The House
The House
The bar was on a secluded back street and he’d found it by chance. The entrance seemed to have been designed to attract moths and not the public.
Inside, it was a seedy-looking affair with red velvet walls. If he was honest, he felt a little nervy walking in and if he hadn’t needed a couple of drinks after work, he wouldn’t have stayed. As it was, he had a lot on his mind and a few drinks would unburden him for a few hours. At least that was the plan.
The barmaid was tattooed and proud of it. Her arms were bare and looked more like a woven tapestry than human flesh. She wasn’t fat, but her arms were a wide canvas for the needlework artist. Her bottom lip had a black stud dangling from it, like a bogey that had fallen unnoticed and come to rest. Behind her, was a mirror which ran the length of the bar giving the illusion of space and grandeur. It also showed the rear of the barmaid, a nice contrast to his frontal view.
“Not bad,” he thought. Unable to stop staring.
He stayed at the bar and quickly gulped down the first four bottles of beer. After this initial flurry, he slowed to one every thirty minutes. His attention was drawn to a dancer acrobatically performing on a pole. Cavorting, twisting, spinning and dangling one legged, causing the short tartan skirt to lap her bare stomach and her blue and yellow striped tie gave the illusion of her being hung from the floor up. Her movements were not synchronised and while he watched, she almost choked on the seductive lollipop she was sucking. Though she had a nice body, he was that interested. Slowly his eyes began to pick at the flaws in her dancing and her heavy make-up. Her clothes hid less than her foundation and lip gloss.
As he lingered, time seemed to stand still. A glance at his watch showed him it was still only 9.15. In a way he was pleasantly surprised, in another way, he was irritated by the dragging of time. Grudgingly, he ordered another beer and wished for something to relieve the boredom of drinking alone.
Feeling peckish, he paid for chicken in a basket and a side salad. If he’d been sober, he would have thought twice, but a few pints had relieved him of his inhibitions and hopefully boosted his immune system.
He now took a table. The electric candlelight didn’t add to the ambiance and the cream coloured shade was more a nicotine yellow. On reflection it epitomised the state of the bar. The tattooed bar maid and the amateur pole dancer; had obviously found their niche in life.
Something caught his eye. It was a flash of red and made him turn his head. He watched as she flounced in. Her steady, confident steps. Supple legs and taught frame topped with straight platinum, blonde hair, was enough to turn any male head. He wasn’t drooling yet, but he was close to it.
His chicken and chips were flopped on the table. The waitress was obviously carrying too much to perform the perfect landing. Consequently, the basket containing his food crash landed on the table like an out-of-control air balloon basket. If there had been people on board, they would have been scattered all over the tabletop. As it was, two chips were killed on impact and were returned hurriedly to their basket by fingers with chipped nail polish. Once more, if he had been anything other than ravenous, he might have thought twice about.
Unable to resist, his eyes viewed the whole bar. He noticed her distinct fringe of pure white hair and pale features, contrasting against her blood red lipstick. The way she held herself, poised and elegant, yet there was a wide smile and mischievous eyes. Between greasy bites of chicken and undercooked chips, he stared at her.
Her long delicate fingers held the stem of her wine glass. She turned, laughing at some unheard joke, and their eyes met. She raised an eyebrow and lifted her glass at him in a mock toast. It was impossible to not smile and return the gesture with his half glass of stagnant beer. Her eyes stared at him over the rim of the Champagne flute and watched him as only a woman can watch a man. Of course, he was flattered and slightly excited, but there was also a tremor of trepidation, a feeling he’d been singled out, almost hunted. Ever since her entrance to the bar he’d been unable to think about anything else, but her. All his work problems, relationship problems, all the things that had brought to a bar to drink, no longer mattered. One look had banished all thoughts of an early night.
The need for a beer, and the need to take a closer look, got him out of his seat. Soon he was standing next to the creature in red, who had given the evening meaning and a reason to stay.
