Birthing House short story competition - the Winner!

We are delighted to announce the winner of the short story competition to celebrate the publication of The Birthing House by Christopher Ransom, which was promoted via the Guardian, online and in-store at Borders.

We received a fantastic level of entries that were shortlisted to ten by Little, Brown editorial and marketing personnel.

Christopher Ransom chose the winner from this top ten and the winner was: Rosalind Teesdale-Ives with her story, 'Touch'.

Christopher chose 'Touch' because it succeeded on every level, and was not only effective but consistently professional. Rosalind created believable characters, a compelling premise and plot, a brooding atmosphere of dread and wrapped it up with an excellent ending.

We hope you enjoy reading 'Touch' as much as we did.

 

Touch, by Rosalind Teesdale-Ives

It was an ordinary house in a semi-circle of ordinary houses. Some might call it dilapidated, but Stella liked to look on the bright side.

True, it could do with several licks of paint. There were tiles missing from the roof and a large starburst of a crack creeping its way erratically across the glass of one of the upstairs windows. Weeds grew all along the edges of the house, forcing their way up through the crazy paving at the front and the bricked area at the back, interspersed with bits of litter and shards of glass. A black plastic drainpipe leaned drunkenly away from the guttering, dripping rust-coloured moisture onto the paving stones below.

The garden fence needed repairing, and the garden itself was a shambles, full of weeds and brambles and sad, brown grass. A large dark tree, rooted in the wilderness that grew beyond the wall, hung over the back half of the garden like a vast raven, wings outstretched.

The agent had been vague about how long it had been for sale, but in a marketplace gone mad, where prices were leapfrogging each month, to find a detached house with three bedrooms and a bit of garden for less than £250,000 seemed amazing value. Extraordinary, really. Just as well most people were put off by appearances.

The agent reckoned the previous owners couldn't have been that worried about the money - not that he'd met them. They'd moved a while ago, apparently, so he'd only ever spoken to them on the phone. At least, his boss had.

 

A black, sporty-looking car sped up the road, swept around the curve of the cul-de-sac and almost skidded to a halt opposite where Stella was standing. Can't be good for the tyres, she thought.

'Hi, sorry I'm late,' the agent - Mark, was it? - called casually as he emerged from the car. He came around the back of it waving a clutch of house keys at her.

'Here you are then, Mrs Curtis. The contract has been completed successfully. All parties are happy, and you are now the proud possessors of no. 39, Drake Close.'

He handed the tangled clump of keys to her.

Stella cupped her hands together to receive them and almost dropped the lot. They were surprisingly heavy - normal-looking Yales and Banhams, but they felt as if they were made of lead. She turned them over in her hands.

'Three sets. That's everything. Do you need me to show you what works where? Only,' he checked his expensive-looking watch 'I need to be the other side of town in ten minutes and it'll be pushing it even if I go now.'

'No, that's fine, I can manage,' Stella reassured him.

'Great. Well, good luck then.'

He put out his hand and waited while Stella tipped the keys into her shoulder bag before taking his hand to shake it.

'Mr. Curtis not here?'

'No. He's at work.'

'Right. Well, as I say, hope you're happy here.' He looked up rather uncertainly at the front of the house.

'Oh, I'm sure we will be,' Stella replied. 'Thank you for - for organising everything.'

'My pleasure.' He beamed at her perfunctorily. 'Sorry to have to dash off like this, but you know how it is: busy, busy, busy!'

Stella smiled politely and watched as he strode back to his car. She waited while he started the engine, revving it quite unnecessarily she thought, and roared off in a swirl of dust, dead leaves and ego.

Funny, she must have had at least a dozen conversations with that young man, but she hardly knew him. Wasn't even entirely certain his name was Mark. She supposed that happened with estate agents. Friendly and familiar and chatty while they were trying to sell you something, and then disappearing out of your life in a puff of fumes.

 

Stella decided not to wait any longer for the removal lorry to turn up. It would arrive when it arrived. She could make a start on opening the house up, letting in some of the fresh air it had so clearly lacked on their previous visits.

With a vague sense of this being a significant moment in their lives - it was a real shame Danny couldn't have been here too - Stella walked up to the front door. Her own front door. Their own front door.

It still felt unreal after all the months they'd spent searching; after all the years they'd spent renting. She rooted around in her bag for the keys. It was a struggle to separate out one set, on a grey metal ring with some sort of Far Eastern motif on the fob. Not anything she recognised.

Turning the key with her left hand and the handle with her right, she tried to ease the door open. It seemed to be sticking so she gave it a good shove with her shoulder.

As she did so, what sounded like a loud, prolonged groan escaped from the house.

Stella stopped, startled. She looked around.

Over in the near distance, a few streets away, she spotted a tall crane swinging two large cement pillars slowly on the end of a chain. That must have been what made the noise. Relieved, Stella stepped inside.

 

The hall was carpeted with a threadbare strip of something that looked like thick sacking - beige, loosely woven and stained - running down the centre of the glazed tile floor. The walls were covered with a textured paper in a shade of pink the agent had described optimistically as 'Old Rose'. 'More like Puke Pink' had been Danny's contribution before Stella quelled him with a look.

Seeing it again, Stella had to admit it was a difficult colour, but that could be changed.

She closed the front door firmly behind her and stood for a moment, taking in the stillness.

Motes of dust, stirred up by the draught of the door, cascaded slowly through the air, catching the dull light from the frosted window at the far end of the hallway. A pile of circulars and mail shots had been stacked untidily on the radiator cover to her left; more littered the rubber mat under her feet. The house seemed tired, unappreciated.

Well, they would soon see to that.

Stella walked purposefully to the door on her right and opened it into the living room. She liked this room. It was bright, with a large bay window looking out over the front garden and back down the Close. Here, the walls were an acceptable shade of pale green with a pale gold fitted carpet.

She halted in the middle of the room and turned around slowly, mentally picturing where the furniture would fit against the naked walls and around the scorched plastic of the electric fire. They would replace it with something more modern, more welcoming - a real fire if this wasn't a smokeless zone, or one of those coal-effect gas fires if they couldn't have the real thing. It would make such a difference, cheer the place up.

Stella moved across to the window and peered out: still no sign of the removal lorry.

They'd probably stopped for a snack on the way. Just as well; she couldn't offer them anything until she'd unpacked the kitchen boxes.

Leaving the living room, Stella crossed the hall to the smaller front room opposite, described in the particulars as 'the study.' Discovering this, Stella had formed a little plan, something not yet discussed with Danny: she'd had to stop working at the school because of caring for Uncle Harold, but she could offer pupils after-school help with their Numeracy and Literacy here at home. Heaven knows some of them needed it. Stella loved the idea of carrying on working with children; the money would help too. In her mind's eye, this room would be a perfect mini classroom.

