The House on Banforth Street

Here is one of the stories actually written for this collection.

I have always enjoyed haunted house stories and films. It's one of the few themes I suppose that everyone can get into, with one particular example springing to mind spooling off several films that have done well in the finantial sense, and no doubt, if they made another one it would be as popular.

It is also an idea (or archetype) that can be moulded into something original and entertaining. I personally have written a few myself, but this one seems to be the best of the lot.

It is also based in a real place, though the house itself does not exist the street as described does. The names have just been changed.

The house on Banforth Street looked haunted.

It wasn't just the decrepit condition of the place, or the untidy garden, or any one thing, that made children and adults alike cross the road to avoid walking in front of it. There were other houses in and around the town that looked worse, none of them had a reputation.

But then again, an entire family; mother, father and three children hadn't just vanished, swallowed whole, in any of the other properties either.

That was what had given the house it's reputation.

And it was what made it so irresistible to young Tommy Galwood.

Tommy first noticed the building when he was five, the first time he could remember being out with his mother shopping. The babysitter had been unable to perform her job due to some illness, and his mum was fresh out of vodka, as well as some other, less important stuff, like bandages and plasters for when Tommy fell down the stairs and cut, or burnt himself in places where he was NOT ALLOWED.

NOT ALLOWED places, it was understood by him, included the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room (when Daddy Sometimes visited) and the road right outside their back-door.

Today though the front road was temporarily ALLOWED, as long as he held mummy’s hand while crossing.

From here his memory is just a series of shutter click images as he is pulled along like a dog on a chain.

The first image is of a railing outside the Acropolis, where, four years later his mother would be buried. The coffin would go into the ground surrounded by a thin circle of mourners.

A few hours later Tommy would lose his innocence amongst the gravestones.

Click!

The second image is the big green and yellow sign above the convenience store, or, as his mother liked to call it, that fucking shop.

Tommy wasn't sure, but he thought a fucking shop was more or less the same as a normal shop where people bought things, the only difference he could figure out was that the person behind the counter had darker skin than him and his mummy (he hadn’t seen the people himself, but he was told that this was indeed the case) Why this made a difference he didn’t know, and when he asked his mummy she had just looked at him for a moment, patted him on the head and told him that he would find out for himself one day.

Click! Whrrrr..

The third and final image was closer to an actual memory than the other two.

It starts with a young Tommy Staring back at him from a toy store window, mouth agape in wonder. His image fades out as another fades in, finally becoming the item which has so entranced him.

The fire truck was green. Not red as he had been taught by Daddy Sometimes. It was perfect in every scaled down detail. Tommy couldn’t read at the time, but he knew instinctively that the wheels would turn and all the doors would open to allow his giants eye to examine the tiny detailed dashboard and the perfectly rendered black leather seats. Somewhere, in the back of his mind he knew that the hose hooked on the back of the green goddess could be unfurled. Perhaps by tiny frantic firemen getting ready to put out a miniature fire, like the one he had seen in Daddy Sometimes ashtray.

From there the memory shudders as his mummy pulls him around sharply, white pain explodes in his arm as the bone momentarily twists beyond it's shape, then snaps back. A nauseating sensation follows it, and the older boy remembering this years later isn’t sure if it is the pain building in him as he runs, or another memory trying to double itself on his struggling brain.

He decides he doesn't care.

The only thing that matters now is getting away from the gang of boys chasing him. He knows what they will do when they catch him, or he has a very good idea. They are the kind of unintelligent clods that, because of their own shortcomings beat on kids who are smarter, more imaginative, or just plain different. That was probably why why they gave him three times the punishment, and what he was feeling now was nothing compared to what he would get if he stopped for breath.

So he ran on.

When his body stopped the arm was already numb.

His mothers grip on his hand tightens suddenly, making him yelp. The hand loosens just enough to let blood flow back into it, but the grip is still firm. There would be no escaping this mommy bear, at least not until her anger subsided.

Tommy felt ashamed as he always did when he upset her, though he wasn’t sure exactly what he had done, but he was sure there would be a hitting when he got home.

Then again maybe not.

The pull had brought him around front, and face to face with a skirt he recognised. A feeling so rare opened in his chest. As he lifted his watery eyes from the knees to the waist it grew, filling him until he burst with relief. The face he hoped was at the top was bent towards him, soft pity aimed down. Then it returned to it's original position, strait ahead, eyes hardening, mouth tightening.