He waved his empty glass to attract the tattooed monster and she arrived looking more grotesque than he remembered. “A beer and...” He paused, wondering what else he wanted.
“And a dry white wine.” Her voice was slightly husky. Their forearms touched and she tilted her head to look at him.
He turned and was instantly snared, sucked into those deep brown eyes. Such a contrast to the shocking, almost platinum blonde hair.
He gave a lopsided smile and said, “And a... what was it?” He smirked.
“Dry white wine,” she said casually.
“A dry white wine for the scrounger to my left.” He chuckled.
She raised an eyebrow. “No, you’ve got it all wrong.” She smiled at him and extended a finger to lightly brush his hand, emphasising her point while ensuring she wasn’t ignored.
“OK, so what have I got wrong?” He turned to face her full on.
Her face was the perfect sulk. “Lady to my left, not scrounger. I’ll buy you one back as soon as this one is finished.” She emptied her glass and pushed it with one finger towards him.
He watched; such delicate hands and an expensive looking ring on each finger, but no wedding ring.
“Are you a surgeon or a pianist?” he asked, trying not to slur, and it was a struggle now.
“How perceptive of you.” Her wide smile entrapping his gaze.
“Don’t tell me, you’re really a crane driver. That’s why you managed to move the glass so precisely.”
“No, I’m a pianist; you got it right first time.”
He clapped slowly as if to congratulate himself.
“So what can you play?” he asked. He paid for the drinks and sipped the head off his beer.
“Mainly the fool, but I am serious sometimes.”
He rolled his eyes to the sky and shook his head ironically. “Touché!”
“Oh, you meant the piano. Not life?” she asked through her wide smile. “Well, let me see.” She put her finger to her lip as if she were acting in a silent movie.
He laughed and so did she. The smile lingered on her mouth as they weighed each other up.
“So, what’s your story?” He asked, before changing his mind. “First, what’s your name?”
“Do you want the first question second, or the second question first?”
“Erm, it’s like something from the Marx Brothers; am I being set up?” He took a quick exaggerated look, side to side.
“Natalie, Natalie Sommers.” She offered her slender hand and he took it and, for no reason at all, he bent and kissed it.
“James Powell,” he said, and snapped his heels together, again not knowing why he did this.
She giggled.
They talked and he soon forgot how beautiful she was. Her intellect and conversation were scintillating and he soon became engrossed, nothing else mattered apart from their conversation.
The next time he came up for air, the bar was almost empty. The punk girl, behind the counter, rang the bell and in a shrill voice, shouted, “Time!”
Natalie toyed with his fingers on the table. She smiled at him and then looked to the floor. He took that as a signal and said, “What’s wrong?”
She glanced up at him. “Well, I have a dilemma now, don’t I?”
He laughed. “And what’s that?”
“Well, I want you to come home with me, but if you do, you might think that I do this all the time with strange men.” She looked into his eyes.
“So, you think I’m strange? Thank you!” He smirked and watched her squirm a little.
“You know what I mean.” She stretched and then relaxed.
“Look, I think we are old enough to be mature about this.” He studied her reaction, “And if it fits both of us to go home together, then let’s not play games for the next two years or two hours.” He squeezed her hand.
“I know, but if you sleep with me and I never hear from you, I’ll know I played it wrong. Again!”
“Let’s go and decide the sleeping arrangements in private, yes?” They stood together and he got her coat and slipped it around her shoulders.
The taxi ride took longer than he had expected. When they reached her house, he was a little unnerved and realised he’d completely lost his bearings when they’d left the city.
Natalie had snuggled up to him and he had to wake her when they arrived. She insisted on paying for the taxi and he couldn’t help but notice the size of the place as he waited. They walked hand in hand to the front door. The door was a huge solid oak slab with a brass handle, knocker and letterbox. He noticed the key she used was oversized, like a medieval jailer’s key.
The door opened with a push.