Buoyed up by these possibilities, Stella headed towards the back of the house, poking her head into the downstairs cloakroom on the way. This was a small rectangle of a room, windowless and musty, squeezed in between the study at the front and the dining room at the back. Decorated in neutral shades around an old-fashioned white lavatory and basin, the room was functional, but little else. Stella felt a lot more could be done with it. A rack for coats and hats - it was a 'cloakroom' after all. And a shelf for books and scented candles. She'd seen that in some of the nicer houses she'd visited, a simple way to make a small space look better.

At the end of the hallway, Stella veered away from the dining room door and headed into the kitchen. This was a good-sized if slightly shadowy room filled with wood chip cupboards and Formica. By the door out into the back garden was a gap where the washing machine Danny had promised her could go. Imagine not having to go to the Laundromat every week! And a washing line too - Stella could see it swinging slightly as she looked out of the window.

There was something reassuringly familiar about the single basin, double-drainer stainless steel kitchen sink she was leaning on, the kind she was used to from her childhood, with two solid taps and a plug, missing its chain. They would update the cupboards and the work surface, but Stella liked the sink just as it was. She liked the wide windowsill behind it too, somewhere to put plants and jars of flowers and interesting things for her to look at, something to distract her from that looming tree commanding half the view.

Drawing a deep breath, Stella turned away and headed back out into the hall. Ahead of her was the closed door of the dining room. The one room in the house she had really not liked. She hesitated, hoping a ring of the doorbell might announce the arrival of the removal lorry.

Thick silence.

Ticking herself off for being feeble, Stella took a step forward and turned the handle. She didn't know what she expected to find. She didn't know why she felt afraid.

The door opened into a dark room with a black and red marble fireplace at one end. The walls were covered in beige wallpaper patterned with silhouettes of darker brown leaves. Long wine-coloured curtains hung in folds at the window overlooking the back garden. Brass wall lights hung either side of the window. A thick chocolate brown carpet fitted up to each wall. It was like something out of a 1950s stage set.

Perhaps that was it, Stella suddenly realised. The rest of the house was so down-at-heel, so chipped and scored and worn. This room appeared untouched. The carpet looked new, unused, without furniture footprints. The wallpaper wasn't peeling or marked in any way. Even the curtains appeared dust-free, unbleached by the sun. The room was uncannily still. Preserved.

Stella could feel an inexplicable panic rising within her. The room seemed to be growing darker. She closed her eyes, shook her head sternly. Stop being ridiculous. The sombre colours were a bit oppressive, that was all.

A sudden peal rang through the house. Stella leapt with fright before logic told her it must be the doorbell. She almost ran to the front door and flung it open wide. The removal men, at last.

'What took you so long?' Stella asked, but she was smiling with relief.

The younger of the two, Jake, nudged his older colleague, a man called Ted. 'Told yer,' he confided conspiratorially.

Turning to Stella, Jake explained 'Ted's maps wus 'is Dad's - or wus it yer granddad? - ' Ted elbowed Jake, hard.

'Ow.' Jake rubbed his arm.

'Well, I see no harm in that,' Stella began.

'Yeah, but Drake Close ain't on 'em. Turns out this wus summink else.' Jake turned to Ted and squinted at him. 'Let...Led...'

'Leth'

'Leth?' What sort of name was that?

'Yeah' Ted spoke slowly, 'L-e-t-h-e'.

'Oh, Lethe.' It sounded vaguely familiar. 'I wonder why they changed it?'

''Appens all the time,' Jake told her comfortably. 'Name 'em after sports stars an' the like. Right, Missis Curtis,' Jake rubbed his hands together. 'Where'll we start?'

 

It took them the best part of four hours to shift all the furniture and boxes into the house. Stella found it hard to believe how much stuff they had gathered in their poky little flats. Uncle Harold's furniture, finally released from storage, helped to fill in the gaps. Stella sent his favourite pieces up to the large front bedroom they had decided he would be happiest in.

By the time Jake and Ted were drawing to a close, Stella had found and unpacked the kettle, teabags, sugar and some mugs. She brewed a pot and persuaded Jake and Ted to down their mugs of it without the addition of milk. Liberally sugared, they quite liked it.

Danny arrived as they were finishing. Stella watched him draw up slowly behind the removal lorry, peering up through the windscreen at their new home. She went out to meet him, linking her arm through his as she drew him back towards the house.

'How's it been?' He smiled down at her.

'Oh Danny, it's going to be perfect!'

Stella felt like a new wife playing house all over again as she led him around each of the rooms to show what she had already placed where.

'Well done, love, you've been busy.' He kissed her on the forehead. 'It looks like a home already.'

Stella loved that about Danny - he was so easy-going and appreciative. He'd have made such a great dad. She felt the familiar ache of sadness, duller now after all the years. Well, there was plenty more to unpack.

 

It was some time after Jake and Ted had finally left that Stella went upstairs to make a start on unpacking the boxes in Uncle Harold's room. They weren't due to fetch him from the residential home until the end of the week, but Stella knew it would take a while to get the house straight and buy anything needed to make it more comfortable for him.

The first box she opened was full of books and ornaments. She started taking them out and placing them on the bookshelves, until she noticed several of them could do with a good dusting. No time like the present. Stella headed downstairs and rooted around in one of the kitchen drawers for the tea towels she had put there earlier. She'd find the dusters later, a couple of these would do for now.

Back in Uncle Harold's room, she dusted each book and ornament carefully before placing them on the shelves or on the little bureau in the corner. The second box contained the tapestry frame, reduced to its component parts for the move, with the spare wools and the tapestry of Egyptian ducks on the Nile that Uncle Harold had been working on when they'd had to move him to the home. He'd taken up tapestry after Auntie Dora had died, said it gave him something to do in the evenings rather than just mope in front of the TV.

When she came to the third packing case, Stella got a surprise. It was full of children's toys. She sat back on her heels in astonishment. She didn't remember packing these up to go into storage. She moved the box around, checking the label. In clear black writing she read 'Curtis, 39 Drake Close'. Surely Uncle Harold hadn't secretly passed these to the removal men when she wasn't looking? She couldn't remember ever having seen them at his and Auntie Dora's house. Unless he'd kept them in the attic? But they'd got rid of so much stuff to the charity shop, the auction house and the dump - why on earth would he have kept these?

Stella pulled out a large mohair teddy bear in remarkably good condition, its glass eyes intact, the blue ribbon around its neck only slightly frayed. A tin pencil box was next, with sailing boats on an idyllic sea painted on the cover. A small card box announced 'Mr Potato Head Funny Face Kit' below drawings of vegetables and fruits impaled amusingly with plastic human features. Stella smiled. She drew out a net of Bullseye Marbles and rolled it between her hands, enjoying the satisfying weight of the small glass spheres before placing it beside the other toys on the carpet.

A slightly dog-eared cardboard box featured two-dimensional planets behind a cartoon hero dressed like a Scout leader with a fishbowl upended over his head. 'Space Outlaw Atomic Pistol' declared the cover. Opening the lid, Stella found an elegant fake firearm, all batwing-edged silver handle and red teardrop-encrusted sides, nestling amongst - she stopped - a pair of dark grey woollen socks. Stella pulled them out. Boys' socks. Clean boys' socks, as far as she could tell, neither moth-eaten nor frayed.

