For Katie Hammond, living alone is her chosen path since her partner, Shelley Morgan, left.
However, in the midst of a storm, Katie discovers her self-inflicted isolation is broken as an uninvited guest decides to call. Katie is unsure if this guest’s appearance is here to plague her, save her from herself, or allow her to put the past to rest.
Nothing is as it seems. Nothing seems as it should. Nothing seems to make any sense.
There was no calm before the storm; but will there be peace after the storm has ended?
Maybe the uninvited guest can help…
Disclaimers
Hello, all. Been a long time. A very long time. An exceptionally bloody long time since I last posted anything. But, I thought I would share this story with you. I have to admit, this one is different to what I usually write – but there are some similarities, too. A mishmash of genres – spooky with a touch of mystery and a sprinkling of emotional angst.
Language: Yep – my kind of language. Effing and jeffing and all that wonderfulness. So, if you’re easily offended, maybe this one is not for you.
Sex and stuff: Yep. And between two ladies, too. So, if you’re reading about this type of carnal exercise and you’re not supposed to because of age, religion, where you live, etc. this is your call.
Just want to point out there are parts where there are flashbacks – these are needed for the story, so just note this as you read (I think I’ve pointed it out).
If you would like to let me know what you think of this story, I would love to hear from you (especially if you want to say nice things – if you want to say I’m shi…erm…not very good, please say this nicely as I am prone to crying).
If you want to read any of my published works, please look for me under the name L T Smith (not LJ Smith as she writes about vampires)
Dedication: To all of us who are still afraid of the dark.
The Uninvited Guest
© LT Smith 2024 (Fingersmith)
Prologue… years earlier.
I could barely hear what the woman was saying over the noise in the club. Music didn’t just thump; it filled ears, mouths, chests, the tempo dense yet rhythmic. Snippets of words broke through and grouped to create a sentence that made no sense.
I shrugged. Laughed, then shrugged again before gesturing to my ears, my nose wrinkling as I mouthed “What?”
The woman tried to speak again, this time coming closer, the scent of her perfume heady and intoxicating.
“Want to dance?”
Her voice was husky, attractively alluring.
“Love to.”
“What?” The woman leaned in close again.
“I said I’d… Never mind.”
I laughed again before grabbing her hand and pulling her to the teeming dance floor, pushing through the people slightly swaying around the edge.
Her hand in mine was both cool and hot; her fingers were long and slender but bursting with strength. I glanced over my shoulder and smiled. She smiled back, causing a stirring to start in my gut, and, if I’m being honest, a stirring in other places, too.
Bodies crushed against me, but I continued to move to the centre. I loved to be cocooned amongst the masses, centred in the nucleus of the club. It was the hub, the prime spot, the place I loved to be.
The woman let go of my hand, but before I could turn to question her, she’d wrapped her arms around my waist and pulled me into her. I placed my hands along her forearms and sensed the quiver of strength ripple along the muscle. Lips met the side of my neck evoking tremors of desire to ignite throughout my body; hips swayed, the heat between us rising.
If anyone was to ask me the name of the song playing, I wouldn’t have had a clue. I was truly absorbed in the moment. Truly absorbed by the scent, the feel, the lips of the woman holding me from behind.
“Katie!”
I recognised the raised voice but I didn’t want to stop what was happening at this moment. It was too perfect, too positively perfect to give up just yet.
“Katie! For fuck’s sake!”
The arms of the woman tightened as if she, too, knew that our time together was about to be interrupted.
“Evie’s chucking up!”
The woman behind me stiffened, her mouth moving to my ear. “Ignore Evie. Stay.”
I felt her pull me backwards a little, her grip almost possessive.
I released a sigh, turned slightly, and saw my close friend Ruby staring at me, her expression worried.
“‘Evie needs you! We need you!”
The gentle sentiment of friendship was marred by the way each word had to be shouted.
“Stay.” The woman’s voice held a slight edge, the initial consonant hissing into my ear. “Your friends can look after each other.”
Another look at Ruby’s panicked face blew away all doubts. I couldn’t ignore that my friends needed me and I was too selfish to help. I’d known Evie for nearly ten years and I’d never known her to vomit, not once - not through alcohol, not even through illness. Knowing she was throwing up now meant that something disastrous had happened.
Decision made, I tried to loosen the grip of the woman’s arms around me, the sensation of her hold vice-like.
Then, abruptly, the arms lifted away as if contact with me was repulsive, the reaction to the action unsettling.
I turned, fully expecting a look of disgust but instead was greeted by breathtaking beauty, the features flawless. Eyes were almost black, their depths appearing bottomless, the only glint was the reflection from the lights in the club.
Then a smile appeared. Her teeth were perfectly straight; her lips lifted into a slight curve that was both sexy and controlled.
She leaned forward, her mouth close to my ear.
“You go. Take care of your friend.”
She brushed her lips over my lobe before continuing, her breath hot.
“We can pick this up later.”
She faced me once again and her finger traced the side of my face, trailed along my jaw, before her thumb stroked my bottom lip.
The curve of her lip lifted more; she nodded then moved backwards, the crowd swallowing her whole.
A hand grabbed me and pulled, dragging me off the dance floor.
Before I knew it, we were in the Ladies toilets, the shouts of “Cheeky fuckers!” and “There’s a friggin’ queue!” following us as we passed the lengthy line of women waiting to use the restroom.
Ruby held her hands in the air, and announced, “Emergency, emergency! Let us through!”
I was panicking now. For Ruby to push her way through a crowd, to not toe the line on queue etiquette, was unheard of. She was the epitome of “fair and square”.
The door at the end of the row of cubicles was partly open, and I honestly didn’t know what to expect. Ruby pushed ahead of me and I tentatively eased my way around the door, my focus on the floor in front of the loo. I expected to see an extremely sick Evie heaving up.
But no. The space in front of the porcelain throne was empty. No vomit, no moans of sickness, no sweating, crying friend.
Before I’d the chance to question this, I was dragged inside, the realisation that there were three women in one small space not escaping me. Lack of space meant I ended up plonked onto the toilet.
Ruby and Evie were squashed against the door and I heard the bolt slip into place.
“What the…”
“Don’t be angry.”
Evie moved forward and closer to me, her hands palm to palm and pointing in my direction.
“Angry? I don't …”
“I’ve not been sick.”
A thump sounded on the toilet door and an angry voice came through the MDF, “Fuckin’ knew it! Cheeky…”
Ruby interrupted the speaker with, “Piss off, Jackie! It’s an emergency!”
Jackie, if it had been Jackie, kicked the door and moved away mumbling what could only be a wide selection of swear words all aimed at the occupants of the end cubicle.
“Look. I’ve no idea what you two are up to, but I was quite happily dancing with an incredibly attractive woman. And if we are finished here, I’d like to continue where I left off.’
I stood, but found I’d nowhere to go, so sat on the loo again.
Evie placed her hands at the side of my head, my focus moving to her face.
“You cannot be serious. Do you know who you were dancing with?”
“Of course I do.”
I was lying. I hadn’t had the chance to exchange names, not really had the chance to exchange anything including saliva.
Ruby and Evie looked at each other, laughed once, then turned back to me, Evie releasing her hold.
“Michelle Morgan.”
“No! Michelle Morgan? THE Michelle Morgan?” I opened my mouth in mock surprise and placed my hand over it like a 1920s silent movie star.
“Stop being a dick, Katie.”
“I’m not being a dick. You’re both… a pair of dicks.”
“But of all the people you could dance with…Michelle Morgan? Shelley Morgan?”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“I’ve no idea what you two are playing at. I’ve never heard of Michelle whatever…”
“Morgan. Shelley Morgan.” Evie added.
“Morgan. Shelley, Michelle, Shell, Mick whatever. I don’t give two shits. I want to finish my dance.”
Evie opened her mouth to argue.
“Look. I don’t care what you think you both know. I just want to have fun.”
I stood again, grabbed Evie by the waist and manoeuvred her into my spot before, swapping spaces with Ruby. Bolt undone, door open, a woman that could only be the Jackie from before standing up straight, her ear wigging at the door cut short.
