The Forgotten Room: a gripping, chilling thriller that will have you hooked. Ann Troup

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      Maura was not nosy by nature, but it was hard to resist poking around at least a little bit – if only to find out more about the mysterious Estelle Hall. Her lack of curiosity had probably contributed to some of the naiveté that had led her into trouble before; she should learn to ask more questions instead of charging into things full of bravado. However, if she was going to spend weeks in this house, she wasn’t prepared to put up with prison-issue bathroom facilities. In pyjamas and dressing gown, her hair still damp and Buster trailing behind her in a benign, hangdog fashion, she decided to enter forbidden territory and explore Estelle Hall’s rooms. Cheryl had made it perfectly clear they were off limits, but Cheryl didn’t have to bathe in a bathroom that should have been in a museum, or entertain herself in a house that raised more questions than answers.

      God knew why she was creeping about and trying to be quiet; it wasn’t as if Gordon would hear her, or care what she was up to. He only cared about his own few square feet of the house and acted as if anything outside of his room didn’t exist – which to him it probably didn’t. Neither was it likely that Cheryl, with thunderous face, would suddenly materialise to wreak revenge for her instructions having been ignored. Even Buster didn’t care and was just curious, sniffing at the door in anticipation of a new room to explore.

      It was a disappointing powder-puff-and-cut-crystal boudoir, décor circa 1950, and much like Maura’s room, except this one was pale blue. The most surprising thing was the lack of personal items; the room was almost as generic as the other bedrooms with only the addition of a few nondescript old photographs and a silver-backed hairbrush to say it belonged to anyone. She had the impression that perhaps Estelle had felt like a guest too and had never felt she belonged enough to stamp her personality on the room. Either way, it wasn’t any of Maura’s business really, yet it felt sad and lonely and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow for the woman. The lack of stuff was odd, though.

      The en-suite was small, ran off the same water supply, and was no better than the bathroom she was already using – another disappointment. For a woman who didn’t stint on wages or private medical care, it seemed that Miss Estelle Hall was very frugal in every other area of life. She had spent no money on the house. Perhaps because it was Gordon’s money and she felt an overweening sense of responsibility for it? Or perhaps she was just plain stingy. It wouldn’t have killed them to install modern plumbing, or deal with the creaking floorboards that seemed to constantly heave with discomfort above her head. It was the kind of sound that might make someone of a nervous disposition fret they were not alone in the house, but Maura’s nerves were lying dormant, dulled by depression. She ignored the sounds and gritted her teeth against any further thought of them.

      With a sigh she walked from the room, calling a reluctant Buster to come with her. Something in the wardrobe had caught his attention and he was sniffing around the door with stubborn focus. ‘Come on, dog!’ Maura urged, but he was having none of it and she was forced to drag him away by the collar and shut the door to keep him out. God knew what was in there that had fascinated him so much. She was tempted to go back and look but felt she had intruded enough.

      He followed her down the stairs with a detachment only dogs seemed able to manifest; once away from the object of his curiosity he was quite happy to move on. Maura envied him and wished she had the same ability. Moving on appeared not to be her strong point despite her best efforts and belief in mind over matter.

      Gordon had fallen asleep in front of the TV and was slack-jawed and slumped in his chair. Even though there was a narrow single bed in the room, he refused to use it for anything other than an extra shelf for the magazines and newspapers he loved to hoard. Maura shook her head, switched the TV off and covered him with a blanket. She might not be able to persuade him to use the bed, but she could prevent him from freezing. He wasn’t fabulously stable on his feet, but he was mobile, so at least she didn’t have to worry about pressure sores – just falling.

      The chain on the outside of the door still bothered her, and the story about his night wandering seemed to be a myth. With the sleeping tablets and plethora of other sedative medication, it was unlikely he’d wake until the next morning, or be able to move if he did. Sod it. She made an executive decision and left it off. With all the other downstairs doors locked he wouldn’t get far, even if he did surprise her and have a midnight mooch.

      It wasn’t even nine o’clock, too early to go to bed, and she wanted a cup of coffee. Politeness had forced her to drink Cheryl’s feeble tea, but now she’d been left to her own devices, she needed a cup of the hard stuff. The problem was she’d have to go to the kitchen to get it, and the previous night’s assault was nowhere near the back of her mind yet. Even though Bob had replaced the window with thick glass he’d assured her wouldn’t break and she had Buster, she was still reticent about going in there alone at night.

      Like the coward she was, she urged Buster through the door first and sent him trotting down the passageway with promises of biscuits – not that he understood her, but the encouraging and enthusiastic tone of her voice must have held some hope for him because he launched himself into the kitchen with no qualms at all. Relieved and thankful, Maura followed him in and switched on the light, which flickered and fizzed, plunging the whole downstairs into darkness as the bulb exploded and showered the table in glass. A bullet of terror ricocheted through her body as she clenched every muscle, ready to flee or vomit or pass out…

      The passageway behind her was thick with a darkness that seemed as if it might have texture if she reached out to touch it. But she dared not – it was closing in on her thick and fast. As if to prove it, the air caught in her throat like something meaty and viscous. It tasted of fear and, as Buster wasn’t barking, she knew it was her own.

      The pocket of time since the bulb had blown seemed inordinate. It was as though she had fallen into a dark rabbit hole and was still falling. The dog was too quiet. Everything was too quiet for senses that were notching up to high alert with every slow, extended heartbeat. The part of her brain that had somehow remained free of terror tried to tell her it had been seconds, not minutes, and that she could speak and move if she wanted to.

      The other part, the big, weak, human part, just wanted to stand there for ever while she metaphorically shat herself.

      Buster was having none of it, however. He’d been on the promise of something tasty in that kitchen and so far nothing had been forthcoming. With a needy whine he nudged at her hand with his cold nose, jolting her out of her panic by increasing it, and making her lurch to the side with shock while she emitted a guttural grunt of terror.

      It dawned on her that Buster wasn’t scared. He wasn’t growling or barking or trying to raise the alarm in any way. It was just a bulb that had tripped the circuit. She tried laughing at herself. It was just a blown bulb and if it hadn’t shattered she would be fine. ‘Get a grip, Maura,’ she said out loud, projecting her voice into the darkness and willing it to drive the shadows away. It was just a blown bulb. No one was inside – they couldn’t be. The house was secure even if Maura’s equilibrium wasn’t.

      The only response from the darkness was the sound of Buster panting. She could have sworn the house was having a laugh at her expense. She felt as though the whole place was smirking at her, revelling in the little surprises it was throwing her way. ‘It’s a house, it does not possess sentience,’ she said to Buster, who wagged his tail. ‘So, my little fur buddy, what do we do? Call your master or tackle this ourselves and prove we’re not wimps?’

      Though the passage was pitch-black, the kitchen was not. Watery moonlight was washing the room with thin light and shadows. Maura knew Cheryl kept a torch underneath the sink, and she also knew the electricity consumer unit was situated at the bottom of the stairs in the cellar. Although she hadn’t been down there, Cheryl had thrown the door open on her tour and had mentioned they sometimes had problems with the electrics and that the “fuses” were down there… СКАЧАТЬ