Something was starting to nag at the back of her mind.

Stella reached into the packing case and started pulling things out willy-nilly, dumping them unceremoniously on the carpet - a leather-looking football, a Slinky, canisters of Play-doh with old-fashioned lettering, a bright yellow Tonka Truck.

She lifted out something wrapped in a navy blue cotton shoe bag, the sort Stella remembered taking her plimsolls to school in. Opening the drawstring, she extracted a perfect doll. The face was made of hard plastic, with pale skin and bright blue eyes surrounded by curling red locks. A woven black straw hat finished with a deep pink material rose sat on its head at a jaunty angle. It was dressed in a blue and white check dress with the reversed collar, nipped-in waist and wide skirt reminiscent of 'Roman Holiday'. On its arm swung a white plastic handbag with 'Ginny' etched across.

Stella's Aunt Bess had kept a Ginny doll from her childhood up on the top shelf of the dresser. Stella and her sister weren't allowed to play with her in case they broke her - and she hadn't been in nearly as good a condition as this one. Stella smiled to herself.

Well, well.

Towards the bottom of the case Stella discovered a shoebox containing ten beautifully proportioned Matchbox cars - she recognised a Morris Minor and an old Austin among them. The last item to come out was a large wooden box of Lego. Inside, all the pieces of red, white, blue or yellow plastic had been arranged neatly among twenty compartments. Eight of these formed a tray which, when lifted out, revealed the yellow bases packed neatly below. Re-closing the lid, Stella placed the box on the floor.

She realised what had been worrying her: these couldn't have been Uncle Harold's toys. He was born in 1920. He would have been a child in the 1920s and early '30s. Stella was pretty sure things like Mr Potato Head and Play-doh hadn't been invented until the 1950s at least. Why would he have had toys from then? He and Auntie Dora had had a tragedy with their only child, a boy called Arthur. He'd drowned at the age of six in the local pond when messing around with some bigger boys. But that had been back in 1948. These toys couldn't be Arthur's - and it wouldn't explain the girls' toys either. Stella couldn't believe dear, no-nonsense Auntie Dora would have allowed Uncle Harold to build up a collection of 'if only' toys for sentimental reasons.

Which left the only other possibility: the removers must have put the wrong name on the box.

Even as she decided this, Stella felt uneasy. The toys were so clearly old-fashioned: what modern child would play with them in an age of plastic and Playstations? Yet they gave the impression of having recently been played with. Stella sniffed the doll, then the teddy bear. They smelt of biscuits, not mothballs. Rising slowly to her feet, she turned around and headed for the door. A flash of colour drew her eyes to the wall. About two feet up from the floor, in a splash of red and yellow paint, was a child's handprint.

Stella stopped dead in her tracks. She was certain, she was absolutely certain, that hadn't been there before. Puzzled, slightly unnerved, she left the room and went downstairs.

'Danny? Danny, where are you?'

Danny emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a cloth.

'What's the emergency?'

'Come upstairs. There's something really odd happening.'

'Odd? Where? What is it?'

'Just come!'

Stella grabbed Danny by the hand and hauled him along the hallway to the stairs.

'Stella? Talk to me - what's the matter?'

But she wouldn't answer until she had marched Danny into Uncle Harold's room.

'There!' she said, pointing to the pile of children's toys on the floor, 'and that!' she declared, wheeling him around to point at the handprint on the wall.

'Right' said Danny slowly, 'and you're upset because...?'

'Danny!' Stella never usually shouted at her husband, but he was being maddeningly unperturbed about it all. 'Where did they come from? Why are they here? What does it mean?'

'Stella - love - calm down.' Danny put a reassuring arm around Stella's shoulders. She was sorely tempted to shake it off.

'All it means is that your mates Jake and - Tim, was it? All it means is they gave us the wrong box.'

'But it's got our name and address on it. And the toys - they're so old-fashioned. Who would keep those? And what about that hand over there?'

'Sweetheart, that mark on the wall could have been here all the time -'

'It wasn't!' Stella interrupted vehemently, 'I'd have remembered it.'

'Well,' Danny tailed off, his expression suggesting she could well have been mistaken, 'As for the toys, people collect these things all the time. Particularly if they're in good condition. They auction them on places like eBay. People pay lots of money for nostalgia.'

Stella really wanted to believe him, but part of her remained convinced something wasn't right. She sighed then shrugged.

'Come on, love,' Danny took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, 'You've had a really busy few days. Why don't we stop the unpacking for today and go out to find somewhere nice for a meal? To celebrate. How about that?' He smiled warmly at her.

'Okay. Maybe... maybe I did make a mistake.'

Stella did her best to smile back.

 

The next days passed in a flurry of activity. Stella telephoned the removal company first thing, but they knew nothing about a stray box of toys; no customers had reported anything missing.

Danny was philosophical when she told him. 'Okay, then we have some vintage toys we can put up for auction when I have a moment. Might even pay for a holiday.'

He went off to work each morning and was delighted to discover his daily commute cut by twenty minutes each way.

Stella spent every moment unpacking boxes, unwrapping crockery, cutlery and ornaments, deciding where to place and store things. She hummed while she worked, delighted to discover how easily the acquisitions of a lifetime seemed to be fitting into their new home.

Sorting out Uncle Harold's room - and the bathroom - were her priorities. All his boxes were unpacked and his things placed where she thought he would like them, The unexplained toys had been returned to their packing case and taken down to the study to await their fate.

Almost unconsciously, she avoided doing anything in the dining room until Danny was home. Together, they arranged the chairs around Uncle Harold's mock mahogany pedestal table, placed the smarter china in the wooden dresser they had installed against the wall opposite the window and hung pictures on the leaf-strewn wallpaper.

Once Stella had put a selection of candles on the mantelpiece, a fruit bowl on the dresser and a tall vase to one side of the fireplace, the room started to look almost friendly.

Two days later, Danny came home from work early so they could go together to collect Uncle Harold from the residential home. Stella was excited. She was very fond of her uncle, and it would be lovely to have someone else to care for. Her mother had drummed into her from an early age the importance of family, of looking after them.

While Danny had a quick shower and changed, Stella made one last check of Uncle Harold's room. A cheerful vase of daffodils was on the table by the window; the carafe of water and a glass was on the nightstand by his bed along with a fresh box of tissues; the little heater was plugged into a socket near his easy chair, furnished with a cushion and a neatly folded blanket; the small television sat on its low table in the corner. All looked welcoming.

As Danny headed downstairs to ready the car, Stella made a quick dash into the bathroom. Just as well. She picked up the damp bathmat and hung it to dry on the heated towel rail, tutting gently under her breath. She checked there were spares of loo paper to hand, that the soap was presentable, there were fresh towels on the rail, that the bath and shower looked clean. The shower door was still misted with steam.

