“Mr. Samson….” he said as he pulled the trigger, the unloaded weapon clicking harmlessly. “You don’t know what you just got yourself into.”
Despite the throbbing pain in his face, Donovan managed a bloody smile.
26. FAIR WARNING
December 22nd 1808
THE OFFICES OF JONES & Schuster were nestled in the busy district of Whitechapel, London. Although just a stone’s throw away from the poverty-ridden streets of the capital’s East End, it stood majestic and proud, the building standing shoulder to shoulder with doctors’ offices and high class legal firms. Inside, Michael Jones was in the second hour of his meeting with his business partner, which so far had gone anything but smoothly.
Schuster sat in his chair, huge stomach stretching out in front of him as he looked at Jones contemptuously. He filled and lit his pipe with his tiny, chubby hands, and offered a thin smile across the desk.
“You can’t build there,” Schuster said sternly, taking a huge pull of his pipe and leaning back.
Jones was furious, but kept his expression neutral as he took a sip of his brandy. “I see no reason not to. The land is not yet owned as far as I can tell.”
“Aye, and with good reason. Come on, Michael, You know the reasons.”
“I’m sorry, Alfonse, but I don’t believe in ghost stories. Francis is in agreement. It’s just you who’s holding this deal up.”
Schuster shrugged and took another pull on his pipe. He stared into the flames of the fire for a moment, and then leaned forward, turning his dark gaze on Jones. “Michael, do we really need this? Why not build over in Burwell or Greenwood, why does it have to be there?”
“I would have thought that would be obvious. The land is unclaimed. What starts as one could grow into many. It could be the start of a huge, and dare I say, lucrative business for us.”
“It is also difficult terrain. The entire area is forest. Perhaps this is more trouble than it’s worth.”
“It’s a calculated risk. Besides, just imagine it. A small-town cut out of the forest, an idyllic retreat. A beautiful amalgamation between the craft of man, and the subtlety of nature.”
“It’s just too big. Far too risky I’m afraid.”
“Then let me start with one. Just one build, one house to prove that it can be done.”
“And, if you fail? What happens to our money?”
“Alfonse, if I thought that there was even the slightest chance that I would fail, then I wouldn’t have suggested it. Not only can I do this, but I can make it work.”
“And who will you get to work there? Who will be your foreman when so many are afraid?”
“I have a friend who can provide me with the workforce. They are Negroes, but they work hard. As to overseeing the build, I will attend to it personally if need be.”
“You?”
“If need be, yes.”
Schuster shook his head, his jowls trembling as he exhaled another great plume of smoke.
“Let me be sure that I am clear here. You are personally willing to oversee the build in order to see this project progress?”
“Indeed I am. Think of it as a measure of how confident I am in its certain success.”
“I’m not going to be able to convince you otherwise am I?”
Schuster’s wry smile made Michael break into a grin of his own, and he sensed that at last he was close to a breakthrough.
“No. As you can see I am determined to get you to open that dusty old cheque book of yours Alfonse.”
Even though he smiled as he said it, Schuster seemingly wasn’t amused, and only frowned as he prepared to write the cheque. He sighed as he filled it in.
“I want you to know that, for the record, I don’t like this, not one bit. You know how superstitious the locals are, and it could damage our reputation.”
Now it was Jones’s turn to be contemptuous. He sneered at Schuster and flashed a confident grin.
“I never took you as the superstitious type Alfonse. Especially when there’s money to be made.”
“There’s more to life than money, something that you and your brother might do well to learn. Besides I never said that I was superstitious. I just think it pays to be cautious.”
“Look, I know the stories. I know what’s said of the land there. However, I also know that we are a business, and if we are to continue to grow then we cannot afford to pay attention to such things as idle gossip.”
“Idle you say?” Schuster responded, his eyebrows arched. “Evidence suggests that perhaps this is more than mere idle gossip my friend. I for one would be uncomfortable working on such a project.”
“Evidence you say? And what evidence might that be? Please indulge a cynic if you would be so kind.”
Schuster knew that Jones was mocking him, but was too concerned to care. He licked his thin lips and folded his hands neatly on the desk.
“They say the woods are haunted. They say there are voices that can drive a man mad.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Jones, clapping his hands together and giving Schuster a fright.
“The proverbial ‘they.’ And who are they? Who do they represent? How do they know these things?”
Colour flushed in Schuster’s cheeks, and he grew serious.
“I don’t appreciate you mocking me, Michael. I’m only trying to warn you.”
“Oh I’m not mocking you my friend; however, I am finding much amusement in the morbid nature of your tone. The collective ‘they’ amounts to nothing more than rampant speculation of over-active minds! Why, I could this instant go down into the streets of London and tell a tale of ghouls in the shadows or strange creatures lurking in the darkness! It wouldn’t make it so. Alfonse, it seems that you have paid too much attention to speculation and fantasy!”
“It might serve you to do the same,” Schuster warned. “The spirit world is not one to be taken lightly.”
