Chapter 1: The House
Placing his arm around Deans shoulders, Jed pulls a spooky face then roughly turns his friend towards the house.
“Stunning! Just look at it! It’s like something from a horror film - a living nightmare and it’s tailor made just for this one night...and the only way we’re really going to figure out what really happened that night is if we go inside.“
“Look! They’re all around us...the ’No-Trespassing’ signs... which means...We shouldn’t be here. ‘Right!’
“That’s the whole point you idiot... it means there’s something in that house people aren’t supposed to see.”
Wondering how Jed would react if he just ran off screaming whilst making out insanity had got the better of him, Dean attempts to keep himself together but its been an hour since the dope wore off and reality is now seeping in.
“Family sits down to dinner then someone or something slits their throats without any one of them getting to their feet... and that sounds right to you does it?”
“Come on man! What else is there to do on Halloween. And just think. We can record the whole thing then add our own bit of gore.”
“That’s not what I asked you,” snaps Dean.
“I know what you asked Columbo so figure it out.”
“Sounds like crap to me,” replies Jed glancing sideways. “Look Man. I’m sorry about your sister... What happened was a terrible thing...but coming here... What I’m trying to say is... That guy..... the one who killed your sister.... He’s probably a long way away by now - drifters do that- right?
“I don’t want to talk about it - ’OK.’”
Realising Jed’s obsession with visiting the old place is one-step nearer, Dean reluctantly looks up towards the house. “Freakin place,” he shudders. “Gives me the creeps if you ask me... and why anyone in their right minds would want to go anywhere near this shit hole beggars belief.”
“I want to go to you dick..... I want to go near the shit hole - so while we’re here we might as well get to it - agreed?”
Backing away, “This stuff just isn’t funny anymore - anyhow - don’t you think we’re getting a bit old for this kind of thing?”
“You know the locals call it ’Hell House don’t you.”
“Then let’s get the ‘hell’ outa hear....‘Yeah’”
“Come on Man. Life’s too short not to take risks.”
Watching Jed fidgeting around in the pocket of his hoodie, “What the fuck are you doing ‘now,’ he snaps.
“It’s in here somewhere,” mutters Jed. “Just a minute!”
Dragging the inside of the pocket completely out, Jed spills out its contents into an open hand, but its not there so he delves deeper.
Transfixed by all the rummaging and hoping that somewhere in the depths of his Jed’s ancient pockets there’s a get out card so they can go home, Dean asks one more time. “ What the hell are you doing man?”
“Here. Look see - I’ve found it. I knew it was in there somewhere.”
“What. ′ What was in there somewhere,” replies Dean, praying Jed’s efforts are at least worth the wait.
Insisting. “ ’Hold these a minute will you,’” he passes a beleaguered Dean, three spliff’s an empty condom packet and some used gum. Appearing to be full of what Dean presumes to be armpit hairs, he flicks it out of sight before Jed has a chance to look up.
“‘For god’s sake.’ What is this crap, man?”
“Never mind the crap, and I saw what you just did just now with my favourite gum so just hold them a minute and stop whining you pussy.”
Finally pulling out what resembles a crumpled piece of rubber, Jed unfolds his find and hangs it limply from an extended finger.
“So you’ve found a piece of crumpled rubber, ‘great,’ thaas really worth the wait wasn’t it.”
“It’s not just any piece of rubber ‘you idiot’ - look!”
Waggling his finger under Deans’s nose, Jed smiles. “It’s not just any piece of rubber ‘you fool’ - look!” But Dean still has no idea what Jed is talking about, so he stares at him vacantly.
Deciding that it might be necessary to rekindle some enthusiasm, Jeds waves what he’s found like a flag advertising victory .
“Remember? ‘That pig mask’ the one we found ages ago - well I’ve still got it - see!” Placing the rubber mask over his face, Jed peers through the eyeholes before performing a dismal impression of MJ’s moonwalk. Turning to Dean, he then asks. “Pretty good ‘yeah,’ the moonwalk I mean?”
“‘You are kidding, right’ - Look - I love you man - but that old place is a complete head screw - especially after that photographer fella went missing.”
