Part One: The First Night
My name is Emily Charlotte Bell. People call me Elli. I am 23 years old, single, scraping by financially as well as professionally, and, as I write this, I am as exhausted as I can ever remember being. Sleep is impossible. My body aches and burns, and the words blur on the page as I write. I should go to bed, just crawl under the covers, and let the night come, but I want to write it down. Write it all down while I still can.
I do not know who will read this, or when. I imagine it will be long after I am gone so it may serve as some indication about what happened, in case anyone gives a shit. I hope so. I would hate to be forgotten. I imagine my ex-boyfriend will be curious, as well as my work colleagues. Not that they are my friends, but they'll notice I'm gone as soon as they are asked to pick up my work. This at least should offer some answers even if it doesn't explain everything.
I wonder how plausible any of this will seem. The final mad ramblings of a woman who was probably crazy. They may be right about that; you be the judge. Sexually frustrated too, I imagine, as I am not going to gloss over that part of my story, far from it. My old English teacher would be horrified. My old priest, too.
As I sit at the narrow desk in my bedroom, looking out into the grey rain-swept street outside my house, the whole thing seems impossible, a wild fevered delusion. I carry the evidence on my skin: the pleasant ache between my legs, the way my skin burns on my breasts and neck. My body is a record of what happened and yet, as the grey normality of the day tightens its hold, I find my resolve slipping. The realist in me knows that the story I am about to tell is unbelievable; not only what I saw but what I did; what I did willingly, eagerly.
I will write it down so that I won't be able to convince myself that it didn't happen. That would be the unbearable thing.
It is difficult to know where to start. The real story began over a century before I was even born but I will start where the story began for me, filling in details as they were revealed, as unsatisfying as that may be to anyone reading. Will anyone read this? I suppose that depends on how the story ends, something I don't yet know. This day is dragging painfully slowly, but it will end, and the night will come. Then I at least will know the resolution, although I probably won't be writing about it.
So, anyway, preamble over. The beginning, at least for me.
One year ago. Halloween night. I realise this is a cliché but the fact it it couldn't have happened any other night.
I work as a reporter for the local newspaper. They took be on as a graduate three years ago and I have never left. I'm solid, if not exceptional. I tend to work late, part commitment to the job but also avoidance. At the time I was five years into a relationship that wasn't doing either of us any good. My boyfriend and I lived together but spent most of our time and effort constructing situations that kept us apart, so it was normal for me to work late. Work was more interesting than home life, and I was always reluctant to give it up for the day.
That night, I overdid it. By the time I had finished work, gossiped with security, waved goodbye to the night shift, and scurried out, I was in time to see my bus pulling away from the stop, cheerfully showing me its back end as it trundled off into the rain.
It was, of course, raining. A full-on autumnal downpour turning my blonde hair black and exposing the lie that my coat was in any way "water resistant." I didn't have money for a taxi, didn't want to explain my position to my boyfriend, and so I did what I though was the next best thing: I jumped on the next bus that presented itself. This at least had the benefit of taking me out of the rain and delivering me some way down the road towards home. My hope was that, by the time the bus got as close to my home as it was ever going to get, the rain would have stopped. I could then call a taxi at a much-reduced price. Fuck it, I thought, I may even walk.
You see, don't you? Already it seems implausible, a series of strange decisions. Well, stick with me dear reader, whoever you are, it gets crazier from here.
I get crazier from here.
The bus was empty, so I moved to the back and took out my book. If you had seen me, I don't believe I would have stood out. Beneath my water-absorbing long coat, I was wearing black leggings, a red corduroy mini skirt and a khaki cotton jumper. My long blonde hair hidden under my hood as I tried not to drop water onto the paperback I was reading. At the time I was 23 years old, but I looked younger, as if I was barely out of college. I realise there will come a time when I appreciate this but, when you work for a newspaper, it doesn't help if you resemble a student on work experience.
Of course, growing old might not be a problem for me, but I get ahead of myself.
The bus dropped me off just before the turn-off for the dual carriageway that would have taken me home. The bus driver slid open the doors and, offering me a look of pity as I stepped out, pulled away and headed off into the night.
It was still raining so that part of my plan hadn't worked. It was four miles to home, and I know I should have just swallowed my pride and called my boyfriend. I reasoned that it was just after midnight and he would be asleep, but the truth was that I was imagining the roll of his eyes, the "what are you like, Em?" comment that always needles. The fact is, in that moment, even as I saw the bus vanish over a rise in the eerily deserted road, I preferred the rain to the embarrassment of a rescue.
