The Quiet House Read online

a force inside his head. He tried to cry out but couldn’t make any noise.

  When he awoke he felt feverish, his body was shaking and his brow was hot and sweaty. He managed to pick himself out of bed and drag the chest of drawers out of the way of the door. With care he opened it a crack and peered down the stairs. The empty and quiet hall greeted him.

  His limbs shaking, the knife gripped weakly in his fingers, he headed down the stairs. He could feel sweat drip from him. Each step took effort and concentration. He needed to get out of here but where could he go?

  Inspiration struck and, as he reached the last step, he stumbled over to his phone.

  “Sophie...” He said after dialling her number. “Help me.”

  He kept fading in and out of consciousness. Fever dreams began to eat away at him; visions of shadowy people, of whispering voices coming from below, from above, from all around. Ever there was that vision of his bedroom, but with no window and no door, and of him bound to the bed, struggling for freedom.

  When Sophie arrived Joe managed to pull himself together enough to unlock the front door and almost collapsed in her arms. He didn’t remember what she said or what ravings he had told her. He didn’t remember the ambulance being called or being taken to hospital.

  He woke up in the hospital bed. The ward was quiet but it was a natural quiet, broken by gentle snoring, the traffic outside, and the sounds of the hospital at work. Joe pulled himself upright. His mind felt clear, his body felt rested, but he knew that his ordeal was not over. There was work to be done.

  There were visits first. His parents, a few people from work, of course the nurses checked up on him regularly. They were concerned at being unable to find the cause of his terrible fever. But it seemed that Joe was out of the woods. When Sophie came to visit him the two sat in silence for some minutes.

  “You were right.” Joe said. “There’s someone else in my house.”

  “Joe-“ Sophie began but Joe interrupted her.

  “I saw them, I saw them behind my shower curtain. Only the next minute they had gone. I’m not imagining it, I know I’m not. There’s someone living somewhere in my house.”

  “Joe I was being silly, we know that, and you were very ill. You were hallucinating.”

  “I wasn’t ill at that point. I was fine. I saw someone there and the next minute they had gone. There were handprints inside the house this time. The landlords said that no one had been given the spare key. There is someone in my house, Sophie, and I have to find out where they are hiding.”

  Sophie paled, dreading what Joe might ask her. “I don’t want you to search the place.” Joe said quickly. “But there is something I need you to do. I need you to find blueprints for the house. Maybe there’s something I missed. Try and get a hold of the fire insurance documents. They should have a 3D model of the building. I have to know if there’s anywhere I haven’t already searched.”

  “And if there isn’t?”

  Joe swallowed a few times and when next he spoke his voice was hoarse. “Then I have two options. Either I try and record the entire house and catch whoever has been coming in and how they did it. Or I get myself checked out for mental problems.”

  Sophie didn’t return that day and Joe spent his time in bed. For the first time in a long while he felt actually calm and rested. Eventually, as is usually the case, he started to become bored and restless. Fortunately Sophie had the presence of mind to take his phone when he had been checked in. He didn’t want to think more about the house but the dreadful curiosity was too great. He had another look through Father Selmund’s papers. This time he went straight to the most recent one, published months prior to his disappearance. The tone was disquieting, with great emphasis placed on the place of self flagellation, punishing oneself, in pursuit of divine purity.

  It continued with discussions on vows of silence and its similar position. ‘I have been blessed,’ the paper read, ‘to find a location of absolute serenity where I can engage in greater study of these topics.’ Was he talking about the house? Or had he left the house to live in this location? What exactly did he mean by engage in greater study?

  Sophie returned the following afternoon with a number of photocopied documents in her hand. She handed them over with a sad look on her face.

  “There aren’t any secret rooms, Joe. You can see the layout here: cellar, kitchen, bathroom, living room, and bedroom. It’s just those. If there is a... Joe?”

  But Joe just stared at the paper in his hand. He could see it, right there in plain view. “Joe?” Sophie continued, “Do you want me to get the nurse?” Something in his look must have startled her because she rushed out of the room to find someone without another word.

  But when Sophie returned with a duty nurse she found only an empty bed.

  Joe turned down the street and stared at the empty house. Was it fear that propelled him forward? Or was it curiosity or anger? How could no one have checked this? What force prevented them from seeing what was right there in front of them?

  He unlocked the front door and stepped into the house. He kept a box of tools in the kitchen, he grabbed them and headed towards the cellar door. He opened the door and flicked on the light switch.

  There it was, right in front of him, the little cupboard size area. So why did the building plan show it extending right under the bathroom?

  He flew down the stairs and began tapping at the walls. There must be a door, he thought to himself, there must be. Yet his searching hands revealed no switch, no secret handle. But as he tapped the plaster wall he could hear it, that little deep sound that gave away where the wall was thin.

  Joe opened the toolbox and grabbed the biggest hammer he had. He raised it high and smashed it against the wall. Cheap plaster erupted from the hole and the dust filled the air. A stale stench arose from the hole as Joe lifted the hammer once more.

  It took several more blows to unveil a hole big enough to squeeze through but there was a light elation in his heart as the last blow struck. He wasn’t mad, he was right. The room beyond was dark, pitch dark, as though the little light from the bulb in the cellar was just sucked away.

  Joe pulled the torch from the box and flicked it on, stepping into the hidden room as he did. He was not prepared for the sight that awaited him.

  The walls were stained brown, with what Joe did not want to know. There were crucifixes and most of them were stained rust coloured with dried blood. There was a cupboard, a chest of drawers, a bed. It was all laid out exactly as his room on the floors above. Could he really have seen this in his nightmares?

  The stench came from the bed where, with horror, Joe found the late Father Selmund. The body was rotting gently, the flesh shrinking on the man’s bones. He was naked and bound spread-eagled, his wrists and legs tied to the four corners of the bed. His nails were long and sharp and his fingers were long and thin. His eyes were open and stared lifelessly at the ceiling. His mouth was open and, Joe felt his stomach heave, there was just a fleshy stub where his tongue should have been. The bed itself was filthy, stained with all sorts of bodily fluids, and stank like a cesspit.

  Joe tore his gaze from the figure and looked at the rest of the room. Papers were strewn across the floor, Joe picked one up and tried to read it but the scrawls and squiggles were the works of a madman. Maybe there was some code, maybe there were some that made sense, but Joe didn’t want to spend any longer down here than was necessary.

  There was a bowl lying on the chest of drawers with something inside. Despite his revulsion the bowl held a fascination and Joe moved over to get a better look. The vessel was stained dark with blood and, lying in a sticky mess, was a human tongue.

  Joe could feel the bile in his throat. He would have thrown up had he not heard the rustle and movements of sheets. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he turned and pointed the torchlight in the direction of the bed where the body of Father Selmund was rising.

  Arms and legs struggled with the ropes which were now lengthening befo
re Joe’s eyes. The impossible figure was trying to stand on stick thin legs, its limbs twitching. Its eyes stared into Joe’s with a burning hatred and the mutilated mouth tried to speak but only a hiss of pain and anger escaped past the bloody lips. The creature raised its clawed hands and leapt at Joe.