“‘YOU PUSSY BOY,’ ” snaps Jed. “‘I was’ going to let you wear that - anyway they found him - that photographer - a couple of months later – he’d had some sort of breakdown - so technically - he didn’t really go missing now - ‘did he.’”
Picking up the muddied mask, Dean stares through its eye holes for a second before attempting to roll his eyes back into his head, but it just sends him dizzy.
“Happy now are we,” replies Dean, still looking through the masks eyeholes.
“He probably shit his pants after he saw old ’No Face Eddy. Then half out of his tiny mind, he did a runner - now that would be a mind screw - ‘so sod off you idiot.’
Patting Dean on the back, Jed takes one last drink of his warm coke before reassuring his friend. “Come on, it’ll be fine and look... It’s only a friggin house... There’s no such things as ghosts... And just think of the mileage well get out of this - the girls will go wild and Priss? Man, she’ll be all over you like a rash you ‘pretty boy.’
The thought of Priss all over him makes Dean smile. “It’s the way she swaggers in that pretty little dress that does it for me.”
“She’s a strange one though,” remarks Jed. “Halloween for her, it isn’t even about the chocolates and lollipops is it – it’s more about those skimpy little outfits.”
Smiling, Jed’s sold Dean an idea and he’s bought it so he slaps him on the back. Forcing Jed’s fantasy to an abrupt end and what’s left of his coke to half choke him, he stumbles back and just for a second sees a flicker of light in the houses kitchen window.
Blurting, “What the hell man, she’s not that good you idiot,” Jed reels back. “And anyway, if old Charley finds out you’ve been fantasizing about his daughter he’ll have your guts especially when he finds you and her panting about the horrors within ’The House on Hell Hill.”
“She’s a nice girl you ass. And her Dad? He hits on her all the time. So respect.”
Throwing what’s left of the empty can toward the house some local wildlife scurry away and it shows them another way in.
“Shit. What the hell is that,” whispers Dean, noticing a small shadowy figure not feet away. His heart now racing, he’s imagining all sorts of weird stuff so he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a bottle.
“Vodka,’” blurts a surprised Jed. “It’s just a doll you fuckin idiot.”
Taking a swig from the bottle, “You mean a doll like human figure hanging by its neck from a tree.”
Flinching as the burn of alcohol hits the back of his throat, “And let’s be clear on that,” he splutters. “Because it’s no freakin Cindy is it’ - and if that’s not a warning for to us to leave ‘then please’ tell me what is - and anyway what kind of sick idiot puts something like that in a tree because it ain’t kids, they wouldn’t come within a mile of this old place.”
“Probably some vodka swilling wino,” replies Dean, still smirking at Dean’s alcohol fuelled contortions.
Occasionally lit by the what appears to be the remnants of a solar powered garden light, the doll seems to dance to and fro as though in the throes of death. Creating a mix of shadowy and macabre elements, its shadow seems to flash across the houses exposed brickwork making it look almost alive as it towers against the houses gable end.
Ignoring the warning sign, Jed looks back towards the house then carefully study’s its geometry. “Window ’or door, which one?” inquires Dean, pointing to a variety of entry points.
“Window,” replies Jed, having assessed all the possibilities.
Crawling back out, Dean now puts distance between himself and the broken window.
“Scared,” bellows Jed, unaware of the windows glass remnants.
“NO,” protests Dean. “But if we get caught on those shards of glass we’ll be fucked, so let’s try another way in, ‘agreed’.”
Jed nods his head, he’s seen the glass and it looks lethal, so he’s not going to argue.
“Ok, let’s go around the back.” Overgrown and covered in broken glass the garden path is difficult to negotiate and it’s making it difficult to walk up and around the back of the house. Much darker than at first imagined they finally find a window thats clear of glass. Trying not to be the pussy boy Jed thinks he is, Dean decides to go first.
Noticing there are a couple of broken windows, possibly entry points, Jed whispers. “Look. The windows are broken, we can get in there.” As they reach a clearing, the front door of the house creaks open by itself. “What the hell...,” blurts Dean, startled by the noise
“It’s probably just the wind or that raccoon your Coke can pissed off earlier, It’s blowing straight through the old place. look. You can see what’s left of the curtains moving. You’re scared aren’t you,” he teases. “You wimp. Your heads all covered in sweat - wait till tomorrow at school when I tell them all you shit your pants.”
