The Quiet House Page 3

evening, as Joe made his way back from work, he could feel himself taking the long route home. He rationalised it by telling himself that he wanted a walk in the fresh air and indeed he did start to enjoy his little jaunt. So as the sun slipped in the sky Joe felt better about the prospect of heading back to his quiet little house. He started laughing quietly to himself as he thought back on the events of the night before. He was letting his nerves get the better of himself and so resolved to act rationally.

  A little of his certainty drained as he turned down the last street that led to his narrow house. He walked purposefully towards his front door and let himself inside. The quiet, close atmosphere met him but he was not going to let himself lose heart. He marched over to his new radio and switched it on. The comforting music starting playing, shattering the disquieting atmosphere and Joe felt himself relax. For a few moments he waited, just in case the radio suddenly switched itself off. After a few minutes, comfortable that the radio was fine, he stepped into the living room.

  Handprints littered the walls. They were pressed against them in dark grease, some of them running as though a hand had been dragged across the wall. They ran along the floor and the ceiling as though someone had crawled on their hands all over the room. It didn’t seem that someone was looking for something, it was almost like finger painting in grease.

  Joe’s mind raced for an explanation. He was the only one in the house. No one else had a key but the landlords. The landlords, that must be it. Perhaps someone had been in to look at the wiring again and had tracked grease over the place. It was the only explanation that made sense but Joe knew that he grasping at straws.

  He decided to phone the landlords in the morning and make sure they knew he would rather they let him know in advance if someone was due to come round for any reason. The rest of his evening passed without incident and Joe slept soundly with only a slight anxious feeling in his gut.

  He phoned the landlords on his way to work the next morning but they insisted that no one had been given the spare key. They kept logs of when the spare keys were used, for security reasons, and his spare key had not been checked out. Joe told them about the handprints but the woman on the phone was unimpressed.

  “Isn’t it possible they’re yours and you forgot about them?” She asked.

  “It doesn’t fit my hand,” Joe said, “Not in any way.”

  “Well I can only think that you did it without realising or else someone you knew has done it. No one but you has had the key to the flat in the past 24 hours.”

  The woman was insistent so Joe tried a different track. “What about the previous tenants? They had no complaints about the place?”

  “The place has been empty for the past sixteen months. The last tenant was a priest.”

  “Is he about? Can I speak to him?”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t been able to get in contact with him. It seems that he simply left one day without any explanation.”

  “And he hasn’t been found?”

  “There was an investigation. There’s not much more I can say but the police reached a satisfactory conclusion.”

  “Can you at least tell me his name?”

  It didn’t take much convincing for her to let him know and a few minutes later Joe said goodbye and had the name Father Peter Selmund to look into. Even if he was unavailable he must have had someone close who knew what happened.

  Joe wasn’t given to supernatural beliefs but he could appreciate that his situation had turned into a Victorian ghost story. The thought made him smile and he made it to work in a cheerful mood. During breaks he managed to do a little investigating into Father Selmund. There was a very small news article regarding his disappearance just over two years ago and months later an even smaller article regarding the legal battle regarding his continued absence and the state of his tenancy. What was odd was the lack of anyone coming forward to speak for him. Either the man had no friends or they didn’t want themselves known.

  Joe did manage to find a little more information about the old priest. He had attended Cambridge where he read theology, a few of his papers had been uploaded online, some of them published within the last few years. Perhaps something in his writings would reflect some insight into the house. It was a long shot, Joe knew, but it made him feel like some sort of detective and that was better than panicking about his quiet house and its mysterious handprints.

  He met Sophie but decided to keep quiet about the new handprint. He didn’t want to panic her, especially since she seemed to have completely recovered from her ordeal. So he focused on his work for the rest of the day and started reading through Father Selmund’s work on his way home.

  Though Joe had studied philosophy himself the theologian’s papers did not hold particular interest. They were mostly on the subject of saints, a little history and discussions on their lives. There was little to suggest anything to do with the house.

  Somewhat disappointed in his investigation Joe headed home. He felt a lightness in his stomach as he walked up the short flight of steps to his front door. He didn’t want to think about what would meet him this time. He recalled Sophie’s words, even though she herself had discarded them later, the feeling that someone was watching her.

  He unlocked the door with trepidation and stepped inside. As was his routine he turned on the radio before anything else. Then, with only a slight hesitation, he headed into the living room.

  The handprints had gone and the walls were clear. Though he was glad to see them gone, the fact that they had vanished brought new fear. Either they had never been there – which called into question Joe’s state of mind – or else someone had been here and wiped the place clean. The landlord had made it clear that no one would be given the key without his knowledge unless it was an emergency. Even if, for some reason, some dirt on the walls constituted an emergency, they had also assured him that they would let him know if anyone had been given the spare key.

  He tried to keep the thoughts from his mind but he couldn’t shake it. He tried reading, watching television, working, he even went back and looked at Father Selmund’s papers but he was too restless to concentrate.

  Eventually it got late enough that he just gave up and decided to head to bed. First, though, he decided to take a quick shower. There was still that strange hum in the bathroom and he made a mental note to check with the landlords if it continued. He pulled the shower curtain across and began to wash.

  A few minutes later he stopped. Someone was standing in the bathroom behind the curtain.

  Joe stood stock still. The silhouette was quite clear. A person was standing there, a few feet from him.

  He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his blood ran cold. Here, naked and vulnerable, he had nothing with which to defend him.

  Yet the silhouette just stood there, presumably staring right at the opaque curtain. Did it move? Did Joe see its arm twitch? It raised an impossibly thin arm and slowly began to uncurl long fingers that stretched out towards the curtain. Joe stood still, unable to move or to make any sound as the malformed shadowed hand moved closer and closer. Joe saw the curtain twitch.

  Joe flung it aside, ready to shout and ready to fight. There was no one there. The door was shut and the room was empty. He looked back behind the shower curtain. The silhouette had vanished. But there had been someone there; Joe could not have mistaken that. Now, though, the room stood empty with nowhere for anyone to hide.

  Joe wasn’t going to take any more of this. He leapt from the shower and threw his clothes on. He ran through the house, turning on lights and turning on music, radios, his TV, anything. Noise blaring he started shouting.

  “I know you’re here! You’d better come out right now!”

  He ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife from one of the drawers. He held it in front of him and started searching every cupboard, every hiding spot, every nook and cranny. All came under close inspection for any sign of his shadowy flatmate.

  “Get out here r
ight now! Come on!” Joe shouted. Blood was pounding in his ears and his body felt light. Any moment he expected someone to leap out from some unforeseen hiding place.

  Yet no figure appeared. The house remained empty. Joe’s pulse was still rapid but fatigue started to set in. His anger, his fury at the house started to dissipate and left only a fear that sat in his stomach like a lead weight. Slowly, carefully, he started to turn off the many appliances until silence descended once more onto the little house. Joe kept his knife close but the fire had gone from him.

  Then a hand descended upon his shoulder, he could feel long pointed nails digging into his skin. He turned round with a yelp, knife raised, to find nothing behind him. The hallway was empty.

  With newfound terror he fled up the stairs to his bedroom. He shut the door and, with a great grunt of effort, pushed a chest of drawers in front it. The window let in the orange streetlights of the city outside and Joe sat on his bed, knife in hand, and stared at the closed door.

  Everything drained away from him in his vigil and the silence drummed in his ears. He strained to hear anything down below but the house was still and empty. He lasted until almost five in the morning when his strength finally gave out and he collapsed on his bed.

  He dreamed of dark rooms filled with the noise of running feet. The sound was so loud it was like