“You’re making a huge mistake, Katie. Shelley Morgan is bad news.”
Anger burst through my veins and the words shot through my clenched teeth.
“For fuck’s sake! It’s a fucking dance! I’m not running away with her!”
Ruby’s hand grabbed the top of my arm and I peeled it off.
“Stop interfering.” I looked at both of my friends and the so-called Jackie who was pretending to read the graffiti on the toilet walls.
“I am more than capable of looking after myself.”
And as I marched out of the loos, the queue still huge and just as whiney, I honestly believed that I had everything under control.
Silly me.
***
***
Chapter One
Clouds gathered, dispersed and gathered, their colours shifting from white to a steely grey in the course of an afternoon. The wind aided their descent into darkness, moving from a steady breeze to a progressive gust, the trees bending apologetically, submissive, repentant in their willingness to conform to nature.
Leaves didn’t dance within the unseen physical energy. They whirled in a frenzy, their sense of direction lost to them.
The darkness of the approaching storm enveloped an eerie lightness as if some invisible force ignited a celestial lamp. The effect was ethereal, elusively deceptive and ominously threatening.
I sprawled in the window seat, the cushions piled high behind me, a woollen red and green checked blanket covered my legs, keeping me warm as I witnessed the scene unfold. The book I’d been reading was turned upside down, the pages spread over the curve of my thigh, my reading glasses dangling from my right hand. It was still light enough to read but I was too fascinated by the view outside my window to return to the crime novel that’d previously held my attention.
The rain had not come yet. I was waiting for the burst of it, the sudden flood of water to break the anomalous dark and light of the sky. Maybe the eventual downpour would not only shatter the supernatural setting but would serve to dispel the spell I seemed to be under, believing my silent invocation of a higher being would enable me to break my fascination.
In truth, I was hungry. Tired and hungry. I’d skipped lunch in favour of a read in my favourite spot before darkness would force me to move more centrally into the room, or even to drag over the wooden poled floor lamp from its spot in the corner. The light cast from the old lamp was dire, the bulb barely 15 watts, thus making reading more of a chore than a pleasure. I needed to replace the bulb with something more powerful, or even invest in an LED lamp. But that would take effort and motivation. I had neither.
I was too transfixed by the power of nature to move from my spot. The gathering force was building magnanimously, almost ready to explode and destroy the landscape before me. A creeping realisation climbed my spine: would I be safe here? Would the storm aggressively attack my home? Tear tiles off my roof? Implode the glass from my windows?
With those thoughts, I shifted slightly. The wind was strong, forceful, but was it strong enough to break the windowpane?
Tentatively, I lifted my left hand and placed my fingertips onto the glass, the coldness of outside immediate. I quickly pulled my hand away, nerves and panic instigating a flexing of fingers in preparation for something I wasn’t too sure of as yet. Placing two, then four fingers back onto the pane, I gently pushed the glass, gauging the solidity of the fixture, my attention removed momentarily from the scene outside.
The glass creaked slightly, the dip of the pane insignificant.
A movement beyond my fingers caught my attention, my focus once again on the other side of the glass barrier.
Down past the edge of my garden, beyond the dry-stone wall and part way across the field belonging to my neighbour, there stood a figure, the shape disguising gender. Dark, seemingly cloaked in something smothering, the material unmoving in the wind. A pale patch appeared where a face should be, the features indistinguishable either from the distance or for some other reason I couldn’t put into words.
Leaning forward, the book once perched over my thigh sliding to the floor with a dull thump, I pressed closer to the glass in the hope of making out what I was seeing, or failing that, making sense of it. No one in his or her right mind would be standing outside on a day like today. It was too dangerous. Too wild. Too unpredictable.
The figure appeared to be looking straight back at me but I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. I knew there were dark spaces where eyes should be but, at this distance, knowing the direction of the person’s focus was impossible.
SLAM!
Something hard thudded against the window forcing a shocked sharp cry to escape my lips. Instinctively, I pushed backwards, my legs tangling into my woollen blanket hindering my escape from whatever had tried to smash itself into my house. The cushions gave way from underneath me, the movement toppling me backwards and off the window seat.
I hit the floor in stages, the tangle of blanket and cushion stopping the fluidity of my descent. First the base of my back struck the stone floor, then my shoulders. Thankfully, I stopped my head from cracking onto the floor by slamming my hand down, the distinctive snap of plastic coming from where my reading glasses were being held.
Finally, my legs caught up, slithering to the ground like an afterthought.
For a moment, I was stunned and slightly disorientated. Whether this was because of the fall, the loud slamming noise against my window, or the figure standing in the middle of a field facing my direction, I was unsure.
I was also unsure if I’d actually seen a figure at all. It just didn’t make sense. Why would anyone be outside on a day like this? The weirdest thing, though, was a feeling of déjà vu that passed over me, almost as if I’d either seen the figure before or experienced the whole scene at a previous time.
Scrambling back onto the seat, I crawled to the window and peered outside once again. The light was fading, being eaten by the darkness, but it was not dark enough yet to blind me to the scene.
There was no one there. No dark mass, no black smothered figure facing my direction, or any direction for that matter.
Frantically, I turned to my left, my right, my cheeks pressing against the cold glass, but saw no one walking or running away. It would have taken longer for the person to run and hide than the time I’d spent on the floor, unless, of course, he or she was now crouched behind the dry-stone wall at the end of my garden.
My breath caught and held. Then released. Released slowly, and with some semblance of control. I wasn’t going to allow myself to freak out by thinking up scenes of a cloaked figure ready to pounce out of nowhere and commit unmentionable acts of violence upon me for no apparent reason other than he or she could.
I sucked in my bottom lip and gnawed the left side of it, my attention still fixed on the scene outside. The storm was building momentum and I knew it was the matter of minutes before the clouds would have to give in to the inevitable, the rain bursting forth like a burst pipe.
Then another thought sneaked into my head: what if the person had been hurt? Maybe an errant branch, or something equally as dangerous, crashed through the air with determined force and smacked into an unprotected head. The person I’d seen could now be unconscious, laid out to the elements and at the mercy of nature in all her glory.
With the advent of rain, the approaching darkness, the unrelenting wind and the definite coldness, any person exposed to this scenario with no shelter would probably not survive the night.
It wasn’t as if I could just call the emergency services to come all the way out to my house to check things out. All lines were down and had been since just after lunch time. So had the internet, and mobile phone reception was hit and miss half the time even without the added drama viciously unfolding outside.
I paused for only a moment before making my decision. My actions had consequences. I could be hurt in the storm. Bashed over the head with a piece of wood by the wind or bashed over the head by the person who could be ready and waiting to spring out of nowhere and attack me. Or I could do nothing and bash my conscience up instead.
With one last look outside, I slipped from the relative safety of the window seat and stood for a moment, my eyes straining to see if I could spot a dark mass on the ground in the general direction where I believed I’d seen the shape standing minutes before. But it was becoming too dark to make things out now, and time was running out. If I wanted to get outside before the rain came, before it was even darker, I had to act quickly - or just act in some other way than just being a voyeur.
Lifting my hand, I noted my reading glasses I still held fast; the left arm had snapped off them but the lenses appeared to be fine - salvageable to some degree. But not right at that moment. Mending them could wait – it was not as if I couldn’t read without them. Now I had to venture outside to either save someone from the elements, get bashed over the head and other unmentionable things, or discover I had, in fact, imagined the whole thing.
Personally, I was hoping for the latter.
With a soft, resigned sigh, I placed my broken glasses onto the seat and made my way to the utility room to get myself kitted out for braving the outside.
Chapter Two
I slipped on my Hunter wellingtons but didn’t tighten the top buckle as my sweatpants were too thick to fit inside the dark olive rubber boots. I wasn’t going to change from my warm clothes into thinner trousers to go out into a storm - at least my legs would be warm as I was being blown away.
