Leave This Place (7 page)

He jumped up and bolted for the door.

Oona followed him out. “Wait! Don’t run up the stairs, you’ll do yourself an injury.”

Silas didn’t listen. By the time he made it to the bedroom he already had his top off. He removed the rest of his clothes and dived under the covers.

With the sheet over his head, he waited. The floorboards creaked. Through the covers he saw the shadow of someone as they approached.

I sure hope it’s Oona,
he thought.
Don’t fancy sharing my bed with the old man.

The figure stood there for some time.
What is she waiting for?

Finally the sheet lifted. Silas felt a pang of nerves and reprimanded himself for being so silly.

It was Oona, of course, still fully clothed. “So we’re not actually playing strip poker, then?”

Silas laughed. “Well if we are, then I’ve lost.”

14

A
s Silas lay next to her, dozing in a blissful post-coital haze, Oona had the sensation that she was being watched.

She glanced over at the photograph and, sure enough, the old man glared at her from his picture frame prison. She imagined that he wouldn’t have approved of the display he had just witnessed. She stared back, not wanting to yield, but of course it was futile. He was always going to win in a staring contest.

Leave!

She looked over to the chair in the corner of the room. She could picture Weddup sitting there as Aggie burst in, his long fingers gripping the armrests, his dark eyes burrowing into her. The way his face would have scrunched up in fury as he spat the word.

Leave!

She returned her attention to the photograph. His eyes on her, as if he was about to say the word.

Leave!

She couldn’t stand it any longer.

The bedsprings creaked as she got to her feet, but Silas remained undisturbed. She moved toward the picture, noting that, much like the stag’s head in the kitchen, his eyes seemed to follow her no matter where she was in the room.

Standing in front of the photograph, she wondered how long it had hung here, untouched. How many other guests had been haunted by his unforgiving visage. The frame was solid pewter and embossed with intricate vines that reminded her of the climbing roses snaking up the trellis at the farmhouse gate.

The old fool seemed like he belonged in the monochrome world of the photograph. She couldn’t imagine him in color, somehow, and suspected that his skin had been gray even when he was alive.

She grabbed the frame in both hands and lifted. She almost expected the old man to poke his head out of the photo and scream his disapproval. The frame was stubborn but she pulled harder and it came away, the string that held it in place unhooking from the nail in a puff of dust.

She imagined Silas would have something to say about this; he would roll his eyes and tell her that she was being ridiculous. But most likely he would never even notice it was gone, and besides, it was worth his ridicule for a few nights of peaceful sleep.

She took the picture into the second bedroom, the only place in the cottage she had not yet been. It was a tidy, unfussy little room - a single bed with a side table that was home to a lamp and a vase of plastic flowers.

She moved the vase, folded out the stand on the back of the frame and placed the picture on the bedside table, adjusting its angle slightly. She didn’t envy the next person who came to stay here, having to wake up to his unsettling eyes every morning.

As she returned to the master bedroom, Silas was sitting up in bed.

“Where’s the picture?”

She looked at the wall and saw that the frame had left a perfect square of light wallpaper where it had been.

“Ridicule me all you want,” she said, feeling a real sense of achievement, “but maybe now I’ll get some sleep.”

She expected him to mumble something about how pathetic she was, but instead he brightened. “What about the chair? I bet that creeps you out too, doesn’t it?”

He was right, of course. Ever since the ‘turning’ incident she’d tried not to pay much attention to it. She shrugged as if it didn’t bother her. She didn’t want him to think he’d married a total neurotic.

Silas leapt from the bed and grabbed the chair by its armrests, lifting it with ease. Oona moved out of the doorway to give him room, and Silas carried the chair out, holding it in front of him as he navigated the narrow landing. He took it into the spare room, accidentally knocking it against the doorposts as he did so.

“There,” Silas said as he re-emerged, rubbing his hands together. He smacked her bottom and they kissed. Silas hopped into bed with what Oona was sure was the same feeling of satisfaction she had felt when moving the picture.

That sense of being watched finally gone, she wrapped herself in the covers and settled in for a good night.

The boogeyman had been banished.

15

T
ap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.

Silas woke with a start, feeling a suffocating sense of unease. As if he was being watched.

Oona was asleep - he could hear her heavy, regular breathing, and the occasional undignified snort that would have embarrassed her if she was awake. He sat up and peered into the darkness, seeing only stars from sitting up too fast.

Once they had cleared, he was left staring into nothingness. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust, his mind working overtime in its attempts to frighten him with what it imagined could be merely inches from his face.

For a brief moment he thought he saw the chair in the corner of the room, but then he remembered it was no longer there.

He gave up and fell back onto the pillow. Drifted.

Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.

What was that?
It sounded like a woodpecker on the window pane.

Great.
That was really going to help.

Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.

Ugh.
Silas wrapped the pillow around his head.

Tap-tappety, tap-tappety—

He lifted his head. The noise stopped.

It had been louder this time. Almost as if it was in the room with him. He waited.

Silence.

He dropped back onto the pillow.

Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.

Silas growled and sat up. Looked around. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. He turned his head, surveying the room. The bedside table, the closet, the door, the chair.

The chair.

And the old man was sitting in it. His eyes locked on Silas.

Watching him.

Silas’s blood turned to ice.

The old man drummed his bony white fingers on the armrests:
Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.

A choked yell burst from Silas’s throat. He brought his knees up to protect himself and screwed his eyes shut, praying that when he opened them again the old man wouldn’t be there.

He had to be seeing things. He just
had
to be.

He opened his eyes, peering into the darkness. He’d screwed his eyes shut so tight that it took a moment for his vision to clear.

Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.

His muscles seized.

The old man was still there. Silas couldn’t see detail yet but his shape was in the corner.

