A Nest of Nightmares

‘No!’ she cried. Then, feeling nervous and embarrassed (it was probably only a drunk who had made a mistake), she got out of bed and walked through the dark into the living room and called, ‘You’ve got the wrong apartment; you’re across the hall. Try the other door!’

She waited for the sounds of departure, but when the pounding stopped there was nothing, and the silence ate at her nerves.

Then the pounding began again, still at her door. It was not forceful at all, but neither was it controlled enough to be called knocking. It was heavy but unfocused, a loose, meaty slapping against the wood.

She shuddered. Remembering the downstairs door, and how it was often left unlocked, she realised that anyone might have got in.

‘Who is that?’ Corey called.

The pounding stopped. Silence again. Corey stared at the door, wondering who waited on the other side. Suddenly she had a vivid image of Harold Walker crouching outside her door on the night he died. Had he pounded and begged to be let in, imagining her hiding inside?

The pounding began again, making her jump. She bit her lip and tried to keep from crying. It wouldn’t do to lose control. It was probably just some old drunk, or some kid trying to frighten her. But now that she had thought of Harold, she couldn’t seem to get the thought of him out of her mind. It was absurd and impossible, but it seemed to her that Harold was on the other side of the door, making that terrible slapping sound with his weak, dead hands.

‘Go away,’ she cried, her voice high and shrill with fear. ‘Go away, or I’ll call the police!’

Silence again. A waiting silence. Whoever was there did not leave.

Harold, she thought. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you came looking for me. She walked closer to the door. Cautiously, trying not to make a sound, Corey leaned against it, pressing her ear to the wood. She heard nothing, not even breathing, from the other side.

But as soon as she stepped back, the pounding began again.

She stared at the door, remembering something Harold had said: ‘All you have to do is ask me, and I’ll come.’

‘But you’re dead,’ she said. It was barely a whisper, but again it stopped the pounding, as if whoever was in the hall was eager to hear anything she had to say.

‘Go away,’ she said more loudly. ‘Go away, do you hear me? Go back to where you came from! Do you hear me? I don’t need you! Go away!’

There was no more pounding after that. There was no sound of any kind. Corey slumped to the floor, facing the door, no more able to walk away from it than she was to open it. She was shivering and felt slightly sick.

If it was Harold, she thought, someone would find the body out there, sooner or later. And if it wasn’t, if it had been only her imagination, her need, someone would find her and let her know; someone would call or someone would come. Sooner or later.

And so she sat, all through the night, waiting and listening for the sounds of the dead.

THE MEMORY OF WOOD

It was a beautiful chest. The hard, dark old wood gleamed in the sunlight, looking rich and exotic against the bright green grass.

Helen and Rob saw it at the same time and glanced at each other swiftly, smiling in shared delight. Helen shifted the baby in her arms, looked down to see that Julian had not strayed, and followed her husband. They made their way among the furniture, the bits and pieces of a life scattered on the big front lawn, towards the thing they had, in that instant, made up their minds to buy.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said softly, watching her husband run his hand across the smooth grain of the lid.

‘It’ll cost,’ he said. His voice was dreamy.

‘But we need it. Don’t we?’

‘We could keep blankets in it,’ he said. ‘Let me see how it opens.’ He crouched on the grass and she moved near, standing over him. The chest wasn’t locked; the hinged lid came up smoothly and quietly under his hands.

Helen clutched the baby closer and drew back, nearly stumbling. Her stomach twisted. The stench was horrible: sweet and rotten, with something nasty underneath. She made a small, despairing sound.

Rob looked up at her, frowning. ‘I thought I – ’

‘That smell.’

‘Yes . . .’ He was still frowning, puzzled. ‘I thought I caught a whiff of something horrible, but – ’ He sniffed loudly, obviously, moving his head above the open chest. ‘Nothing, now.’

‘Are you sure?’ Cautiously, she breathed through her nose again, and smelled nothing unusual, but she hesitated to move closer, to lean into the chest as Rob was doing.

‘I’m sure,’ he said.

She looked down at the chest, her pleasure broken.

Rob lowered the lid gently and stood up. ‘It could go in the living room, beneath the Clarke print. Next to the red chair.’

‘People would use it as a table then, put drinks down on it and spoil the finish.’

He smiled at her. ‘We could put out coasters when we serve drinks.’