Next came my Barbour brae waxed jacket. It wasn’t raining yet but I wasn’t going to take any chances. Weirdly, considering I was so kitted out for the elements, I didn’t bother fastening the zip or clipping the studs together. It was almost as if I was playing a game of halves. Half of me wanted to be protected whilst the other half didn’t give a flying fig.
Reaching up, I grabbed my searchlight from the shelf and clicked the button. The LED light flooded the room and I squinted through the glare it created before turning the torch off again.
The back door rattled slightly; the oak solidly resistant to the force of the wind outside but the latch seemed to cave with the responsibility of keeping the weather out.
Reaching upwards, I pulled the shaft of the tower bolt backwards before bending down to do the same to the bottom bolt on the door. Finally, I unlocked the mortice lock, the key moving sleekly to release the catch.
The ease of these actions had led me into a false sense of security and I’d forgotten what awaited me as I turned the handle and started to open the door.
A gust of wind caught the door and slammed it inwards, my hand twisting slightly before it released its hold on the handle. The thud of the wood onto the wall was muffled by the wail of the wind as it breached the stronghold of oak and drove itself into my home. I knew it would be easier to close it if I was on the inside, but that was not an option. I had to find out what was happening, had to investigate if someone was out in the storm, someone other than myself of course.
After struggling to pull the back door closed, I realised it would be less hassle to just leave it open; the wind would only have the freedom of the utility room whilst I was gone and time was of the essence. I’d procrastinated too long about facing whatever was outside and the weather had worsened, the sky had become even darker, even more menacing.
I pressed my back flat against the wall and shuffled along the rough stone whilst constantly remonstrating myself over my stupidity. Scaling the side of my cottage was not in my plan of action for the afternoon. I should’ve eaten lunch and had a read whilst seated under the crap lamp in my living room after all. That way, I wouldn’t have been distracted by the onset of a storm and the appearance of a creepy black blob that may or may not have been a person.
But there was no point in churning out what ifs and should haves over and over. They were gone, past choices not chosen, and now my focus needed to be centred on keeping upright, keeping safe, and keeping my wits about me.
The wind battered against me and I had a job looking outwards as the pressure of the blast seemed to depress my eyeballs. I had to tilt my head downwards whilst looking coquettishly upwards to have a cat in hell’s chance of seeing anything. The darkness didn’t help either, so I clicked on my torch and swept the beam across the back end of my garden.
So much movement but none of it appeared to be human; just debris, just remnants of fence or bush or tree.
“Hello!” My voice seemed muffled, blanketed and smothered, but it didn’t stop me shouting out again. “Is anybody out there?”
I honestly don’t know why I believed I would hear it even if someone shouted hello back. I could barely hear myself over the tumult of noise never mind the voice of someone who may be just coming around from unconsciousness.
Unless of course the response was from a person secreted behind my dry-stone wall.
And on that note - did murderers shout hello or any other welcome to their would-be victims? No. The murderer just waited for the intended target to venture out into the midst of a storm and execute an attack as the victim blundered blindly around a garden whilst dodging the flying flora and fauna.
Better still, let the aforementioned flora and fauna punch the victim’s lights out first. Saves time.
And all the thinking about murderers, victims and detritus had wasted more time never mind saved it. I couldn’t spend the rest of the afternoon clinging to my cottage wall in the hopes that everything would work out for the best. I had to make a run for the dry-stone wall to see if there was anyone lying injured on the other side. Getting through the wind would be a challenge and I doubted I would be racing forward in a straight line.
Bracing myself for the sprint, I knew I would resemble a hare in flight. The zigzag of my charge would be synonymous with the spurts and shifts of the timid creature. One difference between us being - a hare is swift, whereas I, on the other hand, was not.
I counted in my head, my torch aimed in the direction I was to go. One. Two. Three - and push.
I leapt forward, my whole being primed to deflect the wind and enable me to move in the general direction of the back end of my garden. But no. Not that I didn’t race forward. I did. It was a case of the wind suddenly ceasing and me sprinting forward with no barrier. The shock of meeting no resistance stopped me in mid-flight, the opposite of what should have happened.
Silence. Complete silence. No wind, no movement, no nothing.
The darkening clouds appeared to swell, the ethereal light filtering through to make the scene overly Photoshopped. This was the time I should have shouted out “Hello” but it didn’t occur to me to do so at that moment. I was too stunned by the suddenness of it all to think rationally.
It seemed as if I stood rigidly on the spot for an age but it was probably less than a minute. Then something hit my chest. Something hard, and cold and wet. A raindrop. A fat, slobbering raindrop, the size and weight of a ten pence piece, slammed onto my Barbour jacket. Then another one, the slam of it seeming to echo in the silence. There wasn’t a buildup of drops falling consecutively within a space of time to intersperse each one. After the initial two, it was as if someone had given the starting orders and a tumult of rain drops fired forth at the same time.
The coldness of the rain broke the spell, almost as if a bucket of iced water had been thrown over me, and I ran forward again, my focus on reaching the dry-stone wall and whatever could be behind it.
As I reached my destination, fear crept up my throat once again. Rain was hammering down and I was completely soaked by this point, my hair hanging in wet clumped masses over my face, but that wasn’t what bothered me.
“Hello. Are you there?”
What an idiotic thing to say. “Are you there?”
Did I expect the person to answer with “Yes. I’m here. Me and my big knife!” Or “No. There is no one here. This is the voice inside your head.”
Gritting my teeth, and tensing other body parts, I swiped my hair back from my face and wiped across my eyes to help me see more clearly. Then, vision returned, I gripped the wall with my free hand, shoved the toe of my boot into a space in the wall, and heaved myself upwards, my torch beam curling over the edge before I did.
Nothing. No one. Empty and vacant. No body smashed to pieces by flying pieces of tree; no evil black shrouded murderer lying in wait to pounce on me and have my guts for garters.
I wanted to feel relieved, disappointed, intrigued, but I just experienced numbness - a contrast to feeling anything. I flicked the torch around the ground to see if there were any footprints or evidence that someone had been there, but there was nothing.
Weirdly, as I leaned against the wall, the rain battering against me, the beam of my torch seeming brightly useless, I knew one thing for certain.
Somewhere out there, someone was watching me.
Weirder still, my gut was telling me the person was not on the other side of the wall and was more likely on the side where I lived. I hadn’t considered the person may have moved from hiding and approached my house whilst I was getting ready in my utility room. Or even that he or she could have watched my struggle around the building, listened to me shouting out, observed my initial dash that soon halted like the gust of the wind. The figure I’d seen earlier could be watching me at this very moment, had witnessed my discovery of an empty space and could even be noting that I was putting two and two together and getting five.
With this knowledge, I jumped back to the ground, turned, and raced for the safety of my home.
I just hoped the other person out in the rain hadn’t noticed my back door standing open.
***
Chapter Three
However, I wouldn’t allow myself to relax until I’d checked every room, although if I found no leaves over the threshold from the utility room to kitchen then it should signify the door had stayed closed whilst I’d been outside and none had entered the house. And if no leaves had entered the kitchen, then, hopefully, neither had anything or anyone else.
Some semblance of relief washed over me when I closed the backdoor and ran the bolts home; then more relief as I turned the key in the lock. But I wasn’t completely sure I was doing the right thing. If someone was in the house, I’d made my escape more difficult by triple locking myself in.
Gingerly, my hand hovered over the top bolt, the deliberation obvious. I considered all the thrillers I’d read or watched on TV and lunged at the metal stub and pulled the bolt free, then bent down to repeat the process to the bottom one. The lock was strong. Secure.
And, in fact, would have to do for now.
Even though I was soaked, I didn’t slip out of my jacket or discard my Wellington boots. I could wait a few more minutes before getting changed. Now I had to check the rest of the house, and if there was someone inside my home at least I would be better prepared if I was wearing something on my feet and torso.
A thought struck me and I slipped my hands into my pockets, a smile forming as my fingers met the tangle of metal curled amongst the fluff. My car keys were exactly where I believed they would be. Keeping my car keys in my coat pocket was something I tended to do. Although the storm raging outside would not be classed as ideal driving conditions, especially considering I lived in the back end of beyond, at least I would not be stranded with no means to escape if I needed to flee for whatever reason.