“‘Screw you,’” replies Sean. “Come on - I ain’t scared – look - I’ll go first.”
The window is narrow and it’s a squeeze to get through the opening. Eventually tumbling through, Jed shouts out. “Hey, no face. Got any candy,” but thankfully no one replies.
Making their way across the floor, a rotten floorboard creaks and as the door miraculous slams shut, “It’s just the wind,’ whispers Jed trying not to convince himself otherwise.
“What’s that foul stench,” mutters Dean, as the smell of something long dead invades his nostrils.
“Rotting flesh,” replies Jed, hoping for some reaction. “It’s probably what’s left of old Eddy’s final victim rotting being eaten by a million plague rats. ”But Dean remains silently staring into the gloom.
Failing to notice the shadow edging towards them, they carry on with their exploration until reaching the centre of what apppread to be the living room.
The inside of the house is covered in cobwebs and a piece of “Beware, trespassers will be prosecuted’ sign lays strewn on the floor. Covered in glass, its obviously been thrown through one of the broken windows.
Part of the signs faded arrow, once clearly etched across the front of the board, is broken off and is now sticking out between the kitchen and backroom and chillingly, it looks like an invite for them to proceed upstairs.
Noticing some kind of wooden stand, Jed moves to take a closer look. Seeing it’s a parrot’s stand, he whispers. “My uncle used to have one of those - it’s a parrot’s stand - maybe he’s still around here somewhere.”
“Who? The parrot or your mad uncle?” replies Dean sarcastically.
“Very funny,” replies Jed although in reality he’s only half listening to his friend.
Now mesmerized by his quaint find and noticing it’s almost pristine condition, he makes his way over towards the kitchen where it stands.
“Looks like it was bought yesterday,” he remarks, as he passes his hand over the structures twists and turns. “Jesus Chist! It’s warm - this things warm – ‘feel it.’
“Of course it’s warm you idiot, it’s made of wood and your hands are freezing so it’s bound to feel warm, ‘don’t you ever listen in science class, you dork.’”
Strangely, the parrots stand is the only piece of furniture in the broken room not rotting or trashed, and as Dean makes his way over to where Jed is standing, he trips over an old broken bucket, sending it clattering across the floor.
“Where in god’s name did that come from,” he whispers, as the bucket crashes into a corner, spins for a moment then stops, its open end facing them.
“No good whispering now is it, you’ve just woken up the whole neighbourhood you clumsy dick.”
“Come on; let’s go upstairs before you kill yourself and do old Eddy’s job for him.”
Deciding to take the signs spooky invite at face value, the boys enter an upstairs hallway. There are three rooms off to one side and one of them has an old bed and a dressing style table.
The second room is a bathroom with most of the copper pipes ripped from the plasterwork. The third room however is a sitting room with a strategically placed rotting leather chair in one corner.
Facing the window, the chair appears to be looking over the garden and the cushion is depressed. “Look,” insists Jed. “It’s like someone has been sitting there watching us.”
Carefully examining the chair in some detail, Dean disagrees. “The chair’s covered in dust, Man,” he tells Jed. “Look see, so that just can’t be - can it?”
Tentatively moving through the room, Jed notices a flowered dress and it’s hanging from one of the two wicker chairs battered arms. “Nice dress,” he remarks. “Why don’t you take it for Priss – it’s big enough?”
“What is she? About size 18 would you say?” but then turning back to show Sean his find he discovers the dress has now gone.
Replaced by a bucket, with ‘Lungs’ scrawled on the side of it in red pen, Dean looks across at Jed. “Stop messing about will you this place is freaky enough as it is.”
“Hey! it’s not me man,” then looking around, he whispers. “It’ll be old ‘No Face’ coming to get us.”
Momentarily fazed, Jed eyes the chair one more time. “I could have sworn there was a dress,” he mutters, then insists – “I’m telling you man - there was a dress hanging off that old chair not seconds ago.”
“And I suppose the bucket came out of nowhere did it?” Walking off in disgust through the open doorway opposite, Dean calls out. “Come on, this place is boring the hell out of me.”
Deciding it’s best to follow his friend, Jed suddenly hears a ‘THUNK’ somewhere in the hallway and it halts his forward progress.
