When she was young Sarah Morgan had craved fame, pursued its arbitrary rewards with shameless zeal. Later, she had craved money, seeking refuge in its myriad compensations. Now, with plenty of both, she craved only her youth. Many, of course, pursued this prize once they reached a certain age. They sought it in surgery or believed they could uncover it by dieting or in the formulae of expensive alchemies. In this, Sarah knew, she was no different. Of course, a few went further: those with most to give - or most to lose. They were willing to believe the promises made only to the desperate. Here, though, Sarah was fairly sure she was unique. So it was that, a year to the day after she sealed the bargain, Sarah came again to the old Witch House.
As befitted its name, the house stood alone, away from the town: the final building at the end of a road that eventually became a lane and then a track. Approaching it, Sarah had been acutely aware of how lonely the location was. The twisted, tumbledown building attracted few visitors at the best of times and, as the driver had said, nobody would be fool enough to visit the cursed place on Halloween.
For a long time after he left she watched the taillights of the taxi recede, her eyes slowly adjusting as the night closed about her. She was in no way naive. A lifetime pursuing celebrity in a hundred sleazy agents' offices, a thousand grimy clubs, had taught her that all lunches have a cost. Indeed, the cost of this one had not been kept from her. So, as she stood uneasily at the gateway, it was not her ability to pay that made her pause, but her willingness to meet the cost.
The driveway was long, and the grounds overgrown, but she could just make out the building in the distance: its shape a dark shadow through the trees. She stared, discomfited, for some time, but creeping fear of her complete isolation made even the bleak comfort of the house preferable to standing in the dark woods. Finally, she crossed through the gate into the grounds.
It was clear that the driveway had seen no recent use; its pockmarked surface was littered with fallen branches and slick with leaf litter, making her path treacherous. Worse, the approach obscured her view of the house, its gambrel roof only occasionally visible above the trees, increasing her feeling of loneliness. Not for the first time she wondered what she was doing.
Gradually, by degrees, she became aware of something else, a strange unnatural stillness that seemed to follow her. Something was watching her from the dark. Eyes flicking, she glanced around: the twisting vegetation became sinister, crowding her, full of shadowed hiding places. Nothing. She looked for the roof, guessed she was about halfway between house and road. Somewhere nearby a bird croaked discordantly and she jumped, heart racing. It broke the tension and she made more quickly along the driveway. The wind had picked up now, hissing through the trees like an angry cat and occasionally striking her with cold, heavy spots of rain. The sense of being watched grew stronger. Ahead she could just make out a light near the house.
Behind her something ran across the drive: bushes snapped, the sound of clawed feet. She spun around, lost her footing in the dark and fell. She had the impression of something black disappearing from view but it was gone too quickly to see properly. Slowly she pushed herself to her feet, moving backward. Whatever it was, she could feel it still out there, hostile and malignant. She tried to walk faster, her heeled shoes twisting and threatening to throw her to the floor with each step. The thing followed; she sensed it marking her course, urging her on. Her heart was racing, adrenalin rushing through her, making her sick, shaky. She could see the house, closer now, at the front a light flickering with an offer of sanctuary and she broke into a shuffling run, her movement hampered by the tight skirt she wore, her heeled shoes. Gradually, painfully slowly, the trees thinned and the house grew before her, its ramshackle wings reaching out to embrace her, just a few more steps.
The thing hit her from behind, hard and bony, an impression of human shape. She felt a flash of pain in her arm and screamed, the momentum from the blow sending her rolling to the ground. She tasted soil, smelt damp earth, decay, felt the wet quickly seeping through her thin blouse. Instinctively she curled up, anticipating another blow' but as quickly as it had come, the thing was gone. Shaken, frightened, she struggled to her feet. Blood trickled down her arm. Spinning about, she found the door to the house open, spilling a soft light. Without questioning her good fortune, she ran up the steps and into the hall, slamming the door behind her.
It was some time before her panic receded enough to allow her to take stock. The cut on her arm was a scratch, no more, but the encounter terrified her. Worse, the thing outside had her trapped in the house. She breathed deeply, calming herself. The place smelt musty, had an aura of decay that the oil lamps lighting the hallway could only partially obscure. Something about the house robbed it of any homely welcome. Instead, there was an atmosphere of tension: intense, almost erotic. She shivered uncomfortably.
"Anyone home?" She said, calling out.
"In the library," she recognised her son's voice. "Past the stairs, straight on." Swallowing her unease, Sarah followed the voice to a room further down the hall. This room, similarly lit with oil lamps, was lined with what had once been bookshelves. Most stood drooping, empty. A few scattered tomes littered others. She paused at the door; Mark stood examining a book at a table in the centre of the room, his dark, floppy hair dangling over his face. Uncertainly, she tried to strike a pose, became aware that her nipples were both erect and visible through her wet blouse and self-consciously settled for folding her arms. He looked up, a smile lighting his face.
"You came," he came toward her. "I had wondered if, in the end, you would go through with it." His voice betrayed no such uncertainty. He took her hands, noticing the cut on her arm and the streaked blood. "What happened here?"
"Something...something attacked me," she swallowed; his closeness was making her uncomfortable. "Outside." His eyebrows flicked up and she sensed knowledge hidden in his storm-cloud eyes, but he said nothing, instead leading her out of the library to the back of the house, a kitchen.
"No harm done, eh?" He picked up a small wine glass, then, to her shock, he squeezed her arm, squashing the wound and dripping the blood into the glass.