Stella turned away - and turned back with a gasp. In one patch, the mist had cleared - in the shape of a small hand.

Her heart thudding, Stella backed slowly out of the bathroom. Her first instinct was to run down and fetch Danny but, as she hesitated, the image faded slowly into a ragged patch of clear glass. Numb and uncertain, Stella heard a brief toot from outside. She walked carefully downstairs, her hand gripping the chipped cream paint of the banisters.

Out in the fresh air, she felt as if she had just walked out of a dream. Danny was looking at her curiously as she got into the car.

'Are you all right?' he asked. 'You look as if you've seen a ghost.'

Stella half shook her head.

'Stella, what's the matter? Aren't you feeling well?'

With a great effort, Stella turned to look at Danny. She managed a smile this time.

'It's nothing. I'm fine. I just - had a bit of a funny turn, that's all.'

'A funny turn? What sort of funny turn?'

'Nothing. Really - I'm just a bit tired.'

'Well, if you're sure - only, we're going to be late if we don't hurry.' Danny paused.

 

They arrived at The Grove residential home a few minutes late. Uncle Harold was sitting by the window looking out for them. He nodded and raised a mottled hand in welcome when he spotted Danny and Stella heading up the path. Someone had dressed him warmly for the journey even though it wasn't a particularly cold March day. A rug was ready by his side and his coat was draped over his shoulders. His thin silvery-white hair had been neatly combed, his moustache and nails trimmed, his shoes polished. Stella was moved to see how much care they had taken of him.

With bright eyes, Uncle Harold raised his face to be kissed by Stella.

'Well!' he said, smiling up at her. 'The start of the rest of our lives!'

 

When they got back home, Danny took the suitcases up to Uncle Harold's room while Stella helped him out of the car, furnished him with his walking stick, and hovered beside him as he made his steady progress up the path. He paused halfway to look up at the house.

'Ah. Very good,' he said approvingly, then 'And who's that?'

'Where?' asked Stella, looking up too.

'There. That window. On the left.'

Stella searched but couldn't see anyone.

'That's your room. It must have been Danny.'

'No,' said Uncle Harold slowly, 'I don't think so. It was a child.'

Stella stiffened.

Oblivious to her distress, Uncle Harold set off again towards the front door. Stella gleaned a little comfort from how pleased he was with his room, noting her little touches, appreciating the view from the window back down the road towards the park in the distance, planning his daily constitutionals. She was relieved the colourful handprint on his bedroom wall, painstakingly scrubbed off, had not reappeared. No more marks marred the bathroom. But her delight in her new home had been shattered. She felt as if a large spring was being wound up tight in her core. It was only a matter of time before something else happened.

 

The something else began two days later.

Stella had just left Uncle Harold's room with the remains of his breakfast tray when she trod on something large and hard, which shot away from under her feet. The tray flew from her hands, the contents crashing to the floor as Stella sprawled headlong on the carpet.

'Are you all right?' Uncle Harold called.

Stella groaned and sat up, half-winded. It took her a moment to call back, 'I'm fine. Tripped over.'

She looked around. Bits of cereal splattered the wall and floor, butter and crumbs were smeared on the carpet, the bowl and cup from the breakfast set given to her by her grandmother lay in pieces. The plate and saucer had survived. And there, between her splayed feet and the wall, lay the yellow plastic Tonka truck. Instead of fear, Stella felt a deep anger welling inside her. Anger at the destruction of her beloved crockery. Anger at the shattering of her dream. Anger at the childishness of the prank.

'Right!' she hissed at the air around her, 'that's enough!'

She gathered up the broken pieces and plonked them on the tray, dusted herself down, noting the large bruise already forming on her shin, picked up the tray and marched downstairs. From the kitchen she grabbed a cloth, soaked it and marched back upstairs to scrub the walls and carpet furiously.

'All well?'

Stella jumped.

Uncle Harold was standing in his doorway, smiling sweetly at her, the ends of his moustache tied up with tiny red ribbons. Stella's jaw dropped.

'Uncle Harold?' she eventually managed.

'Mmm?'

'Your moustache?'

'Do you like it?'

'I - who did it?'

'Your little friend.'

'My little friend?'

'Yes,' Uncle Harold explained patiently, 'the little girl who was here yesterday.'

'The little girl - ' Stella scrambled to her feet and almost barged past her uncle. Standing in the centre of his room, she turned a slow circle. No little girl.

'Where is she, Uncle Harold?'

'Oh - she must have slipped past us while we were chatting.'

Uncle Harold moved over to his chair and eased himself down with a grunt. Stella squatted down beside him, looking up into his face.

'Uncle Harold, what did she look like? This little girl?'

'Look like? Ah - pretty little thing. Shy - doesn't say anything. Smiles.'

'Yes, but what sort of age?'

'Goodness, I know nothing of children's ages - nine? Ten perhaps?'

'What was she wearing?'

'My dear! So many questions!'

'Please Uncle.'

'Wearing. Let's see. A dress, I think. A red dress. With flowers. Over a white blouse. Will that do?'

'Yes, Uncle, thank you.'

Stella rose and kissed the top of Uncle Harold's head. 'I'll bring you up a cup of coffee later.'

Uncle Harold waved a distracted acknowledgement and picked up a book from the table beside him. Stella left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Picking up the Tonka truck she headed downstairs, keeping a sharp lookout for stray toys.

She tidied the breakfast things away, throwing the broken pieces of crockery into the bin before washing up the remainder. Then she turned her attention to her new toy. The washing machine had arrived yesterday. With the excitement of a small child unwrapping a birthday present, Stella emptied the damp clothes into the yellow plastic laundry basket. She lifted it onto her hip, caught up the bag of multicoloured plastic pegs and a damp cloth, and headed out through the back door into the garden.

Danny hadn't had time to replace the old washing line yet, so Stella tested it, yanking down hard to check it would bear weight, before giving it a sharp shake to rid it of any drops of moisture. She ran the cloth along its length and back again, noting with satisfaction the removal of a dark line of grime. Then, with a broad grin, she began to hang out the washing.

 

Her grin faded when, towards the bottom of the basket, Stella drew out a small red pinafore - decorated with flowers. She shook it out, held it up, and stood looking at it, her mind whirling. Suddenly, Stella was acutely aware of the tree. The branches seemed to be looming closer, as if trying to claim the pinafore. She glowered up at it - what was it about the tree she detested so much? Deliberately, defiantly, Stella pegged the pinafore on the line.

 

It was some time later when Stella carried two mugs of coffee up to Uncle Harold's room, a packet of Rich Tea biscuits tucked under her arm. She wasn't going to risk trays again if she could avoid it. As she knocked gently on his door, she wondered in what state she might find him this time.

To her relief, he seemed perfectly normal - and the small red bows had gone. She placed the mugs carefully on coasters on the little round table in the window, and drew up a chair.

'Well' she said, sitting down heavily 'what a morning!'