“That, my friend, depends on what you happen to believe in. I am a firm believer of the here and now, the things that inhabit the real world. Do we not after all have enough monsters of our own, without worrying about whispering trees and haunted woodland?”
“Michael….”
“Oh Alfonse! How you do amuse me! However, I will mock no more. A man is entitled to his own opinion, and although ours differ greatly in this matter, please rest assured, that you need not leave the comfort of your office, the warmth of your fire, or endure the whispers of the dead. All I need from you my friend is the funds to proceed.”
Schuster frowned, and looked at his business partner in the eye.
“It seems that you are determined to go ahead with or without my approval.”
Jones grew serious, and poured them both another drink.
“All jest aside. I believe this to be the start of an exciting period for us. I will build the grandest, most beautiful of homes, and when you lay eyes on it, you will forget all about haunted trees and other such nonsense.”
“Under ordinary circumstances, I would outright refuse to entertain this. As much as you find amusement in my beliefs, I am deeply concerned. However, I must give you the benefit of the doubt. You have always made the right decisions in the past Michael, especially when it comes to making a profit. So with that said I will give you your money on the understanding that you will take the greatest of care, and even if you do not believe it, heed what I say.”
Jones smiled, and looked about to mock his partner further when Schuster pointed at him.
“You might think my feelings towards this particular project unconventional, and perhaps even a little irrational. However, I have always been a very spiritual man, and I have both a healthy fear and respect for forces outside of our knowledge. But, it is true that I also like money. After all, show me a rich man who doesn’t. If you think that building this property could be the start of the next great project for us, then I’m prepared to go along with i
t despite my misgivings.”
“You won’t regret it Alfonse, that I promise.”
“That remains to be seen. I will wait and hope that you complete the task without any incident, spiritual or otherwise.”
Jones grinned, and reached over the desk, shaking Schuster’s hand vigorously.
“My friend, you will not regret this! A year henceforth, you and I will share laughter at this very evening! As a matter of fact, you have just given me an idea for the name of the property. I shall call it Hope. Hope House in honour of you, Francis Schuster, the most superstitious of men!”
Jones was elated, but Schuster couldn’t quite shake his own sense of unease. He licked his lips and spoke quietly, and even Jones felt a small shiver brush his spine.
“And what if it’s true? What if we don’t heed the warnings and the stories come to pass?” Schuster said quietly.
“Fortunately I do not believe old wives’ tales and folklore. Let me answer your question with one of my own. Are we to grow our business and go where nobody dares to go before us? Or do we shy from driving forth into the unknown?”
Schuster shifted in his seat, and set his pipe down on the desk.
“Michael. You and I have been business partners for, what, four years now?”
“Five.”
“Five years. And in all that time, have I ever doubted you, or stood in your way?”
“No. No you have not.”
“Then not as a business partner but as a friend, please… please promise me one thing. If only to ease my own discomfort.”
“What would you ask of me?”
“If at any time you do encounter anything… otherworldly, anything at all that might lead you to believe that your life is in danger, then promise me that you will stop. Down tools and leave, money or no money, build or no build.”
Jones grinned, and drained his glass.
“If that eases your worry, then yes my friend. You have my word. At the first sign of ghoul, ghost or demon, I shall return here in haste and tell you that you were right, and buy you a drink by way of apology.”
Jones stood and held out his hand.
“Until next time Alfonse.”
Schuster pushed his oversized frame out of his chair with some effort, and shook hands with Jones.
“Please be careful Michael. Even if you think me a naïve fool, just… be on your guard.”
“I always am. I shall see you soon, and when I do, you can buy me a drink!”
The pair shook hands again, and Jones walked to the door and opened it. He paused at the threshold and turned back to Schuster, who was watching and wringing his hands nervously.
“I wonder,” Jones said with a half-smile. “What will happen if you are right, and I do experience some kind of phenomena?”
He looked at Schuster for a response, but instead his partner topped up his glass and drank the bitter scotch down in a single great mouthful.
“I only hope you never find out. Good luck Michael.”
Jones nodded and left Schuster alone in his office. They would never see each other again.
27. RECONCILIATION
EARLY MORNING SUNLIGHT BLAZED through the windows of Hope House, leaving shafts of golden warmth across the tile floor. Steve sat at the table nursing his coffee in one hand and moving his other around the bowl of ice water in an effort to reduce the swelling from his previous night’s altercation with Donovan. Melody was busy transforming bacon into unrecognisable charred slabs. They’d barely spoken since the previous night’s events, and Steve had spent a miserable and uncomfortable night on the sofa.
He removed his hand from the water and flexed it gently, wincing at the pain. His knuckles were now a landscape of blue-purple bruises, but even though he expected to wake up with regret, he found that beating the shit out of Donovan was one of the few actions recently that he was reasonably sure was the right one. He dipped his hand back into the cooling water, as Melody arrived with his sandwich.
“Thanks,” he said softly as he eyed the blackened substance stuffed between the bread.