Similar to the sound his dad’s cleaver makes when he’s cutting into those frozen Dear stakes Mom keeps in the freezer over Christmas; the sound is familiar. However, unlike the sound of Mom’s frozen steaks, it has a softer tone, which meant it was more likely to be the noise of someone cleaving fresh meat.
Heart beating rapidly, Jed calls out. “Hang on Sean, I’m coming too.” Entering the hallway, mysteriously Sean has disappeared, so he calls out. “Where are you Sean..... stop messing,” but still, there’s no answer?
As Jed makes his way out into the hallway, he’s confronted by a figure. Startled, he moves back as the figure towers over him, but this time there’s nowhere for Jed to run.
“‘I’ve got a gun,’” blurts Jed, “and it’s fuckin loaded man - so don’t make me use it.”
Wearing a half pig mask, what is obviously a very large man is clutching a hatchet and it’s clear that the mask he’s wearing is the one Jed gave to him.
Grotesque, with a huge, grinning, misshapen mouth, he seems unfazed by Jed’s threats as he stares down at him.
The axe he’s carryimng is double edged and it’s covered in blood, Deans blood, but he calls for him anyway. “Dean, help me man. Please!”
His voice quivering, almost gone, his heart is now pounding against his chest and it feels like a three pound lump hammer is trying to smash its way out of his rib gage.
Holding, what looks like a set of bloodied human lungs, the man then places one hand on Jed’s shoulder. Now frozen with fear, Jed can’t move as the man raises the axe and turns the young man’s neck towards the window.
“They’re a bit small these,” remarks the towering figure, dropping Deans lungs on the floor, “SO I MAY NEED A SECOND PAIR, JUST IN CASE - and sorry by the way, I don’t seem to have any candy this evening…….”
Shaking and screaming uncontrollably, Jed tries to scramble away but his legs give way as a sudden feeling of light-headedness causes him to sway gently from side to side.
He wants to vomit but for some reason can’t as congealing blood is blocking his throat so he tries to take a deep breath. Dropping to his knees, everything now appears to be upside down and Jed is struggling with the reasoning behind it.
Remembering reading somewhere that when someone is decapitated, their brain functions for a few seconds after its been cleaved from the body, he’s now seeing his own body slump headless against the wall. Then his eyes fix on the head of his best friend.
‘There you are Sean,’ he thinks to himself. Noticing the stairs and realising they can get out that way Jed tries to speak but something is not connecting and now he can’t seem to get his words out.
Thinking, ‘Come on Sean. If I can just roll down the stairs I can get us out. Yes - I can still make it. I’m not going to die. I won’t die.’ But then a blackness descends as a heavily booted foot kicks Jed’s torso less head into one corner.
“Sorry Sean,” his bloodied lips quiver. “Maybe we won’t be making it out after all....
Hearing the distant bark of a dog, the grotesque figure rushes towards the houses south facing window. Seeing a woman scurrying through the bushes towards the house’s open back windows, he snaps. “Fucking hell Amy, this is not the time to come a calling ‘is it now.’”
Old Friends
It was late evening as Amy made her way through Caw-Thorn wood. She wasn’t heading for home, but for an old place everyone said was haunted.
Careful not to catch her head on the overhanging branches, she delicately threads her way through the twisted labyrinth of Caw-Thorne’s notorious ′Ravens Head’ footpath, a route seldom used and as usual things weren’t going quite the way she’d planned and to add to her pain, it was beginning to rain.
“Christ,” she remarks angrily. “That’s all I bloody well need.”
The rain was now hitting her skin like it would go right through and her fingers are so numb she can no longer feel the tips. Drawn to the old place by an unusual invite, she tells to herself. “Even if it comes to nothing, I suppose I can still shelter in the old place if needs must.”
Continuing her way forwards, Amy comes across a tangled overhang. Pausing for a moment to gaze at the complexity of it all, “I wish they’d cut these damn overhangs.” she mutters then out of nowhere, she’s startled as as a single stray branch lashes out a one of her neatly tied tresses.
Pulling one of them slightly adrift, “Fuck off will you,” she snaps then lashes out at the offending branch in an attempt to move it to one side.