'Has it been tiring, dear?' enquired Uncle Harold sympathetically.

'It's certainly been eventful!' Stella replied, offering the biscuits.

'Eventful?' her uncle asked vaguely, accepting two.

'Indeed it has, beginning with the tray and ending - so far - with my finding your little girl's red pinafore in my washing.'

 

'My little girl...?' quavered Uncle Harold, 'I don't understand.'

'The little girl who tied ribbons in your moustache.'

'Ribbons in my moustache!' Uncle Harold sounded astonished. His hand went up to his mouth to check. Stella looked at him, her eyes widening in disbelief.

'Do you mean you don't remember anything about a little girl in a red pinafore and a white blouse tying bows in the ends of your moustache?'

Uncle Harold looked at her carefully, his brow furrowing with concern.

'Stella dear - are you very tired?'

Stella leant back in her chair and closed her eyes. So this was how it was going to be. 'Yes, Uncle,' she sighed, 'I am rather tired.'

 

When Stella went to gather in the washing later that afternoon, she was unsurprised to find the pinafore no longer pegged to the line - just the gap where it had been. Folding the dry clothes into the basket, she carried them back into the kitchen to sort into ironing and non-ironing. Gathering up the non-ironing pile, she headed upstairs. Once she'd put away Danny's and hers, she knocked on Uncle Harold's door.

'Come in! Come in!' came a cheery voice. Stella opened the door. Uncle Harold was sitting on the carpet, surrounded by bits of blue, white and red plastic. On a square yellow base by his thigh, a small house was under construction. It could have been any house - or it could be this house. Stella gazed at it in horrified fascination. There was no way Uncle Harold, with his severely arthritic hands, could have built it himself. It was unlikely Uncle Harold, with his increasingly arthritic body, would have chosen to sit on the carpet. Her uncle smiled up at her sweetly.

'Isn't this fun!'

'Yes,' agreed Stella stiffly, 'isn't it.'

Deciding to offload the washing before attempting to help him up into his chair, she moved over to the chest of drawers to put away his clean socks and underpants, before opening the wardrobe to hang up his cardigan. Sorting through the hangers to find an empty one, she came across a pair of grey woollen boy's shorts clipped into an old wooden double-sided hanger. Of course, the Tonka truck. There must have been a boy too.

Slowly, without taking her eyes off the shorts in case they dematerialised, Stella fumbled the cardigan onto a hanger before unhooking the wooden one and turning around to face Uncle Harold.

'I don't suppose these are yours, are they Uncle?'

Uncle Harold peered at them.

'Those? No, never seen them before.' He paused, frowning.

'They look familiar though,' then added quietly 'Arthur wore short trousers.'

His gaze dropped. Feeling a surge of compassion, Stella stepped forward to touch her uncle's shoulder.

'Of course, Uncle. I'm sorry.'

Her glance passed the little house - and shot back to stare at it. Was it her imagination, or had it increased? A shiver of fear ran through her. They were here right now. They were watching her...

Clinging to the last vestiges of her common sense, Stella put the shorts down on the table and proffered her hand.

'Come on Uncle, let me help you back into your chair.' It came out an octave higher than she had intended. Uncle Harold looked up. His gaze seemed distant, as if he were looking through her.

'No need,' he said calmly, 'they'll help me.' He waved vaguely to his right and left.

Stifling a sob, Stella clapped her hand to her mouth and ran from the room. She hurtled down the darkening stairs towards the front door. Reaching it, she struggled to undo the lock before wrenching it open - and ran straight into the shadowy figure standing there.

With a loud shriek, Stella fainted.

 

Danny's concerned face swam into view, hovering somewhere between her and the ceiling. His mouth seemed to be moving. Gradually, Stella could make out what he was saying - 'Stella! Sweetheart! Talk to me! What happened?'

Stella gazed up at him, at his kind, caring, dependable face.

Tears of self-pity started to well and before she knew it, Stella was howling into his neck, half-sitting, half-sagging as Danny hauled her into his arms.

It took him a while to calm her down with soothing words and gentle strokes.

Eventually, exhausted and purged, Stella sat up with a last sniff. Danny gave her his handkerchief and helped her to her feet.

'Right, my love, a stiff drink and tell me all about it.'

Danny led Stella into the sitting room, turned the lights on and settled her in the floral armchair. He busied himself drawing the curtains and switching on the electric fire, before bringing her a small glass brimming with sherry.

'Oh Danny, I don't think -'

'Go on, love. It's that or brandy and you don't like brandy.'

He waited until Stella had taken a few sips before he drew up the low stool next to her chair and taking her hand in his, looked tenderly into her eyes.

'Now. Tell me what happened.'

Stella paused, trying to gather her thoughts. She desperately needed Danny to understand what she had seen, what she had experienced, her growing dread. She was afraid of sounding hysterical.

Danny knew about the toy box and the painted handprint, so Stella began from the mark in the steamed shower and Uncle Harold's child in the window. She tried to describe it in a calm and measured way.

'Wait' interrupted Danny 'Do you mean Uncle Harold has been seeing these too?'

'Yes - no - well, he has and then - I'll come to that in a minute.' Stella put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes briefly.

She recounted the events of the morning, the Tonka truck (a hiss of sympathy from Danny), Uncle Harold's beribboned moustache (Danny's eyes widening in astonishment), the red dress and the tree (Danny sitting very still now), Uncle Harold remembering nothing, the disappearance of the dress (still Danny sat, silent), the Lego house and grey shorts and Uncle Harold on the floor.

'Wait here.' Danny scrambled to his feet and left the room.

Stella heard him running upstairs, a pause, and then entering Uncle Harold's room.

She waited, resting her head against the back of the armchair, taking an occasional sip from her glass.

 

After a while, Stella heard Danny leave Uncle Harold's room, close his door, come back downstairs slowly.

There was a pause before he re-entered the living room. Coming around Stella's chair, he squatted down in front of her and reached for one of her hands. One look at his face told Stella all she had feared.

He didn't believe her.

She took a deep breath. 'Don't tell me. Uncle Harold has no memory of Lego houses?'

Danny looked fixedly at their entwined hands. He cleared his throat.

'Uncle Harold is fine. Sitting in his chair, reading his book. I - um' another slight clearing of the throat 'I didn't see any Lego or - or any shorts.'

'Bastards' muttered Stella, under her breath.

'Sorry?'

'I'm sure you didn't.'

Poor Danny. He looked so uncertain - worried, but wary of upsetting her. Stella felt so sorry for him. She wasn't going to let whatever had happened - was happening - in this house destroy them. She squeezed his hand, and stood up.

'Right. Time I prepared supper.'

Danny stood up also. 'Are you sure you feel up to it?'

'Danny, I'm fine. I feel much better,' and, after a pause, 'thank you.'

He looked awkward. 'What for?'

Stella leaned forward and kissed his cheek. 'For being you.'

She smiled at him and headed for the kitchen.

 

It was a real effort to get supper together but Stella forced herself to concentrate.