Of course there is another possibility, one that I should at least acknowledge even though I don't like to. There is enough of the objective journalist remaining that I should at least write it down: it is possible that I was simply following a path that night, answering a call, a summons. That would at least explain some of my decisions, but my mind baulks at the idea, at the removal of responsibility. I refuse to accept it. I was in the right place at the right time, and everything else that happened was my decision. Written down like that, I can almost believe it.
I made my way-- hood up, head down--along the narrow pavement that fringed the dual carriageway. The road was elevated above the surrounding moorland, shrouded in the darkness at the edge of the road. It was as if I was walking across a bridge suspended over a bottomless chasm. A chain of street-lamps impaled at intervals along the path, casting a cone of sickly yellow light so that I moved from shadow to light, and back to darkness. This was always a pleasurable part of my journey to work: the moorland stretching out on all sides, a gentle rolling swell that gave the landscape the feel of a frozen green sea. Sometimes I would cycle to work so I could experience the full effect of the moor, the musky scent of grassland and heather.
Not that I could smell anything that night, of course. But there was still some pleasure to be found in remembering I was walking through a beautiful part of my world.
One feature of the carriageway that interested me was the curious way that, about two miles from the city, the opposing lanes split and separated in a wide sweeping arc around an empty rise of land, before meeting again at the far side. I had found it curious why the planners had chosen to go the long way round rather than simply barrelling through. I had assumed there was something about the ground itself: sinkholes, instability, something that made them spend money to split the road and go around, leaving the space to remain empty, to grow wild. For two years I had passed by that field and, every day, I had turned my head to look at it. Something about that empty space tickled my curiosity.
It was not empty anymore.
Sitting, surrounded by long wild grass, a large house stood darkly against the night sky. Not just a house, a mansion, occupying a space that, earlier that day, had held nothing but nettles and weeds.
The house was made up of three floors of dark brick, stocky and squat in construction, with the air of a prison or fortress rather than a farmhouse. Narrow windows were set deeply into the walls and, above, gables stabbed upwards into the falling rain.
I stopped, staring at the house as it came into view. My first thought was that I was lost, that this was not the road home. I had been on this road that morning; No house had stood there. No house had ever stood there.
I crossed the empty road, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The windows were a mirror of the black sky, giving nothing away. There was nothing about it that suggested life.
I do not know how long I stood there staring at this impossible house.
There are some decisions I made that night that I find impossible to understand, let alone justify. I always criticise the characters in horror films who act idiotically. Why go down alone to the cellar? Why split up in the woods while the monster is waiting to pick you all off one by one? And, appropriate in this instance, why walk up to an obviously haunted house in the middle of a rainstorm? I could blame my profession; I wouldn't be doing my job if I wasn't an intensely curious person. Some of the greatest journalists have been those who were lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. I used to kid myself that the reason I was writing for a local paper, instead of a national broadsheet, was that nothing interesting every happened to me. Well, here I was, and an impossible house appearing overnight was certainly interesting.
Even as I write this, I know it's not true. I didn't go to the house in search of a scoop. As hard as it is for me to admit, I don't think I had very much choice in the matter. I knew the house should not have been there. I knew its very presence was impossible; I could feel the strangeness radiating out into the night through the downpour. I felt that strangeness like a cold finger tracing its way down my spine. It wasn't just impossible, it was wrong. And yet, despite this, I could not tear my eyes away. Once you catch a glimpse of a different, stranger world, it is difficult to turn your back, returning your attention to the normal familiar reality behind you. That is one lesson I learned that night: once you have experienced the uncanny, reality simply doesn't cut it anymore.
And there is another truth that does not get mentioned enough: characters in a horror film never realise they are in a horror film until it's too late.
I felt suddenly breathless, a strange sense of being underwater, as if the deluge had risen to a level several feet above my head, the sound of the torrent reduced to a dull roar. I could feel the pressure of it in my ears, my heartbeat pounding. I took a step towards the house and the sound of the rain exploded back into my hearing. I gasped for breath, doubling over, taking in great lungfuls of cold air as if I had broken the surface of water after a deep dive.
I still can't explain it, but it didn't stop me wanting to know more.
I climbed the wooden fence bordering the field and walked up to the front of the house.
The door was of dark wood and looked as though it weighed a ton, the knocker a solid iron horseshoe. It made a deep underwater boom as I rapped it sharply against the wood. There was no hesitation in my actions, far from it. I felt a strange eagerness to know.
I do not know how long I stood there, listening to nothing but the cacophony of falling rain on my hood. I do not know how long I would have waited if no one had answered. The possibility of leaving did not occur to me.
Eventually, the sound of movement came from inside the house. Before I could even think about making myself presentable, the door jerked open and a tall dark figure appeared, silhouetted in a warm crack of light. I took a step backwards.