After years of straightening, blow drying and washing it daily, her hair, once luxurious and buoyant, was now rebelling in the worst kind of way – by beginning to thin out.
Her hair now entwined with broken twigs, Amy fiddles with it for a moment attempting to unravel the prickly offenders before eventually giving up as frustration takes hold, compelling already tired limbs arms to drop to her sides in what appeared to be an act of unconditional surrender.
“It wasn’t always like this Amy - was it?” she whispers to herself. “In fact, thinking back, I was born with a rather thick head of hair.”
Looking down into a rapidly clearing puddle, a pale band of silver moonlight illuminates the last of the outwardly spreading ripples before clearing to reveal her own reflection.
Staring back, at what appears to be an entire forest sprouting form her head, Amy sighs then whispers, “God! I wish I’d never bothered coming now.”
Highlighting the disappointment on her face, the moonlights reddish glow reminds Amy of that half-filled glass of wine she’d poured earlier in the evening and that it was still waiting for her on her mother’s mahogany fireside table. “Wine time,” she then tells herself, as she anticipates that first sip. But unfortunately, its warmth and accompanying feeling of restitution will have to wait because unnoticed, she’s reached her final destination - ‘The house’ - and tonight there’s no going back.
The approach to the house looked darker than usual, as torn curtains hanging from shattered windows made it look uninhabitable, cold and more than just derelict, making her shiver.
The porch, padlocked against the gangs of intransigent children that plagued ‘The Moors’ estate, looked secure and immovable, leaving Amy only one choice - one of its many broken windows, although at her age she wondered if she still had the flexibility to get through such tiny openings.
Two years ago, to the day, something strange had happened near the house. A photographer, driven by an inquisitive nature, had been walking back from a shoot of the old place when he went missing. The police searched the abandoned house as a matter of routine - but found nothing except local kids.
Encouraged by the news story, they would visit the house late at night for a dare, and whilst drinking cheap booze and smoking the odd dodgy cigarette would search for the remains of the missing photographer’s body.
This new urban legend began to cause quite a stir in the local community and had given the old house a somewhat terrifying reputation and deservedly so as it stood out, ominously embedded against the evening sky seemingly patiently waiting for any unfortunates that wished to enter but never ever leave.
Shuddering from the chill now biting at her ankles, Amy pulls her socks higher to cover her knees and as she looks up, painfully from her rather uncomfortable crouching position, she notices a shadowy figure not feet away - a human figure - and it’s hanging by its neck from a tree.
Occasionally lit by a flickering garden lights failing filament as it cools then expands in the evening breeze, the figure seems to dance to and fro, creating a mix of shadowy and macabre elements that ebbed and flowed across the house’s vast expanse of garden.
Once lush and green, the lawn now resembles the aftermath of an apocalyptic act of neighbourly retribution - a parched and barren playground for the odd raccoon and occasional foraging fox.
Strangely unfazed, Amy looks across at the porch one more time, thinking - ‘I was sure that outer door had was padlocked’ - but no – it was now ajar and the kitchen window, dark and uninviting only moments earlier now appeared as if fully illuminated.
“Charles,” she shouts out. “Please - come here - and quickly,” but there is no answer only the tiny crunch somewhere of leaves underfoot, then a cat jumps out from the undergrowth.
“God, you stupid cat, you nearly frightened me half to death,” she blurts.
Looking up, his big green eyes wide open. “Hello,” says Amy softly. Extending her hand slowly, “You are a handsome one, aren’t you?” she tells him. Sniffing Amy’s hand, he then licks her fingers before turning away and rushing towards the safety of the undergrowth.
Curious as to what startled her feline friend, Amy glances back. Noticing a shadow, she turns as whatever it is-is most definitely now directly behind her.
“What is it with black cats and Witches, eh? Why do we go so well together? Are we good luck? Or are we all bad luck,” she mutters now realizing her invite is in fact genuine.
Towering above her and wearing a half pig mask, her assailant is clutching a hatchet. Feeling the warmth of his breath against her neck, Amy can tell he’s been smoking cigars and what’s left of his face, visible below the mask, appears grotesque with a huge, grinning, misshapen mouth and a massive scar running down what’s left of his right cheek.