She must have been in and out of the fridge several times before she noticed the scrap of paper pinned to its door alongside the lists, notes and admonitory magnets.

It was a drawing of a stick woman with blonde curly hair in a pink dress under a green half apron.

Stella's first instinct was to call Danny. She'd heard him go upstairs to change out of his work clothes. But what were the chances of it having disappeared again by the time he arrived? Stella wasn't prepared to risk that. Instead, her mouth set in a grim line, Stella carried on preparing supper, glancing occasionally at the drawing.

When Danny appeared in the kitchen ten minutes later, Stella checked the fridge door.

It was still there!

'Danny!' Stella pointed to the fridge. 'Now do you believe me?'

He looked where she was pointing, his eyes scanning the various items affixed to the door.

'There!' insisted Stella, 'the child's drawing!'

He looked more closely.

'It wasn't there until this evening' she finished triumphantly.

Danny nodded slowly, but didn't say anything. Stella's smile started to fade.

'You do believe me, don't you?' she asked falteringly.

He hesitated.

'Danny?'

'Stella, I want to believe you, but -'

'But?'

He sighed. 'But you could have done it yourself. To convince me - about all the earlier stuff.'

Stella shrank back against the kitchen cupboards, unable to speak. If only, her mind kept repeating, if only I was making it up. She turned round to lean on the work surface, her eyes blurring with tears.

'Stella -' Danny came up behind her and tried to put his arms around her. She shook him off.

'Stella. You don't suppose all this is...'

'Is what?' she said, vehemently.

'Is something to do with not having children?'

Stella turned back to gaze at Danny in disbelief, eyes wide above tear-stained cheeks.

'Inventing - imagining - children's things? To compensate?'

She stared at him.

'To compensate?'

Danny looked down at his feet. 'I'll lay the table for dinner' he said quietly.

Stella didn't bother to reply.

 

Dinner was an uncomfortable affair.

It took Danny a while to assist Uncle Harold downstairs, but Stella waited until they were both settled in their chairs before bringing the food through, having primly rejected Danny's offer of help. With others there, the dining room felt normal enough - but Stella couldn't sit anywhere near the corner between the fireplace and the window. It gave her the creeps.

Danny must have said something to Uncle Harold, because each took great pains to compliment her cooking. Eventually, Stella snapped.

'Oh do stop. It's nothing special!'

The crestfallen looks on their faces stabbed her to the core - but she was too bewildered and injured to summon the grace to apologise.

 

For the first time in all their years of married life, Stella turned her back on Danny when she lay down in bed.

She hardly slept.

Danny couldn't have slept much either. He looked grey and drawn the next morning.

Very few words were exchanged as she gave him his breakfast. He couldn't quite look her in the eye when he left for work. He forgot to kiss her goodbye.

Stella felt as if her heart was starting to break.

 

Once she had given Uncle Harold his breakfast, Stella returned to the kitchen, pulled out a stool and sat by the counter nursing a cup of cooling coffee, staring blindly out of the window.

Her mind was reeling.

What was going on? Why was Uncle Harold sometimes part of it? Why couldn't Danny see any of it? Why was it just her? Was she imagining everything? What would happen to them?

 

She had lost all track of time when the brief but distinct impression of a small hand tentatively stroking her arm roused her. She hadn't been aware of weeping.

The memory of the hand was oddly comforting.

Gathering herself together, she went upstairs to check on Uncle Harold. Approaching his door, she heard murmuring. She knocked but, receiving no response, went in.

Uncle Harold was on the floor again, this time rocking gently in time with what he seemed to be chanting, '..sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G...'

Stella stopped abruptly. She recognised it - a traditional playground song, one that had evolved over the years as new children learned and adapted it. Why on earth would Uncle Harold...?

Stella let out a slow breath.

The television was on, but turned down. It took a moment to register it was tuned to CBeebies. She closed her eyes.

So it went on.

Opening them again, she saw the Lego house on the floor by Uncle Harold's thigh. It looked complete. With a miniature, dark tree in the garden. She drew closer. There was something in the tree - two somethings. Something red and white, and something blue and grey.

The colour drained from Stella's face.

Suspended in the miniature tree were the tiny figures of a blond-headed girl in a red pinafore and white blouse, and a brown-haired boy in a blue top and grey shorts.

They seemed to be hanging by their arms from the branches. There was a pool of red on the ground below their feet.

Stella felt light-headed.

Uncle Harold droned rhythmically in the background. Groping for a chair, she sank into it.

Something dreadful had taken place here, in this house. She was convinced of it now.

Something appalling that involved the two children. And the tree.

She couldn't go on living here without finding out what had happened. Her nerves were shredding. Her marriage was unravelling.

It had to stop.

Uncle Harold's monotonous droning reminded Stella of something... monastic chant? Which reminded her of something she'd read about the solution to bad atmospheres and ghosts - exorcism. Stella wouldn't call herself religious, but she had a faith of sorts - and she was now absolutely certain she had ghosts.

Pushing herself up from the chair, she skirted Uncle Harold and the Lego house. Going down to the study, she got hold of the Phone book, the Thomson Local Area Directory and the Yellow Pages. Little point in looking under 'Exorcism'. Instead, Stella tried 'Churches' and was directed to 'Places of Worship.' She had a vague memory exorcism was more the expertise of the Catholic Church - but how to tell which was Catholic and which wasn't? In the end, she selected the three churches nearest Drake Close, and began telephoning.

Her second call, to St Michael and all Angels, brought success. It was a Catholic church - and when Stella explained, hesitantly, the purpose of her call, the woman she was talking to didn't sound surprised.

'Ah, you need to speak with Father Jeremy about that' she said confidently. 'I'll just put you through.'

Stella gave Father Jeremy a brief outline of the problem. It turned out Father Jeremy didn't do exorcisms - but he knew a man who did. It would be his pleasure to introduce Stella to his colleague, Father Tony, if she cared to arrange a day and time.

'Would it be possible very soon?'

'Well now, I don't see why not. I'll give Father Tony a call and let you know. It's urgent then, is it?'

'Yes' said Stella grimly.

Having given Father Jeremy her details, Stella replaced the receiver and sank back against the study armchair, closing her eyes.

At last someone believed her.

 

She sat bolt upright - hadn't Jake and thingummy - Ted - said something about Drake Close being a different name on Ted's old maps? What was it? Stella tried to picture them standing at the door, having the conversation with her. Lead... Let - Lethe, that was it. Could it have had something to do with what happened? How could she find out?

A library. They should have newspapers and archives for the area. She looked up the details of the nearest one. With a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, she dialled the number.

After several rings, a bored-sounding voice answered.

Stella nervously explained her need to find out about any dramatic events that had taken place in the local area in the past. It came across as prurient. She tried to elaborate that she wanted to know why the road's name had been changed.

The bored voice sounded, if possible, more bored. What year was she interested in?

Feeling increasingly foolish, Stella had to confess she didn't know which year it was - she thought it might be in the 1950s or early 1960s.