I approached the door, my eyes flicking to the bench where I’d left the torch and considered whether I should take it with me in case the lights went out. It could, if push came to shove, also serve as a weapon of sorts.
I grabbed it, my fingers tightening around the handle hard enough to strangle the life out of it.
With my free hand, I claimed the door handle to the kitchen, turning it slowly before pulling the door cautiously backwards. I wanted to check for leaves on the other side so had to be careful I didn’t disturb the scene too much.
The rustle of the leaves seemed to continue even when the door had stopped moving and I initially believed it was because there was someone on the other side moving about. However, upon peering around the door, it was obvious there were no leaves there.
But that didn’t stop the rustling sound. I wasn’t moving, the door wasn’t moving, but by the sound of it, leaves were. There wasn’t a draft in the utility room. It was a little chilly but there was no draft. So why could I hear movement?
I turned my head quickly, the action of it sending a pain up my neck. There was no one there. No one scrabbling around in the piles of leaves against the wall left by the gales of earlier, either brandishing a knife and evil intent or not. But there was something moving them. A twitch, a shudder, a whine.
A whine?
I cocked my head and listened again.
The whine turned into a whimper which, in turn, morphed into a small woof.
A small woof?
Tentatively, I moved over to where the whining, whimpering woof had emanated, the leaves that were moving had now stilled almost in expectation.
This was not really happening. I must be imagining things. I must’ve been hit around the head whilst I was outside and was actually dreaming the whole scenario whilst flaked out in the yard.
There could be no way on this earth that a dog was in my utility room. My closest neighbour’s farmhouse was at least three miles away and the neighbour after that was two miles further.
No one even walked their dogs here. No one. The solitude of my home was the main reason this house had been chosen. No dogs, no walkers, distant neighbours, perfect isolation. The only time I’d had someone uninvited knocking on my door had been well over a week ago. I ignored him until he left.
The leaves shuddered once more, then shifted to expose something that could only be described as a small black wet nose. The same nose that was investigating its surroundings by sniffing the air, the direction of it pointing straight at me. The sniffing suddenly stopped, soon to be followed by the manic thudding of a tail, the leaves buffeted upwards and away with excited force. However, what I now knew to be a dog in my utility room, it didn’t do more than wag its tail. The rest of it stayed buried under the leaves almost expecting me to make the next move.
I began to crouch as I moved closer to the small mound, the wagging of the tail picking up speed and momentum as I approached. I’d the distinct impression the dog was allowing itself to be subordinate to me, showing it was no threat and for me to treat it with kindness.
“Hey, hey, hey, little fella. I won’t hurt you.”
My voice was gentle, coaxing. I had no idea what kind of dog I was going to uncover never mind the gender. But at that moment, I just wanted to be a calming presence.
I held my hand in front of the small, inquisitive nose and allowed the dog to get used to my scent, its nose crazily inhaling me in loud sniffs.
“You ready to come out, honey?”
Honey? I didn’t use the term honey. Ever.
Well, apart from at that moment, obviously.
A tongue darted out and exuberantly licked my fingers, the action bringing a smile to my lips. Albeit a confused smile as I still could not work out why there would be a dog in my home. I knew it to be impossible yet was being faced with the evidence that I was wrong. The wet tongue put paid to that.
“Come on, then. Come out. Let’s have a look at you.”
I slipped my hand along the side of its muzzle, my fingers ruffling coarse thick fur. Then I came across a floppy ear and curled my fingers behind it and scratched.
The dog whined with what I assumed to be happiness before it stood, the leaves cascading around the small frame. A rough coated Patterdale terrier appeared, its fur still damp from its time out in the rain. There was no collar to signify ownership or give me a phone number of whom to call - even if could get a phone signal. The collar could’ve been caught on something, snagged or snapped off.
Maybe the dog had been frightened in the storm and taken flight. Maybe the owner would come looking for the dog or, failing that, maybe I could take it to the vets in town and see if it was micro-chipped.
A lot of maybes there - a lot of choices and assumptions - none of which I either knew the answer to or could carry out. No phone lines to call anyone; and no way I was driving out in this storm if I didn’t need to.
I couldn’t quite tell if the dog was a puppy or fully grown, but I knew it was either excited to see me or very cold as it kept shivering, its nails clicking onto the tiled floor with a resounding rat a tat tat.
“You cold,” I dipped my face and checked the sex, “fella?”
The dog vibrated more. “Want to come in and get warm?”
Slowly, I half stood, each movement I made unhurried and non-threatening. I backed towards the doorway, gently coaxing the dog to follow. Its brown eyes watched my every move, its head cocked comically to the side. It gave the impression of laughing, the situation evoking a sense of happiness deep within me, a sensation alien for longer than I could remember.
The dog moved forward, the action tentative as if each step was a mammoth task or it was causing the animal pain.
Was he hurt? Had he been injured in the storm? Had someone hurt him?
A darkly clothed figure flashed into my mind.
Could the dog belong to the person I’d seen standing in the field? And if so, had the dog been running away because of fear of the storm or fear of being hit?
Anger swelled and I had to swallow it down. My imagination was rife today. For one, I didn’t even know if the thing I’d seen outside before had been real, and secondly...
Something stopped my flow. Something warm and insistent.
Without thinking, I’d crouched more, my knees almost touching the floor. The dog was now seated in front of me, his head pushing into the curve of my hand as if needing me to stroke him.
Gently, I ruffled the rough mass of fur on his head, his eyes blinking slowly as if to show his pleasure. Then, I shifted my petting to brush downwards past his neck and then along his back. With this movement, I could feel past the thickish ruffle of his coat and uncover the definition of his spine, the arc of his rib cage.
It was obvious that this dog had been neglected. The fur disguised the malnutrition to a degree, but just touching him indicated that food had been scarce. I couldn’t rule out the dog was injured still, maybe through the fault of nature or from a person, but whatever the reason for the state the dog was in, it still trusted me. Still came to me, allowed me to stroke him, comfort him.
“Do you want some dinner, little chap?”
I placed the torch onto the floor and stroked the dog behind the ears. To my surprise, he moved forward, his paws climbing onto my legs. He started to scramble upwards as if he wanted me to pick him up.
He was so light, so bony and light. As soon as he was in my arms, he nestled against my chest as if that was the most natural place in the world for him to be. I tightened my hold, giving him a quick squeeze before standing up and making my way through to my kitchen.
Everything else could wait. Now I had a hungry mouth to feed.
Chapter Four
However, on second thoughts, safety came first.
Therefore, instead of scurrying off to the kitchen to cook, I checked the house thoroughly, the dog safely ensconced in my arms as I did so.
I wasn’t really sure what I was supposedly looking for as I scoured the place but I knew I wouldn’t settle until I’d investigated every nook and cranny, or, in reality, checked every room.
But each room was empty, a fact I was both accepting of and, weirdly, surprised about. Why surprised, I have no clue. I should’ve felt more relieved than surprised considering how frantic I’d been. But relief didn’t come into it. Maybe because the figure I’d seen outside earlier wasn’t so threatening now I was back in the house. Or even that I was considering whether I’d imagined the whole scene after all - my brain had probably conjured the event to fit with the mood created by the storm. I hadn’t seen the person since that brief spell, neither outside nor, thankfully, inside my home. It was probably the light, the wind, the expectation of something sinister lurking outside with the magical conjuring of a storm that had played the trick on my sense of reasoning. The previous scene had almost been a solitary version of the opening scene of Macbeth, the sighting of a lone witch on the heath, her intent foul not fair. Or, more than likely, hunger had been to blame for my hallucination. I’d not eaten since just after eight that morning and it was now approaching four o’clock.
As I checked the rooms upstairs, the storm seemed harsher, more threatening, the windowpanes creaking with the force of nature. I nearly convinced myself that the house swayed with the power of it all but I knew that was an exaggeration.