Melody gave no reply, and returned to the stove, opening a window as she passed to let out some of the smoke. She turned off the hob and then sat opposite him with her own black-stuff sandwich.
The couple ate in silence. A million miles away from happily sharing breakfasts in bed, or snuggling on the sofa in front of the morning news. Steve took a bite of his sandwich, doing his best to grind up the bacon-flavoured coal while taking another look at his knuckles.
There was so much that he wanted to say, so much that he wanted to ask, but it seemed the woman opposite him, the one who he’d thought he could never see himself arguing with, or hurting, was now a pale-faced shell. She pushed her dishevelled morning hair aside and ate, staring off to somewhere between infinity and oblivion.
Steve supposed it wouldn’t matter where it was, as long as it wasn’t in his direction. There was a saying that came to mind, something about approaching a large trunked animal in a room, when he noticed her looking at him.
“How’s the bacon?” she asked, watching carefully for his reaction.
Several responses came to mind, but none that would help him get back in her good books. As he pondered the best way to tell her it was awful without hurting her feelings, she cracked a smile, which quickly grew into a grin. The gesture was simple, and one that he had for a time taken for granted, but now he saw it as if for the first time and couldn’t help but smile himself.
“It’s uh…” was the best he could manage. Melody tried to revert to her serious face, and although she got the frown, she couldn’t wipe off the grin.
“Awful isn’t it?” she said, tossing her own on to the plate.
“It’s… cooked,” he mumbled.
The couple broke into laughter, and like the flick of a switch, the tension in the air dispersed. It was the kind of relief Steve imagined a mother might feel when their child who’s late home from school walks through the door safe, or when the test results for brain cancer come back clear.
“How’s the hand?”
“Not too bad. Actually that’s a lie, it hurts… a lot.”
“You shouldn’t have gone over there. If he tells anyone…”
“He won’t. He understands the situation.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We carry on. Try to get our lives back on track.”
“And this place?”
He looked into her eyes, hoping that his own gaze reassured her or at least took the edge off some of the fear that was all too easy to see.
“Like I said. We carry on.”
“You want to stay?”
“It’s not that. It’s just…”
“What is it?”
He didn’t want to say it for fear of another argument, or shattering the fragile peace, but she had asked the question, and he owed it to her to be honest about the situation.
“Well, we can’t afford to. The house was cheap enough, but with the repair work and cost of building the studio… we’re pretty much broke, Mel. Leaving here isn’t an option.”
“What if we sell?”
“I thought you loved this place?”
“I did… I do… it’s just…. I don’t know, it seems off somehow.”
“Spoiled,” Steve said, and Melody nodded as she sipped her drink. He was going to say cursed, but thought that, for now, they could both do without the melodrama, even if it was a more accurate expression.
“Besides,” he added. “Donovan is the only agent for miles in any direction, and I don’t think he’ll be so willing to bend over backwards to help us this time.”
“So if we can’t sell, what happens next?”
She was looking to him for an answer, and his stomach quivered for the simple reason that he didn’t have one to give her—at least not one that she would accept as viable. He still wanted to use the Ouija board to try to communicate with whatever presence was in or around the house, but he didn’t
think that Melody was ready to entertain that notion just yet. He was desperately trying to think of something to get him off the hook when Melody bailed him out.
“I think we should go and see Mrs. Briggs.”
“I don’t see anything that crazy old crow could tell us that would help in any way.”
“Didn’t the barkeeper at the Oak say she knew the history of this area? Maybe she could give us a few answers.”
“Maybe she’s as crazy as a brush, too.”
He’d meant it as a joke, but he saw that his words had hurt. It was just the briefest flicker of a reaction, one so small that anyone other than him might have missed it, but he knew her well, as well as it was possible to know another human being at least, and he immediately felt bad.
“Look, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for finding out more about this place. In fact, it’s driving me crazy. I’m just not sure that talking to some senile drunk is going to do anything other than cause more confusion and uncertainty.”
“I’m not saying we should take what she says as gospel, but it might not harm to get a little background.”
“And what if she’s wrong?”
“Then she’s wrong. We waste an afternoon and look into other options. Everybody is wrong sometimes. That’s how life is.”
Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
The saying came to him out of nowhere. It was something his mother had used to say, but it must have been fifteen years or more since he’d last heard it. Why it had come to him now he was at a loss to say. He took a long draught of coffee. It was a little cold, but still drinkable, and helped a little in washing the chalky bacon taste out of his mouth. “Okay then, let’s go see the old fruitcake,” he said with a shrug.
She seemed pleased, and they sat in silence, both looking out of the window at the garden, now covered in an early morning dusting of frost. Although the view was picturesque, both Steve and Melody were thinking about their respective nightmares—for Steve, the dip at the end of the garden, where he knew that the stream that had almost killed him flowed relentlessly. For Melody it was the trees on the opposite bank: she stared into the tangle and re-lived every vile second of her ordeal.