Inside the hallway an ornate winding staircase wound its way to the second floor. There were three rooms to the left of the staircase. They had large bras plated fitted to the doors at head height. The first door on the left was the ‘Study’, the next was the ‘Dining Room’ and the third was the ‘Lounge’. Each door was labelled as though the occupants might forget which room was which
The walls seemed freshly painted and the ornate ceilings of cherubs and angels with golden wings and trumpets, red and blue togas edged and perfect skin tone for their bare limbs. The carpet below his feet was as soft as a bed of feathers. Everywhere he looked oozed style and class, no expense spared.
She offered him tea, which he declined. She said in her now-familiar smoky voice, “Then bed, I guess?” She raised an eyebrow as she spoke. “Follow me.”
He watched her as she climbed the stairs. She was perfect in the satin dress, which now swayed in front of his eyes and accentuated the curves of her body and length of her legs.
They made love and then they made love slower, more tenderly. Needing the toilet, he viewed himself as he passed the wardrobe mirror and the marks her nails had made. Such was the intensity of their love making his whole body ached. Though not in a painfully, but in a sensual and satisfying way he’d never experienced before. As he looked at her, he knew he had never connected with a woman as he did her. His soul was hers. They slept deeply and naturally entangled, at peace, natural.
When he woke, she was stroking his head like a mother would a son. Her touch was silken, soothing, it was as if he could feel her love for him oozing from her fingertips. As she played with his hair. she whispered, “I’ve call you a cab.”
He was a little taken aback and said, “You want me to go?”
“I don’t, but you have to. Call me tomorrow after 6 pm; I’ll be home by then.” She found a pen in her bedside cabinet and wrote her phone number on the palm of his left hand.
Suddenly, the doorbell sounded “It’s your cab. Time to go.”
She watched as he dressed, but she didn’t attempt to keep him with her. On leaving the house, the front door seemed to close on its own and before he could change his mind, the latch clicked silently as it engaged and locked. Outside he glanced up at the bedroom window, sure she would be looking down on him, but the window dark and still.
The bitter morning air chilled him as he made his way to the waiting car. As the car pulled away, he questioned if all he thought had happened, had taken place. By the time he arrived home his memory was blurred, hazy, even unreal, as if he was sobering up after a drunken night.
He phoned her at 6.30 in the evening and arrived at her house an hour later. The front door looked lighter and the paint was chipped. The brass accessories were tinged and oxidised. He looked at the window frames and noticed the flakes of paint and what seemed to be, years of accumulated dirt. Everything about the house looked older. It was then he noticed the climbing ivy on the walls; he could have sworn it wasn’t there last night.
He rang the bell and a woman in her early fifties answered the door. The hinges groaned as it opened and he her face showed the effort it had taken to pull the door towards her. He remembered how it had closed without effort when he’d left.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“James, I met Natalie last night,” he said, trying to peer around the woman and hoping to catch a glimpse of Natalie.
“Well, she will be a few minutes yet; would you like to wait in the study?”
She stepped to one side, allowing him to enter. The paintwork, which had been so pristine and bright, was dulled. The ornate ceiling’s cherubs were faded, and the carpet had lost its lustre.
She showed him to the study. The room was wall-to-wall mahogany shelves, packed tight with dusty books. Under the bay-window, there was a huge mahogany desk and a high-backed green leather chair. To the right was a Chesterfield-style sofa facing an ornate coffee table. There was a musty smell as if the room had never been aired. When the door closed behind him, he ran his fingers over the desk and soon accumulated a small pile of house dust. This irritated his throat and forced an involuntary cough.
The woman returned with a tea pot and a china cup on a silver tray and set it on the coffee table. She looked a slightly different and her voice was lighter, almost familiar, although she spoke only a few words before leaving.
He sat on the sofa, sipped the tea and waited.
Finishing his tea, he stood and began to explore the contents of the bookshelves. They were not flippant romances written for the non-thinkers. No, these books were textbooks, crammed with ideas and theories, factual, thought provoking books, Intellectuals’ and scholars’ books.