But one thing I wasn’t exaggerating was the dip in temperature. The house was beginning to chill, progressively cooling to an uncomfortable degree. The elements were at battle outside, the rain audibly thudding against brick and glass, the thunder crackling with a boom overhead. A blaze streaked, the strobe of lightning cracking and splitting the sky, illuminating both outside and inside my house. I was tempted to close the curtains and block out the devastation happening all around me but decided against it. As soon as I was sorted with food, heat and a hot shower, I wanted to observe the storm once more from the comfort of a fire lit room.
An hour later, I’d cooked some chicken and rice for both me and my canine visitor. I wasn’t too sure what to give him as it wasn’t as if I had dog food on hand, so I gave him what I was going to have for my evening meal. I also made some extra rice and boiled some more chicken for him to have later.
We ate in companionable silence, him skidding the empty pot dish across the glazed porcelain tile trying to capture the last grains before drinking heartily from another matching dish.
I bunched an old fleece throw and a cushion I’d found in the airing cupboard, fashioning them into some kind of makeshift dog bed, and placed it in front of the wood burner I’d not long lit. Tentatively, the dog approached where I was kneeling, his brown eyes inquisitive, his head tilting comically as he observed me.
“Come on, fella. This is for you.” I patted the fleece three times.
The dog sniffed the air between us as if he was at risk. Then he moved a few steps closer, his head slightly cocked, his focus never leaving me, the air about him still unsure.
“Hey. You can’t be scared of me, can you?” My voice was light, friendly. “I gave you half my dinner.”
Again, I patted the bed three times - the sound soft, inviting.
The dog appeared to nod, almost as if he had decided, then trotted forward and climbed onto the bed.
Just before he settled down, he nuzzled his head against my hand as if wanting me to stroke him, which of course I did.
Chapter Five
I showered and dressed in flannelette pyjamas, pulling on fluffy socks as well as slippers to keep out the cold. Instead of leaving my hair to dry naturally, I decided to use a hairdryer. Sitting around with damp hair would create a chill that’d seep into my bones and be a bugger to shake off. I didn’t want to be coming down with the lurgy.
The thrum of the hairdryer buzzed around me, the heat of the air warming me through. I closed my eyes and directed the nozzle towards my face, shifting the appliance in a circular motion when the stream of air became too hot. The effects of a warm shower, comfortable clothes, and then the heat from the machine helped to relax me, the anxiety and worry from earlier almost dissipating like the water droplets on the strands of my hair.
I was nearly finished when I heard a noise on the landing outside my room. It wasn’t a creak, or a footstep, or a definitive explainable sound that could be categorised. But then again, the sound of the hairdryer must’ve masked the truth of what I’d heard.
Click. I turned the machine off and listened again.
The door to my bedroom moved slightly, a small squeak of an unoiled hinge accompanying the movement. Even though there was a storm in full swing outside, there was no draft in the room, no real draft in the house, nothing to make the door move on its own.
Had I imagined it? Heard a noise from outside and my brain had misinterpreted the information and added an action to make it more plausible? If it’d just been the sound, then yes. But I had seen the door move, only slightly, but it had moved.
I placed the hairdryer onto my dressing table, leaned down and pulled out the plug, all the while not really breaking my focus from my bedroom door.
It moved again. Slightly, like an unseen hand had pushed gently from the other side, the sound accompanying the movement more like a tapping, scratching noise.
A small laugh escaped me and I stepped over to the door, grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. I was fully expecting to see the dog on the other side of the door, those eyes looking up as if to say, “I found you”.
But there was nothing there. No dog, no anything.
I looked down the landing, looked in the room opposite mine, looked in the room at the top of the staircase. I even checked the second entrance into my bathroom, the one from the landing instead of my room. But there was no sign of a dog having been anywhere on the upstairs floor. I hadn’t heard him coming up the stairs, or going down them for that matter, and he certainly wasn’t sniffing around in any of the rooms I’d checked.
Just to validate my findings, I trotted downstairs and into the living room. Curled in a ball on the makeshift dog bed was a very contented looking Patterdale terrier. He lifted his head when I entered the room, his eyes blinking away sleep.
“You’re all right, fella. Rest now.”
The dog’s head bobbed slightly before he lowered it slowly back across his front paws, his eyelids battling to stay open but finally giving in to the sensation of being warm, comfortable, fed and safe.
Safe. Something that I was having a problem feeling since early afternoon. The worst part was that I was still unsure whether what had made me feel unsafe was something palpable or something coming from my usually unimaginative imagination.
Moving back out of the room and into the hallway, I glanced up the stairs to the landing. There’d been nobody there. Not a person. Not a dog. But I’d definitely heard something. A tapping, scratching noise had accompanied a half-hearted attempt to open my bedroom door. Could it have been a rat I’d heard?
A wave of nausea flooded over me. To consider I’d a rat running loose inside my house was unthinkable. But then again, finding a malnutritioned and badly treated dog under a pile of leaves in my utility room had also been something I’d believed couldn’t happen, but it had.
Fuck it. I would not be catching a rat in my house. I didn’t have the first clue about how to do so, and I knew that I would not be causing it pain by laying a trap to squeeze the life out of it.
But I’d left all the lights on upstairs and I was not about to waste money because I couldn’t be arsed to walk up a few steps or that I was worried that a rat might jump out of the shadows and squeak at me.
I sniggered at the image I’d created and made my way back upstairs, chuckling a little as I ascended.
But my smile froze as soon as I reached the landing.
Every door had been closed. Fully closed. Completely and solidly and impossibly closed.
I’d been inside every room minutes beforehand in my hunt for what I believed to be a dog, and I definitely knew I’d left every single door open. Wide open. I’d had no reason to close the doors behind me. I’d gone inside each room, turned the light on, looked around, and left, only to repeat the actions again in the next room, then the next.
There was one thing I knew for sure. A rat didn’t do this. Not a normal sized rodent, not a member of the rattus clan. This must be a rat in the form of a human who had come inside my home to play silly buggers with me. I just couldn’t make out how he or she, or even they, had done it without me seeing.
Maybe the dog had been a distraction. Something to take me off guard whilst whomever it was sneaked inside my home. That could be the reason why the dog hadn’t made a peep. He knew the person inside my house.
Anger surged and broke out. How dare someone come inside my home. How dare they trick me into giving a flying fuck about another creature just so they can rob me. I’d fallen for that kind of trickery before with her and look where that had gotten me? Stuck in the back end of nowhere with a bag full of regrets and a huge empty house.
Well, it used to be empty. Now it had some sick bastard arsing about inside trying to make me think I was losing my mind.
Shelly’d tried that too. Always making me doubt myself, second guess every choice I’d made, distrust everyone who wasn’t her. Ironically, it should’ve been her I distrusted; should’ve been her I second guessed; her I doubted. But she was so convincing. So skilled in the art of lying.
A boom of thunder sounded right above and I jumped, my nerves in tatters.
Lurching forward, I grasped the door handle to the nearest bedroom and yanked it downwards before forcefully pushing the door inwards, anger aiding my momentum.
The main light was still on and the room appeared empty, but I wasn’t satisfied with just checking the room out from the doorway. This bedroom wasn’t organised into the normal set up of “guest room”. There were boxes stacked against the wall, boxes full of God knows what. They were mainly hers, mainly Shelly’s waiting to be collected, and boxes I didn’t want to put my hands inside.
At the back of the room was a walk-in closet, not a big one, but big enough to hide a person if the desire to be hidden was needed by some sick fuck with a penchant of secreting him or herself inside a storage space in the hopes of frightening the crap out of some unsuspecting lone female - aka me.
Another surge of anger flared and I marched into the room, thoughts of my safety forgotten. Four strides and I was at the closet.
I yanked the door open without the slightest clue what I would’ve done if there had been an axe murderer poised and ready to strike. All I had to defend myself with was my razor-sharp tongue and momentum.
“Oh!”
Or maybe just momentum.
I just stared into the space that was full of even more boxes.
Or maybe no momentum, either.
Fuck.
I kicked the boxes, the pain of hitting the solidness whilst only wearing slippers caused an immediate regret of my action.