'You don't know the event and you don't know the year?' queried the voice with exaggerated patience.

'Yes, but I was hoping it might be possible to find something out based on the location,' Stella said humbly. She was surprised to find herself close to tears.

'Try the Internet' declared the voice brusquely, and the line went dead.

Well, thanks, thought Stella.

They didn't have a computer set up in the house yet - one of the many jobs Danny had lined up for his weekends. Well, she would try the Internet. She'd just have to find somewhere nearby to use it.

She'd do it now.

Stella walked purposefully into the hallway - and paused by the bottom of the stairs.

She realised she should tell Uncle Harold she was going out, but would he be in a fit state to understand? Besides, she felt a great reluctance to go back into his room if that ghastly Lego tableau was still in place.

In fact, she was feeling a growing reluctance to being in the house on her own - or effectively on her own, with Uncle Harold going quietly doolally upstairs.

She opened the cloakroom door to get her coat. The entire roll of loo paper had been bandaged over, around and under the loo and the basin, as if two inanimate, ceramic objects had been badly injured. Breathing fast, she snatched her coat off the hook and slammed the door shut.

Handbag. Her handbag was in the kitchen. She would have to go past the dining room door. Very suddenly, Stella knew she didn't want to go past the dining room door.

But she had to.

She put her coat on, an extra layer of defence. Clenching her fists, lowering her head, eyes narrowed to slits, she charged down the hallway and veered right into the kitchen, hauling the door shut behind her.

Breathing hard now, she risked a quick glance around.

Everything seemed okay.

She found her bag - and realised everything wasn't okay. It was the middle of the day - but the room was getting darker. She looked outside.

Through the window, the tree was trembling and growing and advancing branches towards the house. Towards the kitchen window. Towards her.

Stella rushed to the kitchen door, wrenched it open and ran through.

Facing her, the dining room door pulsed with menace.

In abject fear, Stella almost ran back into the kitchen - but the tree was there. Whimpering with terror, she forced herself past the dining room door, pressed against the far wall, around the corner, and ran for her life to the front door, convinced at any second Triffid-like tendrils would come snaking along the corridor to wrap themselves around her and drag her back.

She didn't stop until she was outside the front gate. Shivering uncontrollably in the weak sunshine, Stella turned to face the house.

Uncle Harold. Had he heard the slam of the front door? Would he be worried?

Would he be safe?

She looked up at his window. It stared blankly back at her.

With a last, body-twisting shiver, she turned and set off down the road.

 

The fifteen minutes it took her to reach the high street calmed her down a little. She entered the first internet café she came across and, having armed herself with a cappuccino, sat down in front of a machine. Taking a deep breath, Stella typed '39 Drake Close' on the Google Home Page and clicked. She scrolled down the page, but none of the suggestions seemed to apply to their road. She wasn't surprised. Clearing the box, she typed in '39 Lethe Close'.

A flurry of articles sprang up.

Leaning in towards the screen, Stella scanned the headlines - 'Infamous Murders of the 1950s', 'Murder of the Innocents', 'A Mother's Tragedy' - and a curious one, 'Korean War claims more victims.' All mentioned 39 Lethe Close.

It was true.

With trembling fingers, she clicked on 'Murder of the Innocents'.

Taking another deep breath, Stella began to read:

'The horrific deaths of little Rose and George Wilkinson at the hands of their neighbour Reginald Fetherston was a tragedy waiting to happen, according to experts in children's affairs. Few will have forgotten the grim details of the story...'

Rose had been eight, her little brother George five. They were bright and cheerful children despite an upbringing the neighbours and authorities clearly disapproved of.

Their mother, Nancy, by all accounts a flighty young woman, had been left in the lurch by her husband when the children were four and one. Nancy was forced to work part-time to make ends meet. But she had also taken to going out with 'fancy men' according to these same neighbours, leaving the children on their own for long periods of time.

Rose was often spotted trotting along to the local shops to buy something for them to eat. Occasionally neighbours took pity on them and dropped off pies or cakes. They didn't like to interfere after one had tried to have a word with Nancy, and had been roundly told to mind her own business.

The children were forced to entertain themselves, playing in their back garden, kicking balls, skipping, and climbing the yew tree which hung over the fence from the garden of the neighbour who backed on to them, Reginald Fetherston.

Reginald Fetherston was a loner, an unfriendly man who kept himself very much to himself. It emerged he was one of the few survivors of the catastrophic battle of Imjin in the Korean War, an experience which would have affected him deeply. It was believed he had inherited the house from a distant relative, but apparently showed little interest in it or in the large garden surrounding it. This became a wilderness, which attracted several of the local children until they were chased off by Fetherston shouting at them and waving what one of the children described as a 'large knife'.

It was known that on several occasions the Wilkinson children had accidentally sent balls or other toys over the fence, and had risked climbing the tree to slip into Fetherston's garden and retrieve them.

According to Reginald Fetherston's own submission presented at his trial, on the afternoon of Saturday 17th March, 1956, George kicked his new football into Fetherston's garden. He climbed into the yew and jumped down into the wilderness to retrieve it. Fetherston spotted him and raced out of his house, shouting at George and brandishing his weapon.

George dropped the ball and scrambled up over the tree and back into their garden where Rose was waiting for him.

Fetherston climbed up the tree after him.

The children retreated into the house. Fetherston pursued them.

He cornered them in the dining room and stood over them, threatening to kill George.

Rose stepped forward to protect her brother, apparently holding out her hands in supplication.

On a violent impulse, Fetherston slashed at her, slicing her hands off at the wrist.

As she fell back against the wall, he reached past her and grabbed George, hauling him to his feet. He ordered George to hold his arms out.

Presumably in deep shock, George did as he was told.

Fetherston removed his hands with a single stroke.

In a macabre final gesture, Fetherston dragged both children out into their garden. He lifted and positioned them in the branches of the yew, tying them there with Rose's skipping rope as a lesson to other children who might consider trespassing. He then climbed back up the tree himself and disappeared into his house.

Suspended in the yew, the blood draining out of their severed arteries, it was assumed the children were too traumatised to call for help.

By the time their mother finally came home that evening, both children had been dead for several hours.

 

Tears coursed down Stella's cheeks. Her chest was so constricted with emotion she could hardly breathe.

'You okay?'

The manager of the café was standing next to her, looking at her in some concern.

Stella waved vaguely at the screen in explanation and tried to nod reassurance. She couldn't speak. Searching in her handbag for tissues, she suddenly remembered Uncle Harold.

How long had she been away? Stella checked her watch - but couldn't remember when she'd left the house. She was supposed to be looking after him, not abandoning him like those poor, poor children.

Quickly mopping her face and blowing her nose, Stella stood up and gathered her bag.

She waved brief thanks at the café manager as she left, and marched purposefully home, her head spinning with horrific images and fierce outrage.