His mind drifted back to the previous evening. What had fascinated and mesmerised him about her? He knew what had captured him; it was her obvious intelligence. Now, as he looked at the collection of books, things began to fall into place.
The door opened and there was Natalie. She ran to him and put her arms around his neck. “Hiya, how are you?” she hissed in his ear.
“Good.” He held her at arm’s length and stared at her.
She smiled, but there was a question his face couldn’t hide. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Uh?” he grunted vaguely.
“What is it?” Her head tilted and her eyes narrowed a little.
“Who was the woman who answered the door?” He asked.
Momentarily she hesitated and then said, “Mother,”
“I didn’t realise, let me meet her properly.” He smiled.
“She’s left.” She said, nonchalantly. As if it was completely normal.
“I could see the family resemblance.” He paused. “You have the same deep brown eyes.”
“Yes, mother was very beautiful when she was younger. I have her looks.” She smiled.
There was an awkward silence and he felt as if they had only just met, not shared a night of passion just the night before.
He explained about a new restaurant he’d found but had to convince her to try it with him. Finally, she agreed. When they arrived, they were shown to their places and he ordered, soup followed by steak.
She perused the menu for what seemed ages and then just ordered a salad.
“Not hungry?” he asked, a little concerned.
“I ate at work; I didn’t think we’d be coming out tonight and I wasn’t sure you’d call.” Her face dropped a little as she spoke. “But you did, and it’s really good to see you again.”
Throughout the evening her mood changes caught him off guard. When he was about to offer sympathy, she would change and become light-hearted again.
The evening sped past and she invited him back to her house. He looked at the door’s brass fittings; they were as new once more. The climbing ivy was just a few small plants and the paint on the windows was refurbished and clean.
“I see you’ve fixed the ivy problem,” he said casually.
“Yes,” she said, a little hesitantly.
Inside all was as before. She sloped upstairs and he followed. They spent the night together. At 4 am the doorbell rang, and she woke him.
“Taxi’s here,” she said.
He mechanically dressed and found his way ten minutes later into the cab.
At work, the office was buzzing as it did every Monday morning. He was head of a small sales team and motivation began at 9 am Monday and didn’t stop until 6 pm Friday. He was not with it today. Something wanted him to investigate the house where Natalie lived; there was an itch he couldn’t scratch.
Making his excuses, he drove out to the house. Every minute of the journey was taken up with the thought of how different the house looked at night, such a contrast to the early evening.
He reached the house and parked opposite.
Looking at the roof he noticed the odd tile missing. The paintwork around the windows and guttering was definitely old and flaking. The guttering drooped in places where the ivy weighed and tugged on it. The whole front of the house had almost disappeared under the green leaves and only glimpses of fractured masonry were visible.
Surely, he thought, this was not the same house.
He drove around the small village and the country lanes, trying to understand if he had mistaken the location, but there was no other property like it in the area.
He once more parked opposite and decided to talk to Natalie’s mother.
He rang the bell after first wiping a spider’s web away. The chain was rusty, and the bell dulled with lack of use.
A few minutes later a very old lady opened the door. Her eyes, deepest of browns, and her slender form and high cheekbones made the fact of her previous beauty impossible to hide.
“I’m looking for Natalie,” he said sheepishly, trying to look past the frail woman. It was then he noticed the study door was open and the bookshelves on the right-hand wall had collapsed, leaving a tangled pile of books on the floor. His gaze moved on. He glimpsed the stair carpet; the pattern wasn’t as sharp as he’d remembered it. He kept on looking and soon he understood the whole place was dilapidated.
Her eyes stared into his and she said, “You’d better come in and wait.”
“Will she be long?” he asked.
“She arrives around 6 pm usually; can you wait?” she asked, stepping to one side.
“No, I’ll come back.” He turned.
“I’ll tell her James called, shall I?”
“Yes,” he said, and he walked toward his car.
He looked back at the house.
He opened the car door and then it hit him. How did she know his name was James?
At 6 pm, his mobile burst into life. He answered it.
“Are you coming around?” the voice said.