I shoved the boxes, hard, making them slam backwards onto the wall and bounce forward again. Frantically, I grabbed at them, only just stopping them from tumbling over.
“For fuck’s sake!”
Was I angry at the boxes or myself?
SLAM!
The jolt of the noise ricocheted inside my chest, causing me to hunch my shoulders as if I was curling my body in a standing pseudo foetal position. However, the hunching lasted mere seconds. Something inside me seemed to trigger and I spun around to face the room and whatever was waiting for me.
The bedroom door had closed, that was the slam of seconds before. Easy to decipher considering it had sounded like a door slamming, the door was closed, and nothing else seemed to have been disturbed. Quite a rational deduction to say the least. However, what was not rational was the reason for the door closing. I hadn’t done it, the dog certainly hadn’t done it - height and strength would have been lacking, not to mention the desire to shit me up - there was no draught. So that left…
What?
Or, more likely, who?
I should’ve been afraid but I was too angry for that. Way too angry.
Scanning the room, I searched for a weapon, anything that I could smack an intruder with, anything that would stun them, maim them, disable them from retaliating for long enough for me either flee the scene or call the police or both. Preferably both.
In reflection, I should’ve called the police as soon as I spotted someone arsing about outside when a storm was about to break. Or failing that - considering I was still unsure whether I’d actually seen anyone - I should’ve called the police when I thought there was someone inside my home.
But it was too late for that now as my phone was downstairs - probably still without signal. The landline and internet still down.
All I could do was find a weapon, defend myself, and tell the police after it was all over.
If I could. And not because of the lack of signal either.
A spike of fear seized me and I hunted more ardently.
Just boxes. Fucking boxes. And I wasn’t about to start rooting through those bloody boxes on the off chance there was something hidden in there I could use, either.
Frustrated, I clenched my hands into fists, my nails digging into the palms; then I clenched my teeth, too, and only partly because of the pain I’d caused by balling my fists. I wasn’t going to stand uselessly in the spare room for hours on end and wait for whomever it was inside my house to do what the fuck they wanted to do just because I couldn’t find something to defend myself with.
Decision made, I moved to the door and grabbed the handle. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply and willed myself to have the impetus to move forward and deal with whatever was trying, and succeeding, to scare me.
Eyes open again, but only literally.
I pulled the door open so quickly I surprised myself, so much so, I hesitated momentarily before scuttling onto the landing. The other three doors were still closed: the second entrance to the bathroom, the guest room and my room. I went through the bathroom door first taking in the room in a glance. I grabbed the shower curtain and yanked it to the side emitting a sound like ‘Yar!” as I did so.
Nothing there. The room was as I left it, the towels hanging over the towel rail to dry. Even the toilet seat was still down, although I couldn’t understand why I’d thought that as I doubted my intruder would’ve had a pee whilst waiting to rape, torture and kill me.
Moving through the bathroom, I entered my bedroom through the second door. The light was still on there, too. Everything was exactly as I’d left it when I’d initially spotted my bedroom door moving when I’d been drying my hair. I spotted a can of hairspray on my dressing table and collected it on my way past. I may not have had anything to hit an intruder with, but hairspray would have to act like pepper spray. It was a case of “if you can’t beat them, blind them” even if only for a short period of time. It was a pity the spray couldn’t hold him or her in place like an errant hair.
Back out on the landing, there was only one room left to investigate. This guest room, unlike the other one, could be used as a room, not that I, or anyone else for that matter, had been in there for a while. Well, apart from when I’d looked around earlier. A social butterfly I was not, and definitely not the hostess with the mostest. I was more moth like. More solitary. Self-inflicted, of course. What had happened with Shelly had made me want to withdraw from everyone and everything.
I reached out and grabbed the handle of the room. If there was someone pissing about in my house, this was the last remaining room where they could’ve been hiding. I’d not seen, or heard, anyone come down the stairs when I’d checked on the dog. No creaking stair, no rush of a body in flight.
Inhaling deeply, I depressed the handle and shoved the door open. Instead of swiftly gliding backwards, the door snagged slightly on the thick pile of the carpet. I held the can of hair spray aloft and moved into the room.
Like the other rooms, the main light was on, but unlike the other rooms, the lamps were also on, making the bed seem almost inviting. To add to the scene, and to shit me up even more, the curtains had been drawn closed since my last look around.
“Come out you cowardly bastard.” I hoped my voice appeared as strong as I’d willed it to sound.
No answer. No movement. Not that, if truth be known, I’d expected either. The vocal demand from me was just a way of tricking myself into believing I held some semblance of control.
There was no walk-in closet in this room. If someone was hiding, there were only two places to do so: an oak wardrobe and underneath the double bed.
I began to crouch as I approached the bed, my attention split between checking underneath and the telltale creak of a wardrobe door opening. I gripped the can in my hand fiercely, my finger over the nozzle in readiness to depress. With my free hand, I lifted the thick woollen throw that dangled over the space between base and floor.
Nothing. Only dust.
I pushed up and made my way over to the wardrobe, the can’s nozzle raised to my eye level.
A deep breath, and I pulled the door open, the celerity causing the empty hangers inside the wardrobe to clink and chime as if they were announcing the emptiness within, the noise triggering my finger to depress and release a fart of hairspray into the closet.
I just didn’t get it. Someone had closed the doors. Someone had drawn the curtains and turned on the lamps in the spare room. Someone was hiding. I knew it. Could feel it. I wasn’t going mad. I hadn’t done any of those things and not remembered them. I knew my memory wasn’t the best and I was forgetful now and again, but this? No. This wasn’t down to me. Someone else had done this.
I moved out onto the landing and looked about. All doors were open, all lights were still on just how I’d left them. As I had thought before, I would’ve seen someone go down the stairs. Wouldn’t I? Well, when I’d been downstairs, yes? But what about when I’d been investigating the bedrooms and bathroom? The intruder, or even plural - intruders, could’ve slipped down the stairs and be waiting to attack me as I descended.
Instead of being worried about my safety, I was more concerned about the little dog that had been sleeping so comfortably next to the wood burner, his whole being projecting how safe he’d felt after his warm meal of chicken and rice, his poor, neglected body curled safely on the fleeced covered cushion.
Moments later, I was downstairs and next to the dog. He lifted his head to look up at me almost as if he was weighing me up.
Decision made, he clambered up unsteadily and moved closer, tucking his small, warm body snugly against the side of my thigh. Almost immediately, the dog started to snuffle, the telltale noise of sleep capturing him again.
I scratched the back of his head, my fingers moving to his ears, a woofling, mewling noise escaping the small creature nestled next to me.
After a few more moments of allowing myself a connection with the dog, I lifted my face towards the window. The storm was still causing havoc, still creating mayhem with everything that got in its way.
My attention drifted back to the dog, then the storm, then the dog again. Where had he come from? How long had he been stranded out there in the middle of nowhere? Had he been dumped?
My hand drifted down the dog’s back, the spine too pronounced to signify he’d been taken care of in the past. It was either an unbelievably bad case of neglect or this dog had been stuck outside for a long time.
The urge to hold the animal closer, protectively closer, momentarily overwhelmed me but I resisted. Instead, I gently stroked the matted fur and refused to give in to the tears I knew were welling up inside. How could anyone hurt another living creature? Starve it? Leave it to waste away?
A small movement against my leg alerted me the dog was awake again. Brown eyes looked into mine. Such soulful eyes, eyes that penetrated through the shield I’d tried to form since Shelly.
He scrambled up again and climbed onto my knee, pushing his nose into the crook of my arm.
Scooping him up, he nestled into my embrace, half burying his face in the process.
Standing up, I moved back over to the window seat, snagging a throw from the end of the sofa as I went. I’d no idea what was happening, no idea who’d turned the lamps on upstairs and closed all of the doors. I hadn’t found anyone, hadn’t sensed anyone downstairs when I’d come down either. Maybe it was the storm that’d caused the lights to come on on their own. Maybe it was the violence of the wind that had shaken the house so much the doors had eased back into place. I’d no idea what the fuck was going on anymore and, to be honest, I didn’t give a rat’s ass.