Partially ripped open, she can easily see the inside of his mouth. Revealing a set of blackened teeth, its clear he’s grinning and as Amy attempts to turn away, he holds her neck even tighter.
Placing his left hand on her shoulder, the man raises his axe then turns Amy’s neck towards the front porch. Now staring upward towards the heavens, Amy suddenly notices how beautiful the stars appear, then closing her eyes to accept her fate she hears a voice.
“’Just look at the state of your hair Amy’ - and I’ve told you before- take another route - the old path is becoming impassable - it’s also full of dog crap.”
Pausing for thought, her would be assailant slowly lowers his axe then looking towards the path, he sigh. “Most people just don’t care anymore - and others – well - they just don’t have the time.”
Her eyes now wide open, Amy looks disparagingly at the masked figure. “It’s all that chocolate they give them, she replies. “The dogs I mean. It gives them the runs.” Now smiling, she gently strokes the side of his mask, runing her fingers along its contours, rivers and valleys before pausing at one of the two eye holes.
Extending one solitary finger , she then lovingly follows its circular shape through three hundred and sixty degrees before stopping abruptly.
“Hello Charles,” she whispers seductively. “I see you could only afford the half mask - shame, I always though the full one was a better buy.”
“It didn’t have to be like this Amy,” reply’s Charles. There is a longing in his voice and it’s almost dropped a tone. “It wasn’t my entire fault you know.”
“I know,” replies Amy, thoughtfully. “And I’m very sorry to hear you lost contact with your family, because I’ve only ever wished the best for you Charles.”
Removing the tip of her finger from the masks outer rim, Amy delicately shrugs her shoulders. “They were troubled times Charles - we were all under a lot of pressure.”
Looking over Charles’s shoulder, she then asks. “Aren’t you going to invite me in. ‘And put that bloody axe down will you’ - you look like that psycho off ‘Friday The Fourteenth’ or whatever it’s called’ - but leave the pig mask on – I think it quite suits you.”
“It’s Friday the thirteenth actually,” he replies softly.
Pulling on her hair, she transiently catches her reflection in the halls massive mirror. “ ‘And as to the condition of my hair,’” she then remarks. “It’s those bloody overhanging branches - it’s supposed to be a public highway you know.” Moving back slightly, to get a better view of this somewhat terrifying, although ridiculous figure now standing in front of her, Amy notices something just isn’t quite right.
Refocusing her gaze, it takes a while for her to realize. “Is that a dress you’re wearing Charles? It is - isn’t it - and don’t tell me it’s a sarong because believe me Charles I do know the difference you know.”
“It keeps me cool Amy and I happen to like the color.” Now fully accustomed to the dim light, detail once lost in the gloom of her surroundings finally becomes clear. “My god - and you’re wearing eyeliner. So am I to assume you’re finally coming out of the closet Charles.”
Charles, now temporarily lost for words, stumbles as he attempts to think of an appropriate explanation and as Amy circles him, slowly, eying him up and down, she decides it might be in her best interest to continue the interrogation.
Now at a loss as to why her old friend should pursue this somewhat outrageous look, she confides. “Personally, I never thought your sexuality was ever in question – but now I’m not so sure dear – ‘well’ - ’go on then! – ’explain!”
Charles, now wishing he’d listened to her advice and kept the mask on, knowing at least in some way it might have partially hid his embarrassment, decides honesty might be the best policy, especially on this night, so he tells her. “I’m embracing my feminine side Amy. I thought it would help my understanding of our rather unusual situation.”
“Bloody hell! - You’re Max’s Uncle Pete - aren’t you Charles? My word, you kept that one quiet!”
“Like I said earlier, it helps me understand the situation better, and it’s not against the rules now - is it?”
“Well, however you see it Charles, it does happen to be a nice colour.” Then Charles realizes - they are still standing at the door.
“Sorry Amy, where are my manners, please - come in won’t you?” Charles then looks toward a broken kitchen window.
Its pane missing, there’s a large stone covered in shards of glass laying on what’s left of a once proud kitchen work surface and several wooden fragments of what used to be a rather pretty kitchen widow.