“Hi, Natalie; yes, of course. Give me an hour,” he said.
The phone went dead.
He arrived at 7 pm. The light had gone, though it was a clear night and the moon was a full yellowy circle. The brass on the door shone like freshly polished gold. The house looked as if it had had a TV makeover. Everything around seemed in good condition.
Then she opened the door.
Her metallic platinum hair and the flaming redness of her lips. Her teeth as white as pure snow. They didn’t leave the house. They talked, kissed and became engrossed in one another as never before. His eyes were unable to leave her, his hands unable to stop holding and touching her. His mind open and soaking in her experience and knowledge.
The doorbell rang at four. He moved and shifted in bed. Her foot coaxed him to leave. Her hands pushed at him to go. He stayed. “Do you love me?” she asked, having given up.
“I do. I don’t want to leave you again.” He kissed her forehead.
“Stay with me, then,” she said calmly. “But in the morning things won’t be as simple as they are now.”
“Work can go screw itself, if that’s what you’re talking
“No, but promise if you leave in the morning, you never return,” she said, with a new graveness he hadn’t expected.
“But I have work and commitments.”
“Then leave and never return,” she reiterated, coldly. Her calmness unnerved him slightly.
He slept. Didn’t move the rest of the night and dreamed of nothing but her.
When he woke she was gone. The bed on her side was warm, so he assumed she would return; she didn’t. He waited an hour and decided to go and look for her. There was a draught from the window and he noticed a pane of glass was broken. He looked at the bed sheets; they were torn and filthy. It was then he noticed the hanging web with a huge spider waiting for its dinner. The white wardrobe doors were a dirty cream and one door was hanging at an angle. The light fitting above him had no bulb or shade, and yet he remembered how pretty in pink the lampshade had been the previous night.
His foot caught and a sharp pain rose up his leg. Looking down he saw the floorboards, old and splintered, where there had been carpet. He opened the bedroom door and a table on the landing had had its legs broken; it slumped against the wall. There was ceiling plaster all along the landing floor and at the top of the staircase two floorboards had disappeared. He jumped from the landing to the top of the stairs. In the hallway, the threadbare carpet, the dirt and dust of neglect lying on the floor.
Suddenly her voice was coming from the study.
He rushed toward the sound, a humming noise, a woman singing. He shoved the study door open and in front of him was a woman. She was frail and at least ninety years old, if not older. Her grey hair and deep brown eyes contrasting. Her face wrinkled, lined, and her body bent and sloping as she stood.
“Hi, James,” she said.
“Natalie?” he asked with his mouth gaping.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“How?”
She reached for his hand and automatically he wanted to pull away. Her hand stopped and retracted. A huge pang of guilt hit him and he offered his hand.
She took it.
“You need to leave now and never return,” she said, “because you will only have the one chance to go, as I did.”
“What do you mean, as you did?”
She explained that many years ago, as a young woman, she had fallen in love with a slightly older man who lived in this house. They had spent many nights together but never the days. She too had investigated during the day and seen how decrepit the house was in the daylight. When she rang the doorbell and a very old man greeted her, she understood what was happening. The dilemma was whether to stay with her lover, who during the evening hours slowly regenerated and became younger. He would then degenerate around 4 am, growing older at an alarming rate. The house would begin to creak and cracks would appear that were never there before. Parts of the ceiling would fall and by 7 am her lover would be old once more, living in the squalor of the house.
She went on, “When finally given the choice, I chose to stay”.
She looked up at him and said, “During the evening and night time, I will be your strongest friend and most attentive lover.” Her smile broadened. “I will take you higher than any drug and you will never want for food, money or anything ever again.”
“And if I leave?”
“You will never be able to return.” She paused. “Stay and you will have all the riches your heart desires, and of course me.”