 

The house seemed unusually still as she approached, as if feigning innocence. Stella unlocked the door and entered, throwing her bag onto the radiator shelf in the hall. She ran up the stairs and knocked on Uncle Harold's door. No answer. She opened the door quietly in case he was sleeping, and went in.

He wasn't there.

Her heart starting to thump, she glanced quickly around the room. The Lego house had moved from the floor. It now sat in the centre of the table by the window. As if by a magnetic force, Stella was drawn towards it. The miniature tree was still in the garden - and now a third figure hung suspended in its branches.

Stella gasped with horror as she recognised it.

She fled out onto the landing, grabbing hold of the banister rail for support. Sucking in gulps of air, she willed herself to calm down. It was an illusion, that was all. Uncle Harold was probably in the bathroom.

But the bathroom was empty.

Running down the stairs, her heart beating wildly now, she checked the study and the sitting room.

Empty.

She ran down the corridor into the kitchen.

No one there.

With an effort of will, Stella turned to look at the tree. It looked back at her, waiting.

The garden. Uncle Harold might be in the garden! Stella peered out of the kitchen window. She couldn't quite see far enough round the corner beyond the dining room, to where they'd put out a couple of chairs.

She would just have to go outside to check. She walked through the back door, leaving it ajar. Crossing the bricked area behind the house, something bright caught her eye, half hidden in the weeds by the wall. She went over to see what it was - and found a child's multicoloured skipping rope.

'Oh no, no, no' Stella moaned as she picked it up, closing her eyes against the ghastly images it conjured.

She tried to continue on, but her attention was grabbed by a red football rocking gently on the ground by the fence as if it had recently landed there. Stella stared at it, appalled. Around her the whole garden seemed to distend and contract. It was as if she were racing back through time to the events of that ghastly afternoon...

A loud rustling made her look up into the tree. The branches were swaying violently.

Somebody was climbing through.

Stella cried out in panic and raced for the back door, slamming it behind her, struggling to lock it. She heard the thud of someone landing on the ground, then heavy footsteps approaching the door. She fled through the kitchen and out into the corridor, aiming for the front door.

The dining room door was open. From inside came the sound of children whimpering with fear. Stella lurched to a halt. She hesitated momentarily.

Loud thuds at the back door heralded the splintering of wood.

Stella rushed into the dining room. She could sense rather than see the small, terrified bodies in the corner between the fireplace and the window.

'It's all right, my darlings, it's all right,' she tried to soothe them in a voice trembling with emotion. 'I'm here. I'll look after you.'

A loud crack from the kitchen sent her wheeling around, backing towards the corner, her arms held out protectively behind her. Something was advancing towards the dining room.

Fury overcame Stella's fear. 'Go away!' she shouted, 'GO AWAY!'

The thing kept coming. It crossed the hallway. She heard it enter the dining room.

A palpable presence was making its way towards her, indistinct shifting shadows, oozing evil intent. A wave of terror and anger surged through her.

Backing further into the corner, she screamed at it 'No! I won't let it happen again! It won't happen again!'

She had a strong sensation of being tugged forward - and felt small arms clinging to her from behind. It was trying to suck the children out past her.

'No! NO! NO!' Stella screamed at the top of her voice, 'LEAVE THEM ALONE! LET - THEM - GO!'

She was struggling with all her strength to hold on to the small bodies she could feel pressed up against her. The tugging grew perceptibly more forceful. The children were being dragged from her grasp. Sobbing with desperation, Stella threw herself forward.

'Take me! Take me instead! Leave them alone!'

There was the briefest pause - before she was sucked into a maelstrom of violence and pain and despair.

She was being torn apart.

 

'In the Name of the Lord God Almighty, I command you: Release her!'

A figure in black stood in the doorway, a cross held high before him.

'In the Name of the Lord God Almighty, in the Name of His Precious Son, Jesus Christ, I command you: Return to the damnation from whence you came, never to return again.'

A shrieking whirlwind of fractured images tumbled and span, siphoning off into a thin dark spiral of smoke. A great, yawning groan reverberated through the house. Then, silence.

 

Stella lay in a heap on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. She was vaguely aware of muttered prayers continuing nearby. She didn't have the strength to raise her head.

Uncle Harold's anxious face appeared above her.

'Stella! My dear girl! Are you all right?'

Stella struggled to sit up. Uncle Harold, with an effort, sat down beside her. She leant against him and started to weep.

 

Over cups of tea liberally dosed with brandy, it emerged that Uncle Harold had been invited over for tea by an elderly neighbour he'd met on his constitutionals. Realising Stella wasn't in the house, he'd left her a note on the radiator cover in the hall. When he returned, Father Tony was waiting, most concerned that he should see Stella. Uncle Harold had opened the door to let him in, at which point they'd both heard the screams from the dining room.

 

Stella slowly accompanied Father Tony to the door, leaning on his arm for support. She felt as if she'd been knocked over by a juggernaut.

'I can't thank you enough for coming when you did.'

He turned to smile at her, 'You're a brave woman, Stella.'

Stella hesitated, trying to find the words for what was uppermost in her mind.

'Is it - has it all gone? Forever?'

'Forever' Father Tony reassured her.

'The house will be normal?'

'The house will be normal.'

'And - and the children? Have they gone forever too?'

'Ah, now, that I couldn't say. My prayers weren't against them as such, but if you'd like me to -'

'No. No, thank you.' Stella smiled quickly up at him, 'I'm sure it will be fine now.'

He smiled back at her. 'It would be a pleasure to see you whenever you want to talk about it.'

'Talk about what?' Danny appeared at Father Tony's elbow, looking curiously from one to the other.

'Ah. You must be Mr Curtis. I'm Father Tony O'Donnell.' He held out his hand to shake Danny's. 'Your wife here has a great deal to tell you, so I won't keep you both.'

He paused, looking again at Stella. 'She's a rare woman, Mr. Curtis.'

They watched in silence as Father Tony headed off down the road. He waved briefly. As if released from a spell, Danny turned to look at his wife.

'Stella? What's been going on?'

She slipped her arm through his, 'Come in. I'll tell you everything.' She drew him into the house and closed the door.

 

It took Stella the best part of three days to recover, with Danny taking a couple of days off work to look after her and Uncle Harold until she managed to convince him she was fine.

He offered to sell the house and find somewhere else for them all to live, but she wouldn't hear of it. The whole feel of the house had changed. It was sunnier, lighter, no longer brooding. Stella could even go into the dining room without feeling fear.

As for the tree, one of Danny's first tasks during his unexpected two days at home had been to saw off all the branches overshadowing their garden. It now looked what it was, an ordinary, elderly, severely pruned yew.

 

A few days later Stella was standing at the kitchen sink, washing up, when she felt a small arm snake around her right leg and a small head rest against her right hip.

'Hello sweetie' she murmured, smiling.

She stripped off her Marigolds.

'Why don't we make a cake?'

 

 

Copyright © 2009, Rosalind Teesdale-Ives. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

Posted 17/04/2009 10:33:50 by Darren Turpin with 25 comments.