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

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СКАЧАТЬ one if someone had had the foresight to leave the right materials.

      Wandering about the cellars of this creepy, half-arsed house in the dead of night was not her idea of fun. The simple solution would have been to phone Bob, but she had already disturbed him the previous night and, besides, she wanted to show the house it couldn’t beat her, ridiculous though the thought was. With Buster at her heels, she took a breath, went for the torch and followed its beam to the cellar door.

      Cheryl kept the cellar locked, just in case Gordon went for a wander. The key was on a hook near the top of the architrave. It was a heavy old key and the lock was stiff but it gave in to Maura’s efforts and allowed her to open the door. The cellar greeted her with a waft of stale air that held the tang of mould; it was clear that damp and decay had taken hold down in the bowels of the house. It wasn’t surprising – everything about the place seemed to be on its last legs. The place was like a spiteful old man, glorying in self-neglect and festering with discontent. Much like its owner now she came to think about it.

      Buster was not perturbed by this new adventure at all and bolted down the stairs full of enthusiasm for this new space and its new sensations. ‘Buster!’ Maura hissed, wondering why she was being quiet when she knew damned well it would take a full-frontal attack by mortar shell to rouse Gordon from his drugged slumber. The dog was gone. He had gleefully disappeared into the rambling tunnels and rooms of the cellar, exploring nooks and crannies the torch beam only hinted at.

      ‘Shit!’ Maura said as she reached the bottom and searched for him with her ribbon of light. Scanning up she could see that the cellar was lit, but only when the circuit was working. Buster would either come back of his own accord, or she could search for him with the lights on. Either way she needed to fix the fuse first.

      Though she had recovered from the fright of the bulb blowing, her heart was still trying to find its normal rhythm and her imagination was still trying to hamper her confidence. Too many teenage years watching horror films had fuelled it with unknown horrors, and her subconscious held threats her rational mind could only shake its head at.

      ‘Get a bloody grip, woman!’ she said, training the torch beam on the fuse box and wondering why the thing wasn’t in a museum. It seemed Bob had done his best to make sense of the beast, or more like several beasts – there were four separate boxes and two meters, all looking as if they had been tacked on as afterthoughts. Fortunately, someone had labelled all the chunky Bakelite fuses so that it wasn’t too difficult to locate the one that had blown. In his wisdom Bob had also left a card of fuse wire and a pair of snips resting on top of the first meter. Maura blew a kiss into the dank air and said ‘Bless you, Bob’.

      It was a fiddly job by torchlight and she had no idea which thickness of wire to use. Too thin and it might blow again, too thick and she might overload it and burn the house down. Deciding to take the centre ground, she plumped for the one in the middle and silently cursed Estelle Hall for her frugality. It was 2015 (for goodness’ sake) but Essen Grange seemed to be clinging on to the Dark Ages and still marvelling at Edison’s ingenuity. With her repair complete and the fuse reinserted into its slot, she climbed the stairs and flipped the light switch, breathing a huge sigh of relief when the lights came back on. Bob would be proud, but she’d need him to check she’d used the right amperage wire, and she’d also need to find his dog. ‘Buster, come on boy, biscuits…’

      The mention of biscuits, a word that clearly had a resonance associated with pleasure for the dog, seemed to do the trick and he bounded out of the shadows and ran up the steps, straight past her and towards the kitchen. ‘Attaboy,’ she said with a smile. After locking the cellar door and replacing the key, she turned into the hall and stood in the centre, sticking one finger up at the house and poking her tongue out in a gesture of childish contempt at its efforts to thwart her.

      The light from the kitchen passageway helped but it still took the torch to show her why the bulb had exploded. Water had dripped down from the light fitting. It occurred to her that the guest bathroom she’d used was situated above the kitchen and that something had leaked. Bugger! She dare not try and replace the bulb until she knew whether it was her own carelessness that had caused it, or whether it was a genuine leak that would need to be fixed. It wasn’t dripping any more, but a puddle of water had mingled with the broken glass on the table. She couldn’t see where the rest of the glass might have landed, and Buster was mooching about the room and snuffling. All she needed now was a dog with glass stuck in his paws.

      The biscuit jar was near the door and she managed to lure him into the passageway with a hobnob, relieved to see he wasn’t limping or trailing blood. But he did have something in his mouth, which he gladly gave up in exchange for the treat.

      Maura picked up the mouldering teddy bear, damp from the dog’s saliva, and wondered why on earth she hadn’t noticed it when he’d run past her up the cellar steps. She’d been too busy feeling relieved that she’d fixed the lights to notice much. The bear was a sorry-looking thing, bald in places and with a single loose eye that dangled above a much-darned woollen nose. It also stank of mould and was a little green around the gills. Buster seemed to have taken quite a shine to it, but for all Maura knew it was a much-loved family heirloom, so giving it to the dog to be enthusiastically disembowelled was probably not a good idea. Buster was easily fobbed off with another biscuit and allowed his newfound friend to be taken to the downstairs cloakroom where Maura sponged him down with a damp flannel, squirted him with a bit of air freshener and set him to dry on the radiator.

      With that she locked the kitchen-passage door and made her way up to bed, Buster padding behind her – she was way beyond wanting coffee. Cheryl might have made warning about where the dog could sleep, but as far as Maura was concerned, what Cheryl didn’t know couldn’t worry her. Anyway, the smell of dog on her bed had to be marginally preferable to the smell of camphor, and one warm body was as good as another when you were alone in a house that was doing its damnedest to freak you out.

      She’s left the upstairs lights on this time, and she’s kept the dog with her. Clever girl, but not clever enough. There have been interesting developments today. I’ve been quietly flitting between the house and building site to see what was going on. Predictable that the police made the Grange their first port of call, and interesting that the detective lingered outside looking so tense while he smoked his cigarette. Something had puzzled him about the house, and it wasn’t just the body in the orchard. I wonder if he spotted it, the inconsistency? Most don’t. They just know the house is all wrong, but they can’t say why. The nurse shut the door in his face. Interesting indeed. Those two have a history they can’t hide, even from each other, and certainly not from me. Not that I care. I see everything.

      A few more days and it will be time to put the wheels in motion – but this time not with a rock thrown in temper but with something much more intrusive. Something deadly. Something put in motion not by me, but by them, by their sins.

Chapter Eight

      The morning had gone well: no more water had leaked onto the table, she’d found all the glass, the porridge had been Goldilocks-perfect, and so far the house hadn’t sabotaged her. Bob was coming to check her dodgy fuse repair, Cheryl was due any minute, and Buster was happily sniffing around the garden finding a choice spot for his ablutions. Maura was about to smile when the screaming began.

      It was Gordon’s habit to retire to the cloakroom for a precise half hour after his breakfast before he required help with washing and dressing. He’d been in there barely a minute when he started to holler. ‘Get it out. Get it away from me!’

      The sight of an elderly, thin and distressed man sitting on a toilet with his pyjama bottoms around his ankles was more than Maura could stand after the day had started so well. ‘What’s the matter? Mr Henderson, Gordon, calm down, СКАЧАТЬ