He took a breath, trying to assess how he felt, what he wanted. His mind replayed his feelings as he’d watched her sleep, noticing every breath she took, every sigh. How he’d watched her eat, drink, how he’d noticed every movement she made, the softness of her hands. How he had kissed her feet and toes, the taste sweet. How the room seemed to light up when she entered and how her voice choked him and her eyes burned his heart with love. Everything she did was graceful, soulful, and he knew he would never find anyone to match her. If this was love, it was complete and he couldn’t think of leaving her.
Suddenly he said, “I’ll stay, I can’t leave you.”
As evening came he watched her transform back into the gorgeous creature, back to the sensuous lover who made him tremble with her smile. He held her close, kissed her neck; she smelt like no other. Her neck twisted, allowing him full access, while his mouth whispered, “I love you.” Her touch, soft, sensuous, sent shivers down his spine. He felt delirious, happy, drugged with desire and wanting. He knew he’d found his soul mate and all his heart would ever desire.
The sunlight played on his eyes through the ragged curtains. The bedroom’s wallpaper was hanging loosely from the wall in places and in others, only yellowing slashes remained where it had been torn and never replaced. The wardrobe was lopsided and the doors slouched on broken hinges. The light dangled from the ceiling by a single electrical cord. The threadbare carpet, smashed and cracked glass mirrors surrounded him. The door of the bedroom, at night ornate with piped gold lines and trimmings, was now splintered and scratched.
He ran a hand over his face and reflected upon his decision to stay; was it too late to change his mind?
He reached for her and found an envelope on her pillow. As he tore it open, his heart raced.
He read it.
Dear James,
Thank you for trusting me and freeing me from this house. I am sorry, but I had to escape. The lease needed to be renewed and I had to find a new tenant, or spend eternity in captivity.
Your life will be good. Your looks will attract many new lovers. Your pockets will fill with money and you will be able to leave one day as I have left. For now, you cannot walk away.
You said you would stay and that was the contract. The house is your inner soul. If you leave, the Soul Collector will take it and you’ll be damned for eternity.
There are many books; you must read these books and they will be food for your mind and enrich your soul. Knowledge will slow the degeneration and speed up your recovery each night.
The tenancy agreement is on the desk in the study. I suggest you read it; it requires your signature. If it’s not signed and you don’t agree, you will age incredibly quickly and within a year you will die.
Now. You can begin your search for the new tenant as soon as you wish. You will have many lovers, women will be drawn to you, but only one will love you as you loved me and stay.
I wish you luck.
Love
Natalie.
He collapsed onto the bed with a million thoughts rushing through his mind. He wanted to scream and cry, but slowly he calmed and figured it was probably all a mistake. It was then he decided to check out a few things.
Picking his way past the debris, he found a route down the staircase and into the dining room. Pushing the door open he discovered the table was laden with food of all varieties. Fruits, salads, meats, and as he thought of different meals, they appeared.
He left the dining room and went into the study. On the desk was a folder. He opened it and a torn parchment, browning at the edges, greeted his eyes. On the front page were the words ‘Tenancy Agreement’ written in ancient italics. Turning the pages, he read slowly; it seemed he could study. His mind was focused as never before. By the side of the parchment he noticed an ink pot full of red ink and a quill pen. As he signed he felt empowered, able to achieve anything, strong, and the urge to read surged over him.
By the late afternoon he had read four books. The memory of Natalie was fading. He was now consumed by his reading and the new adventure that lay ahead. There was nothing on the outside and no need for the tedium of work.
A clock somewhere chimed the hour and at 7 pm there was a knock at the front door. Opening it, he saw a waiting taxi. He settled into the back seat and said, “The city, please, driver.”
The driver turned his head and he immediately recognised him as the same driver who had taken him home each time he’d stayed with Natalie.
“My God, you?” he blurted out.
The driver nodded and touched his forelock. “Sir. Please never worry; I will always find you before 4 am. Just think of me and I will take you home.” He smiled with kindness in his eyes, then continued, “May I just add one more thing, sir?” He paused, awaiting permission.
James beckoned him with a nod. “What?”
“Welcome to the house, sir.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the Soul Catcher; nice to meet you.”
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