“Let’s just sit here and watch for a bit, eh?”
I draped the cover over both myself and the dog, muttering epithets of comfort as I faffed and fiddled until I was contented with the way the material cocooned both the dog and I in a pod of warmth.
The storm was in full flight now, the darkness blanketing any semblance of day, twilight having been rapidly consumed inside the yawning blackness of both night and power. The only light came from the intermittent lightning looming on the landscape, brilliantly illuminating the devastation with stark solemnity. Even as I watched the storm, even as I pulled the dog closer and luxuriated in the contact of another living being, I knew there was something amiss, knew there was something I hadn’t quite fathomed out as of yet, knew there was something I’d forgotten.
Then it came to me.
Earlier, I’d placed my broken reading glasses onto the seat just before I’d ventured out into the rain. Both parts of them. And both parts were supposed to be on the seat ready to be mended and then my reading resumed. But I hadn’t seen them when I’d nestled both myself and the dog into the nook. Even if I hadn’t been thinking about them, or blindly plonked myself down, I would’ve felt them - or heard them slip off the seat and onto the floor, wouldn’t I? And what about the book I’d been reading? Where was that? I hadn’t moved them since coming back inside and not remembered doing so. Or had I?
I lifted the blanket up and off and inspected the cushioned area around where I was seated. Nothing there apart from me and the dog and the trailing ends of a fleece throw.
I peered to the side of the seat and onto the floor to see if my broken glasses and book had fallen onto the tile without me hearing or seeing or sensing it. But no. Nothing there.
I sat forward more, moving the dog onto the cushioned seat as I did so. He stood unsteadily, sleep still gripping him, the warmth around him seeming to cool.
“Stay there, fella.”
I stood, then crouched, then swept my hands across the floor as if I may have found by touch what I couldn’t spot by sight.
But nothing.
What the hell was going on?
“WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF!”
The sound of the dog barking startled me. Not surprising considering he had barely made a sound since turning up in my utility room.
“WOOOOF!”
The dog’s attention was focused out of the window, his hackles were up, his legs were astride. The woofs turned to growls and those growls then mixed with whimpers and whines.
Slowly, I stood, fear gripping my gut, the feeling of impending doom washing over me. The dog’s breath fogged the window, his eyes fixed on something straight ahead.
Dipping down next to him, I checked the trajectory of his focus and turned to see what had upset him. It was dark outside, so bloody dark that I wondered if the dog had spotted his own reflection in the glass.
I opened my mouth to give words of comfort but they didn’t hit air. A flash of lightning scored the sky, illuminating the area in front. There, as if it had never moved since the afternoon, was the same figure. Dark, still seemingly cloaked in something smothering, the material motionless in the wind. The pale patch where the face should be seemed smaller, the features even more indistinguishable.
Leaning forward, I pressed closer to the glass, the dog seeming to do the same. The outside was dark once again but I strained to see in the blackness. Initially, I’d believed the figure to be in the exact position as earlier but I’d been wrong. This time, the figure was on my side of the dry-stone wall.
“Fuck!”
Springing backwards, I tried to hide out of sight of the window. Just as the blackness concealed the person outside, the light within my room illuminated my whereabouts even if the light was powered by a shitty 15-watt bulb.
The dog was, however, seeming to follow the movements of something through the window. His head was slowly moving to the left, his eyes fixed, his teeth baring intermittently but without a noise. Was he watching the figure move? And, more importantly, had I bolted the utility room door?
Turning, I raced to the kitchen, the dog closely at my heels.
As I entered the utility room, I skidded to a stop but the dog continued to move towards the back door until he was about three feet away from it. His head cocked to the side; his ear comically raised as he listened. The wind hammered on the door, but he appeared to ignore that, almost seeming to hear past it.
Then his head jerked forward before he frantically sniffed the air between himself and the door.
Then he stopped sniffing and released a deep, throaty growl. As he did so, the handle to the outside slowly turned.
I held my breath; the expectation of the door flinging open to reveal something bent on inflicting harm was paramount.
A rattle, followed by another turn of the handle, but the door, thankfully, stayed shut.
Then another rattle, this time a little more forceful. My attention scooted to the top bolt and noted that it wasn’t in the slot - and, after glancing downwards, neither was the bottom bolt - just like I’d left them.
“Yap!”
I shushed the dog with the volume of a stage whisper but he continued to growl menacingly at the space near the handle.
The door thudded, the handle wiggled wildly, and I deliberated, albeit fleetingly, whether I should shoot forward to slam home the bolts.
Instead, I backed slowly into the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone from its cradle on the wall, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Even though I knew the lines were down, I was still gutted to hear silence interspersed with a sharp and piercing crackling coming through the receiver.
“Mobile.”
The singular word I uttered to the empty kitchen indicated what I believed to be my next plan of action. My mobile phone had been flung onto the side table in the living room. I’d tried to get a signal earlier - well, the internet. The TV signal was down and I’d wanted to check the weather. Mobile phone reception was always iffy even when the sun was shining so I wasn’t holding my breath that I would be able to get …
Slam!
Something butted against the back door.
The dog released a sharp yelp and raced to where I was riveted, gormlessly holding the landline phone in my hand. The dog pressed himself against me, his tiny frame shivering violently.
Scooping the dog with one hand, I turned and half ran to the living room, the dog curling against me as if he believed I could make things better. My mobile phone was exactly where I’d tossed it earlier in the day. Too many weird events had happened in the space of a few hours that finding something where I’d left it was more of a surprise than if it was missing.
Placing the landline phone onto the side table, I picked up my iPhone, the screen bursting into life as soon as my hand touched it. No bars and no Wi-Fi. Same as earlier.
However, earlier I’d not tried to reach the emergency services - only the met office for a weather update.
I held a vague memory of reading how a person could contact the police without having a signal... or was I mixed up? If my network couldn’t grab a signal it could, by all intents and purposes, jump onto some other network to call for help?
Buggered if I knew. It wasn’t as if I could bloody Google the answer at that moment either because if I could then the whole network piggybacking was redundant anyway.
I grunted then pressed 999 before jamming the phone next to my ear to wait for some form of emergency service operator to save the day.
A loud noise thudded from the utility room and my blood gave a particularly good impression of being replaced by iced water. To accompany the iced effect, my stomach dropped like a broken lift, the consequence of the action creating even more nervous nausea to well up within me and balloon into overwhelming sensation of panic.
The tell-tale dings of the numbers going through initially gave me some semblance of hope but then… nothing. Just complete silence in my right ear. I lifted the phone away to check what was going on only to be greeted by a blank screen. I pressed the home button once more making the screen light up to announce “call ended”. Strange, considering I wasn’t a hundred percent sure if the call had even begun in the first place.
Instead of lifting the phone to my ear again after I dialled, I held it out in front of me and watched as it tried to connect.
Nothing. Just a flash, an attempt, a failure to launch.
Thud! THUD! THUDTHUDTHUD!
I released a sound that I couldn’t even present as a word. It was the mixture of a squeak, a grunt, a gag, a something that transcended description. Someone, or something, was banging on my front door. The suddenness, and velocity, of the noise terrified me, the thumping reminiscent of scenes drawn from Hammer House films from the 1970s.
Instead of moving forward, I backed even further into the room. The dog’s attention moved from the noises at the utility door to the direction of the front door, his head cocking sharply.
I tried 999 again. Then again and again, all the while my actions were accompanied by the rhythmic thudding, each time the same…Thud! THUD! THUDTHUDTHUD!
It was no use. My phone refused to connect. The storm had not helped my already poor connection and my options were non-existent. The only advantage I possessed was that all the doors and windows were locked - although not bolted - and whatever was outside thumping on my door was going to stay the fuck outside.
“Is there anyone in there? Please?”
Bang!
Even though the voice was muffled, the wood of the door and the weather being a good sound proofer, I could still make out every word. I could also make out the voice was female, unless, of course, the person on the other side of the door wanted me to believe it was a lone female stuck out in the elements so I may have been tempted to let her in and get molested in the process.