“Look,” insists Charles, pointing towards the work surface. “It’s those bloody kids again,” waving his finger towards the stone lying on the work surface. “They’re driving me nuts Amy so I thought I’d give them a fright,” then wringing his hands in anticipation of some sort of retribution, he peers out of the kitchen window before re-checking every potential hiding spot.
“Believe me Charles,” remarks Amy,” you don’t need a mask for that – honestly - and in a dress - I take it then it’s the same kids that have hung that poor fellow in the tree over there,” pointing toward a solitary tree in the centre of Charles’s extremely rundown garden.
Hanging in the tree is a doll. About two feet in height and covered in bird droppings, it swings to and fro in the breeze as a noose, tight around its neck twists before unwinding again, shaking the doll as though it were in the last throes of an agonizing death. “Is it supposed to scare them away,” quizzes Amy now smirking at the ridiculousenes of it all.
“Don’t look at me like that Amy. It’s those damn kids who put it there… I think it’s supposed to be me.”
“Well it’s a very good likeness Charles - and the stitching – well – it’s quite marvelous and just look at its little hands, they’re so cute. Anyway, I thought this house was slightly outside their time frame Charles.”
“It is, but sometimes they see the residual images of once what was. To them it feels like a cool breeze that brushes past occasionally - I actually see them shiver, it’s quite entertaining really - if only they knew.”
As they enter the house together, Amy looks deep into the eyes of her old friend. “How are we today Charles,” she whispers? “You look a tad tired dear.”
“I do confess. I have been feeling it recently and I keep finding myself unable to sleep although that could be something to do with Blake’s continuous chattering - he’s beginning to put me on edge Amy.”
“Yes, you do seem a little edgy Charles - I can tell – and you didn’t look too well when you answered the door day - cancer again is it? You can tell me the truth you know - I won’t judge.”
“Apparently,” replies Charles, removing a large cigar from his mouth before pointing to a room beyond the kitchen. “You know he likes rock music don’t you. He keeps putting that blasted radio on and it’s really starting to annoy me, he seems to have a thing for Amy Winehouse at the moment.”
Looking towards the kitchen, Amy notices a small shadowy figure that appears to be hanging in midair. “Maybe you should get rid of him dear,” she remarks, as she tries to clarify the shadowy figures general condition. “Look. I know he’s blind, Charles but we all have to find our own way in death eventually - and just look at the state of him - he looks like he’s been dragged through a bush backwards.”
“It was a drain actually,” confesses Charles. “I found him stuck between the old drainage grill that flows under the bridge - he was hanging on for dear life - it was only his claw that kept him from becoming part of the sewerage system.”
“Do you know, Charles. If I knew you weren’t being so serious I think I’d burst into fits of laughter,” then looking once more through the kitchen and into the living area, she notices Blake’s feet wobbling as they shift for balance.
“He looks a bit awkward on that perch – he won’t fall will he,” inquires Amy, “then again I suppose he could always use his beak for more support - if he needed it that is.”
Blake then see’s Amy staring at him through the kitchen divider. His eyes dark like some bottomless pit, hollow and lifeless, he opens his beak as if to say something. Deep and guttural, yet weary and full of malice, Blake manages a reply. “‘Fuck off you old cow.’”
“Charming,” replies Amy. “I always knew he had a way with words Charles but on this occasion, he really has excelled himself.”
Looking directly at his guest, Charles takes a slow and somewhat laboured breath before pointing to his chest. Taping his sternum, Charles has decided to address what he believes is where his real problem lies.
Looking disappointingly at the Amy, he tells her. “Your design work has a lot to answer for Amy.”
Signalling displeasure at her old friend’s comments, Amy folds her arms in a gesture of defiance before replying. “My design work is fine Charles, it’s that filthy habit of yours that’s screwing up my good work – And you ‘My Dear Charles’ know it.”
“Realizing he’s in a no win situation, Charles reminds Amy. “You did say you wouldn’t Judge Amy and Blake does happen to be eyes. He’s also been with me for a long time - as you well know.”
“Even so. For a bird that’s been dead for so long, he doesn’t look at all well.” Having stared at Blake long enough and now realizing this is a game she can’t possibly win, Amy turns her attentions back to Charles.
