist, or a broken bottle or two smashed against the floor.
He both hated this new side to him and revelled in it.
And if there was someone in his house, the anger would come in rather handy.
“I know you are here,” William called out again, knuckles white as he tightened on his weapon. “I heard you.”
He’d be a shit Final Girl in a horror film. William’s muscles tensed and bunched with energy, ready to put force behind a swing if and when required. The thought of leaving out the front door did pass his mind, but for one, this was his home now, and two, what would he do? Running to the nearest town wasn’t an option being miles away, and his phone had no signal and was almost entirely out of battery. Even if it had battery, he had no hope of charging it until he could get the electrics working.
William was more like the Final Gay, except didn’t the gay characters usually die first in horror films…?
Well shit.
On he forged, moving from room to room, sticking the pointy end of the poker into unusually sheet-covered shapes. William half expected a cry of pain from his inanimate victims, but it was either the dull thud of metal against wood or the cushioned resistance of material he stabbed.
Confident no one hid beneath beds or behind heavy curtains, William stood before the final set of stairs that led to the top floor. The attic. If anyone was hiding in the house this would no doubt be the place. Ahead of him, he caught the moon rising beyond the window, casting its ominous glow across the landscape beyond. Fields of silver and trees crowned with light, the view looked otherworldly. He thought of what he saw earlier and felt a little sick. Actually, very sick, because that could’ve been his intruder fleeing.
If they’ve already left, what did you hear?
Apart from the attic, the cellar was the only other place best suited for a hiding squatter, and for all William cared about, the intruder could stay down there, undisturbed.
The sound definitely came from above him, which was a relief because there was no chance he was going into the cellar tonight. Not until he was brave from at least one bottle of wine. And until the electrics were working again.
William reached the narrow slip of a landing and had two rooms left to investigate. Phone in hand, he flashed the torchlight before him to the two doors. They were opposite to one another, and both closed. Up in the attic space, the air was warmer but also thick with mould and dust. He almost choked on it.
William tried one door, but the handle wouldn’t budge, as with the other door.
They were both locked.
William pressed his ear to both, waiting and listening. There was nothing of note from within, but he drew a rickety chair and placed it before the door anyway. If a person was hiding there, the chair would fall and notify him when they came back out.
After searching high and low, literally, William was satisfied the sound was nothing too ominous. He promptly gave up on his search for the promise of wine.
For the rest of the night, William wouldn’t let the fire poker stray too far. There was no one here, but if someonewasin the locked attic rooms, good luck to them. Somewhere stuffed in the bottom of William’s bag was a large ring of keys given to him by Archie’s lawyer. But he wasn’t going to bother unlocking the rooms until tomorrow.
Old houses talk. That’s what it had to be. The excuse seemed good enough for William, who put it in the back of his mind, like many things. For now.
The next horror he had to face was a shower. Since he was already on the middle floor William thought it was the best use of his time to tackle that reality next.
Not but three minutes later, William stood beneath a pathetic trickle until his skin stung with the freezing water. The pressure was abysmal, but it did the job. Washing the day’s travel and evening’s worth of ash, scavenging and fear from him was a relief. By the time he was done, he didn’t think about potential squatters or noises, only the desperation to warm up by a newly lit fire and drink himself into a state so sleep would be easy.