Two words - fuck that. I didn’t care if the aforementioned lone female was stuck outside in the middle of a storm in the middle of nowhere. Aileen Wuornos, Myra Hindley and Rosemary West were female and they were not the type of women I wanted to invite into my home on any day of the week. Granted, Wuornos and Hindley were dead and West was in prison (I think, but once again, Google was out of reach) but that didn’t change the fact the woman on the other side of my front door could be out to hurt or maim or kill.
Thud! Bang!
I placed the dog onto the floor and moved into the hallway, mainly so I could stare at the front door in a moronic fashion whilst gripping a completely useless iPhone.
The dog, initially, stayed close and I fully expected it to scuttle behind me when the next onslaught of hammering came about, but it didn’t.
In fact, he moved closer to the door, his whole body stiff, and his appearance suggesting he was both intrigued and undaunted about what was going on behind the slab of wood separating us from whatever was intermittently thumping against the door. Weird, apart from his interest in the back door, he had mainly given the impression of being frightened of his own shadow.
“Hey! Sorry if I’m worrying you!”
I was only sure about one part of that sentence and it wasn’t about her being sorry.
The dog made a small whine, and, if I’m honest, I did, too.
Then, surprisingly, the dog moved closer to the door. Moved closer to a door where a “could be killer” was waiting on the other side. Then, if his movement to the door wasn’t weird in itself, the dog lifted his paw and scratched at the wood as if he wanted me to open up and let either him out or “her” in.
I made one step forward and stopped unsure of two things: why I moved forward and why I then stopped moments after moving forward. The image of the figure I’d seen earlier outside popped into my head. I wasn’t sure whether that demoniac “person” had been male or female, or even if it had been déjà vu. Hell, I wasn’t sure whether it’d been real or not, never mind the gender. But one thing I did know - ever since I’d seen whatever the fuck it was with the dark, seemingly cloaked in something non-moving and smothering, with a pasty pale patch where a face should be, things inside my house had gone tits up. Whether these things were connected, I didn’t know but I didn’t feel strong enough to chance opening the door.
The dog whined again. Then barked. Then barked again and again, his tail wagging wildly, his paw lifting and scratching on the door. He turned to look at me, barked and then returned to his clawing.
“Hello? Is someone home? Please. Open up.”
One knock, not as forceful as previously.
“I’m soaked. Freezing. My car came off the road about a quarter of a mile away … Please. I’m hurt. My head.”
The next knock was even fainter, maybe to reflect the weakening state of the woman outside, a ploy I was not falling for.
But I couldn’t stop the acorn of guilt planting itself inside my gut. The weather was awful out there. The storm was still in full fight mode and I knew the temperature must’ve dropped considerably since I’d ventured outside earlier. Being wet would make things worse - and she was hurt, too, or so she claimed. The woman must have borderline hypothermia and I didn’t want to be the one responsible for her dying on my doorstep.
“I un…der…stand… you don’t know… don’t know… me.”
Just by the sound of her voice, I knew she was close to the door. Maybe because I had a small porch area that would give her some semblance of shelter, or maybe because she couldn’t speak louder and the closer she was, the more chance that, she believed, I could hear her.
“Here’s my… my driving licence.”
A popping sound alerted me that something had come through my letterbox. A small pink rectangle landed face down on the mat, the dog moving quickly to inspect the alien object, sniffing it frantically.
“You can check… me… or call the police and tell... them my name.”
How? I had no internet or phone signal. But then again, I doubted the woman on the other side of the door knew that. I looked at my useless phone once more before placing it on the small ledge near the door.
I sucked my top lip inside my mouth and grazed down it with my lower teeth. The dog was focused on the base of the door, his attention had moved from the driving licence to being completely absorbed in whomever was on the other side.
“Okay!’
My one word, two syllabled admission of being home startled me.
‘Hey!’
Her voice perked although it did sound rather startled.
“Let me check and then we’ll see, yes?”
She didn’t know I couldn’t check.
A pause, then “Sure! Great! Yes!”
The revival of hope in her voice was clear and the distinct feeling of well-being seeped through me. Why? I have no clue.
Bending, I scooped her driving licence from the floor and turned it over. Immediately, I was captured by the image on the card - I don’t know why, or how, or for what reason, but for a moment that felt longer than a moment, I couldn’t do anything but stare into the deep brown eyes of the woman in the picture.
Time appeared to slow; the air became denser, more expectant yet not. My thumb travelled over her face, the sensation almost as if it could feel her skin underneath.
Amelia Griffiths. Her name. Amelia. Griffiths.
My attention moved back to the image. Yes. She looked like an Amelia. Delicate yet strong yet… what the fuck was I doing? Her name suits her? How the hell did I know what suited what?
I pressed my face close to the door. “What’s your date of birth?”
A sluggish scuffling sound came from the other side.
“October. October. Thirtieth of October. 1988.”
Three years younger than me, not that I gave a shit. Me asking her anything on her driving licence was null and void as she’d had the opportunity to read through all the details before she posted it through the door. So, whether I asked for her address and she came out with the same as on her licence was irrelevant.
I thought of the person who had tried to get into the utility room and a shiver passed through me.
“Did you try the back door first?”
Initially, I thought she hadn’t heard me as she didn’t respond straight away.
“No.”
I was about to refute her answer when she continued.
“I saw… saw your light. Saw you. I shouted but…”
Anger flared inside me and I pressed against the door imitating an aggressive stance of a would-be fighter.
“If you saw me, why did you ask if there was anybody home?”
The driving licence seemed to be warming up in my hand, uncomfortably so.
“Can you… let… me in? I can…”
“As I said, if you saw me, why did you ask if there was anybody home?”
“Because… because… I saw you… go around the back. I just - just didn’t have the strength to follow. Thought you must be… coming in through... a different door.”
I opened my mouth to negate what she’d said. I’d been outside hours before. Then it struck me. Amelia Griffiths had seen the figure I’d seen twice already. The ominous thing that could still be hanging about outside and ready to make his or her move on a weakened, injured woman who was seeking refuge in my home.
Without thinking about the consequences of my actions, I unlocked the front door and flung it wide. Crouched and hunched on the ground was a person, hair soaked and tangled, her coat covered in what I could only surmise to be mud.
The rain came full force, the wind driving it violently against both me and the curled figure. Each pellet of water seemed colder than the previous and I was surprised it hadn’t turned to hail or snow.
I bent slightly, the dog trying to get between us, excited yaps semi muffled by the weather.
“Hey.”
I tried to keep my voice calm, soothing.
Amelia turned her face upwards, her eyes seeking mine. So dark, so intense, so captivating, that, momentarily, I froze right along with her, my attention totally absorbed by her gaze.
Her eyes widened slightly, the thick dark lashes spreading further outwards, her pupils dilating instead of the expected contraction brought on by the rush of light coming from the open doorway. Maybe she was concussed, maybe not.
The first thought was the one to bring me from my stupor. This woman was injured - cold and injured - and I was stupidly staring at her instead of helping her inside.
Kneeling, I brushed my fingers across her hairline, the iciness of her skin decidedly unnatural. Her eyelids fluttered with my touch, but she still didn’t utter a word. A smudge of darkness smeared itself down the side of her face, the source coming from just above her temple.
“Are you injured?” My voice was soft.
She continued to look straight into me.
Gently, I parted the hair and discovered a small gash, the origin of the oozing liquid darkness.
I grimaced. Although I’m not a medical expert, I knew the dark fluid was in fact blood. I also knew the cut would probably not need stitching.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
If her car had come off the road, I didn’t want to move her unless she told me it okay to move her.
“Nnn...no. I don’t think...” The word choked from her, her eyes squinting, confused.
The dog yapped and tried to push between us again.
Her attention moved to the small Patterdale who was trying to get to lick her face.
“Arch-hie!”
Was that the dog’s name? Did they know each other?
She lifted slightly and I thought she was about to stand.
But, alas, she fainted, her body lurching forward to land sprawled over the threshold of my home.
***