“You’ll have to get some new ones Charles - lungs I mean – and as to my design work - that’s a matter of opinion and the opinion is all mine. Have you tried easing off those chemicals for a while, only they can’t be helping matters surely now.” But Charles just shakes his head,
“Saturating them in it is most probably whats causing the majority of your problems. The human body can only take so much you know - and well – it was getting on a bit when you found…...” But before Amy can continue her tirade, Charles interrupts her flow.
“New lungs! What - at this time of night - are you mad - I’ll be seen.”
“Not if you’re careful Charles,” she reminds him before repeating once more, “Not if you’re careful.”
Staring out into the twilight of dusk, Charles’s fingers begin to fumble blindly in an ashtray perched precariously on the windowsill.
Brimming with burnt tobacco, the ashtray wobbles with some uncertainty as his fingers search frantically amongst the ash, hoping of find some remnant capable of giving him a few more nicotine filled moments of pleasure.
Conceding, “I think I’ll leave it till later - the lungs I mean - it’ll be darker then,” Charles informs Amy. “There’s a jogger passes by around nine-ish. He looks quite fit - the jogger I mean - but he’s got an embolism developing in his heart I’m afraid, so I very much doubt he’ll make it to the weekend,” then looking towards Amy, admits. “They might not even match - the lungs I mean and I’ll end up with nowhere to put them.
My freezers packed you know, it’s amazing what you can get for your money these days - and anyway - shouldn’t you be on your way home by now - it gets dangerous in those woods at night Amy.”
“Match or no match Charles, make sure you do a better job this time,” replies Amy before chastising him vigorously and reminding him. “That photographer might just have been your downfall - very sloppy Charles - very sloppy indeed.”
“Yes it was rather, wasn’t it,” replies Charles, now gasping for breath. “Anyway, how can I help you Amy, it’s not like you to venture far from the flat this often?”
“You invited me you old fool, although saying that it was fifty years ago, wasn’t it?”
Looking puzzled, she then stares at Charles’s open mouthed. “I was just about to say something - but it seems to have slipped away from me for the moment.” Then she remembers, briefly, what Charles had said moments earlier.
“The wood! Well, you’re not out there yet Charles, are you, so my guess is it’s quite safe for the moment?”
“I do appreciate what you’re doing you know, and in the end it should benefit both our needs. What do you think of Max by the way? I think I’ve made the right choice there.”
“You may have made the right choice Amy but he’s having those dreams again and in the end he might work it all out by himself.”
“All souls are on a mission to evolve Charles, and if a soul is to evolve and become self-aware then one lifetime is nowhere near enough time to experience the whole gamut of life, that’s why we agreed on this little experiment – remember? And we did say that each lifetime is an opportunity to learn specific lessons. One lifetime, for example, might focus on learning love – another - focusing the mind - while the next might focus improving one’s own spirituality?”
“You can only reincarnate ones soul three times Amy - and as you’re already two down with only one event left - you might have to concede - and remember - only guidance Amy - no clues - it’s in the rules.”
“You do know, he could have beaten me at chess - don’t you Amy - and that promise of a healing his sick and dying Mother – well – he didn’t do too well on that either now, did he?”
“Yes, I was quite disappointed in him there Charles’s, but this it’s my specialty event - you know - affairs of the heart - it always brings out the best in people and I think Max might just surprise you this time.”
“I knew I’d find one amongst the ash,” replies Charles excitedly as he holds up a charred and gnarled cigar butt. “They’re expensive you know - thirty dollars a throw.”
“Then throw it Charles - throw it and I’ll give you the thirty dollars - and please - don’t blow smoke out of those holes in your face, it looks so common - and remember - don’t try to burn that bridge down on your own again - it’s against the rules.”
Kneeling at Charles side, Amy gently caresses the huge scar on his withered cheek.” Just look what it did to your face Charles,” she says softly – “and with you being so handsome and all that. I can fix it if you wish me too,” she then asks him; “it’ll only take a moment.”
Lowering her hand, Charles slowly gets up before making his way towards the rooms only mirror. Staring deeply into his reflection, he turns to his bird. Now firmly entrenched on its perch, he asks Blake. “What do you think Blake; after all it was your idea?”
The bird raises its head - stares momentarily towards Charles’s mutilated face - then replies.
“Who’s a pretty boy then?” To which Charles replies. “Fuck off Blake.”
