Adam Nevill - House of Small Shadows

The room resembled a vintage photograph taken in poor light. There was evidence of the space being cramped with heavy furniture. The walls were bare, the ceiling light without a shade. When she failed to detect a door in the plain walls she suffered an irrational fear that a person could become trapped inside the room. The feeling was even worse than the unwelcome idea that the room was not, as she had suspected, unoccupied. And that whoever was hidden in there amongst the clutter was now staring back at her.

Catherine continued along the sloping footpath, the curb steep as if the village was accustomed to heavy rains and gouts of floodwater. A flicker of motion drew her eyes across the road.

She thought, but wasn’t sure, that a yellowy net curtain had just moved behind a ground-floor window.

She then looked up quickly, directly above herself, and had to clutch at the wall to keep her balance. She may have been mistaken again, but from the corner of her eye she was sure she’d seen the dark outline of a head rear backwards, away from the window into what must have been the darkness of a bedroom.

Afraid she had misjudged the village, and had been nosing through the windows of occupied buildings, she briskly turned the corner and entered the cul-de-sac.

And now it was as if her very presence had disturbed the place into some semblance of furtive activity. Because she was certain she had just seen another face, this time a pale smudge withdrawing from a downstairs window of the house no more than a few feet before her. She didn’t suffer the impression the face had been watching her, but that the person inside the house had been waiting for her approach. Which felt worse than being watched.

Cocking her head to one side, she made the pretence of rummaging inside her handbag outside of the building in which she had seen movement, number 3, while sneaking glances at the window. There were no nets here. The houses in the cul-de-sac were even shabbier and more neglected than those on the main lane.

And yes, there was someone inside a front room that opened onto the street. A figure, close to the window, but with their back turned away from the street. A small woman, she thought, wearing something long, maybe a dark dress. Their posture implied a wall was being studied, or perhaps the woman simply stared into the murky fireplace that Catherine could barely make out.

The pale head was thickly haired, but looked tatty. It was hard to see much more, and if she lingered any longer her scrutiny would become intrusive. But what did stand out in the light entering the dirty window, was the hand upon the back of a chair placed against the window sill. The hand was so pale the person must have been wearing gloves. Catherine moved on, quickly.

Before she reached the street, concluding at the church grounds, she found one other storefront and crossed the road to look inside it.

The store was empty. There was no security shutter or grille across the broad window front. What the shop once sold eluded her. The wooden awning had been painted over with a thick brown emulsion the colour of creosote. Bizarrely, the sign on the door indicated OPEN. But the lights were off and nothing was for sale. In one corner of a broad wooden tray inside the window, a large moth fluttered its last. Against one wall she could see an ancient sewing machine and some bolts of cloth.

Deeper inside the empty shop was a counter, an open serving hatch, and a broad pane of clear glass fitted behind the counter, as if to invite customers to see a hive of reassuring activity behind it. Now, there were only shadows and indistinct items of office furniture back there. But as she turned away from the dirty window, movement became apparent.

The motion was beyond the second pane of glass, and continued while she squinted into the murk. Someone was standing up, but incredibly slowly. They were not fully upright, or could not get upright. And the vague silhouette, deep within the dusty gloom of the shop’s interior, remained hunched over, the head bowed and crowned with unhealthily thin hair. But what were they doing? Staring at the floor, or at her?

The nape of her neck prickled as if she stood in a draught. She peered around herself in the street, took in as many of the other windows as she could, looking for faces.

Nothing. Just more of the sombre house fronts with old net curtains, most without.

She looked back into the empty store. Whoever she had disturbed was no longer visible, but her reluctance to see them again hurried her up to the church.

A small Anglo-Saxon building, and the place where Mason had once preached, proved to be another disappointment. It was no bigger than a cottage and had water-stained wooden boards in place of stained-glass windows. The cemetery and grounds were waist-deep with weeds and grass. The main doors were padlocked and the noticeboard in the porch was empty. Like the town, the church’s congregation had faded away. She wondered if the village lost its faith when M. H. Mason did.

Beside the church, occupying the last plot of land before the low stone wall of the cemetery, stood the only other evidence that communal gatherings had ever occurred in Magbar Wood. A long wooden bungalow with a rust-red roof, the doors padlocked with chains. Flaking signage above the double doors read: SE SC UTS.

Inside the cabinet mounted on a post before the little gate, a yellowing piece of paper hung to a corroded pin behind a pane of grubby glass. It advertised events within the building, but gave no dates, or even any indication of what year they had occurred. It looked like a programme of performances. There were no explanatory details, or footnotes.

THE BLIND BEGGARS OF BETHNAL GREEN

THE CHILDREN OF THE WOOD

FAUSTUS

THE BIRTH OF HARLEQUIN

THE BOTTLE IMP

When the first cold drop of rain struck her forehead Catherine began her journey back to the Red House. But never made it past number 3 in the cul-de-sac. She saw the house’s front door open at the same time she heard a voice come out of it. An old voice, reduced by its years, but still thick with the local dialect said, ‘You sin ’er? Eh? Eh? ’Scuse me. Scuse-meeeee. You sin ’er?’

Catherine stopped walking, though she wanted to carry on because the voice didn’t promise the kind of interaction she wanted, or even craved by this time. For a moment, still flustered and coming down from the brief fright the voice had caused, she was sure the person was asking her if she was a ‘sinner’. Then realized the speaker, whom she could not see, was asking if she’d seen someone. This ‘er’ being referred to was a her.

She approached the door, now ajar but ready to close. ‘Sorry? Were you talking to me?’

‘Yous’ll wake them up, you go knockin’ them up. It’s too early.’

‘Pardon?’

Through the lightless gap between the door and its frame, she heard a muffled retreat, followed by scrapes on the inside of the wooden door, as if the figure had pulled itself behind the door to hide in fear of her. Though the little squeal she heard also made her suspect the unseen person was excited, which was worse than them being afraid.

She didn’t get too close. ‘Are… do you need help?’ she was going to say ‘ma’am’, but wasn’t certain of the speaker’s gender. It must be the elderly person wearing the white gloves she had seen through the living-room window. A woman then?

An odour of damp, musty fabric drifted from the building and across the narrow footpath. The house was wet inside and virtually lightless. How could anyone see in there?

‘You been up the house? You seen her, who went up the house?’

‘Who? Sorry, I’m not sure what you’re asking me.’

‘Fings must turn a bit more, you fink? Not time yet for our lady.’