Silas struggled for breath. His temples pulsed, his eyeballs vibrated, his heart slammed in his chest. He shivered as the paralysis of fear traveled up his body. He fought against it, leaning forward for a better look.

The old man leaned forward, mirroring him.

No…

A hideous grin broke out on the old man’s leathery face. His nostrils flared, a fan of wrinkles spreading from the corners of his blazing eyes.

For Silas, the terrible truth dawned: this was not a figment of his imagination. His mind was not fooling him. The old man really was
there
, only a few feet away, as real as anything he had ever seen.

A short, loud cry burst from his lips.

Oona stirred. Lifted her head. “Silas? Are you all right?”

No, I’m not all right
, he wanted to say.
There’s a dead guy staring at me
. But all that left his mouth was a pathetic, useless noise: “N-n-n-n-n…”

A numbness had enveloped his tongue. The horror of helplessness, of being unable to communicate, consumed him. He lifted a trembling finger and pointed.

In a flash Oona was by his side, her hand on his arm. “Silas? What’s wrong?”

“No!” Silas finally exclaimed. “No! No! No!”

He clutched the bedcovers and held them tight. Pressed himself up against the headboard. He wanted nothing more than to look away, but it was impossible. The old guy had snared him, locking him into a stare that Silas could not break.

Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.

16

E
ven before she opened her eyes Oona knew that something was terribly wrong.
 

There was a madness in his abysmal cry, the cry that woke her with a jerk and sent her scrambling to him. It was in his face - the way it contorted as she reached out a hand and touched his arm, sleek with sweat. It was in his voice as he repeated the word
no
, over and over, curled up against the headboard, shaking uncontrollably.

But most of all, the madness was in his eyes. Wide, wet balls of fear, locked onto something that she could not see.

“Silas, listen to me. You’re safe. Everything’s okay.”

It most definitely is not,
a petulant little voice countered.
He’s already past the point of no return. He’s cracked.

“Do you understand me? Silas?”

It was impossible to comprehend that this wreck of a man, with a runner of dribble dangling from his trembling bottom lip, was the same strong, no-nonsense policeman she had married seven years earlier. It was as if he had swapped minds with a patient from an insane asylum.

“No!” he continued. “No! No!”

“Silas! Look at me.” She grabbed his wrists. It took considerable force to keep them under control, they were flapping so wildly.

“Oh, God,” he shrieked, his forward stare unbroken. “Oh, God. D…d…d… do you see him?”

Oona followed his line of sight and chanced a brief look in the corner of the room.

There was nothing there. In fact, it looked strangely bare now that the chair had been removed to the spare room. But it was obvious who Silas thought he saw there, and her skin prickled at the thought.

Will I ever sleep again?
she suddenly wondered.

She shook him. “Look at me!”

He wasn’t listening, or didn’t hear her. She moved in front of him, blocking his view. “It’s just a dream. You’re still asleep.”

“No.”

“Yes. You’re seeing things.”

“He’s there. He’s right there.”

Silas pulled away sharply, his head jerking about like a crazed animal until he focused on her face and began to breathe easier.
 

“That’s it,” she said softly. “That’s it.”

His eyes raised and met hers. “He’s looking straight at me.”

Oona stroked his damp hair. “Don’t worry about it. Just keep looking at me.”

After a long moment, he broke her gaze. “He’s still there…”

His face crumbled and he sobbed, softly at first. Oona put her arms around him and he began to howl. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God…”

“Ssh,” she said, as calmly as she could manage with her heart racing and her voice shaking and her mind full of fear.

She had experienced some frightening things on this holiday, but none of them came close to invoking in her the level of terror she felt right then, fearing that her husband had lost his mind. “Ssh, it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s all right.”

Eventually his sobbing abated, and after a few minutes he had stopped completely, the occasional cry hitching in his throat, his arms clamped tight around her. She stroked his hair, settled him down and tucked the covers around him.

It was just a waking dream, she told herself. He had still been asleep, and he hadn’t even realized it.
The mind does strange things when it can’t cope
, as Silas himself had said.

She reached over him and flicked out the light. A chill ran through her as she sat there in the dark, thinking about the fear in Silas’s eyes and the panic in his voice.

Do you see him?

She turned over, closed her eyes, and remained awake for the rest of the long, long night.

17

S
creeee—screeee—screeee—screeee—

The next time the alarm went off in the cell block, Silas’s heart slammed in his chest, his palms moistened and his mouth became dry. Those distant screams echoed through his mind.

Roland hollered and rubbed his hands together. “Here we go again…”

Wendy shook her head and tutted. “Why
does
it do that? Brian, what’s the deal with the bloody thing?”

“It’s bust,” Kelvin interjected. “We need to get someone in to pull all the wiring out.”

Silas was watching Brian. The sergeant was staring into space, an odd look in his eyes. He was the longest serving officer at the station, and if anyone knew anything about the alarm, it would be him.

“What are you thinking about, Brian?” Silas asked.

Brian leaned back in his chair and took a cricket ball from his desk. Tossed it in the air and caught it. “I’m thinking about the screaming,” he said, and Silas’s stomach lurched.

“This sounds interesting,” Roland said, pulling up a chair.

Wendy shivered. “I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

“The last cell,” Brian said. “On the back wall. That’s where we always put the real dangerous ones. The loons. And George Olsen - that man was off his rocker. He was a wiry little man with an odd, shriveled face, but the scary thing about Olsen was that you only had to look in his eyes to see that he was capable of anything.

“See, you lot wouldn’t know, but when you have prisoners, well, sometimes checking on them isn’t as simple as opening the hatch on the cell door. If they’re drunk, or a danger to themselves, you have to go in and wake them up, or make sure, you know…”

“Make sure they’re still alive,” Kelvin offered.