The woman standing in front of him was what his mother called, among other things, a snobby, interfering cow.

Tommy didn't think much of this. For one thing cows stood on four legs and his teacher obviously stood on two he had started school that year, and was enjoying it thoroughly) when he had asked his mommy about this one evening while watching the telly Daddy Sometimes had burst into laughter. Tommy had waited, as he always did when this happened, because he knew he would eventually get a reply. When it did come it answered his question, but, as usual opened others, which he would have asked had past experience not come to his rescue again.

So he would have to be content with Daddy Sometimes explanation of how a woman could also be a cow, and his mommy’s cryptic explanation of what a snob was given to him while giving DS a frosty, meaningful glare, that even shit flies high when hit with a big enough stick.

Whatever it meant, it also meant that he was not getting punched or kicked when he got home. Even his arm seemed to feel the better for the knowledge, the numbness pleasant, now spreading into his hand, giving it a slight tingly feeling.

He let his gaze wander, while the grown ups carried on above him, the woman’s tone buzzing with restrained anger and his mommy’s approaching hostile. He thought again of the fire engine in the window behind him and imagined what it would be like to be on one. What it would feel like if he was a fireman, rushing to a big fire, holding on to the back railing as the engine sped along the road as fast as it could, blue lights on top flashing, sirens blaring..

Lost in this dream a smile formed on Tommy’s lips. A smile that seemed to touch his far away eyes, and for a moment Tommy’s face changed. It was as if the life he led was blameless, painless and innocent. He could be..

Tommy...

His smile faltered for a moment.

Tommmyy..

His eyes sharpened. Where had that voice come from?

Tommy looked up at his mommy. It had sounded like her, yet somehow it wasn't. The tone was all wrong for a start. It had been softer, kinder.

Again the voice came, with it a soft sweet breeze into which he turned his head. A slight movement was all it took as the voice and the wind seemed to come from behind his teacher. He realised the sweet smell had come from her, the gust picking it up as it wound past her, so the voice itself must be coming from behind.

Tommyyy..

from the house just up, across the street.

It was an old house. Untidy garden, unkempt fence and smashed windows.

Well, the windows on the ground floor had been smashed, but the ones on the upper floors were untouched. It was as if whoever had thrown the bricks had either given up, or didn't have the strength needed to launch destruction further up the houses face.

Or had been scared away before they could.

Tommy felt the skin on the back of his neck bunch up, even though the breeze that still rubbed itself against him hadn't cooled; if anything it had actually warmed up a bit. He could see how houses sometimes seemed to have a face, but he wasn't sure how it could call his name at all, especially in his mommy’s voice.

Ten year old Tommy didn't know if he could find the strength to run on. That only left two options; he could either give up and let the bullies beat him to death, or he could carry on until he collapsed, in which case they would still beat him up. At least in that scenario he wouldn't feel much.

It was at that point that his feet made the decision for him. His left came down on the pavement at an angle, and the right caught itself behind it, toes curling around his shin, sending him into a spin that would have been almost graceful if the pavement hadn't hit him square on the cheek bone. Bang, and the lights went out.

His first thought when he regained consciousness was that it had all been a dream, and that he was now on the living room floor, nose burst and Daddy Sometimes standing over him, one fist tight, the other holding a half empty glass of Vodka, shouting at the little fucker on the floor to get up and fight him like a man, his mum in the background screaming.

He blew blood from his nose, the gooey crimson jet spraying across the slab on which he lay.

Head and ears now a bit clearer reality asserted itself. The shouting had been from the bunch of boys who had been chasing him, and were now across the street, the screaming was his own brains interpretation of the cars screeching by on the main road.

He shut his eyes again, mixed feelings of dread and relief mixing uneasily in his stomach. Tommy supposed he had escaped from them somehow. He knew that he had been hurt sore, and wasn't looking forward to the pain that would engulf him when the endorphins drained away from his aching body. The best thing he could do for the moment was just to lie here, wherever here was, and let the gentle sweet breeze that had been touching him since he awoke continue having its way with him as it had done five years ago.

It briefly occurred to Tommy that no one was helping him; a bloody mess of a boy flat out on the pavement in front of a mess of a building. People might be afraid of him, lying there like some wounded animal, dangerous with pain.

Well, if it kept those bullies away he would count it as a blessing and be content with that.

Cars continued to rush by him, people continued not to help, and the breeze, now carrying with it a soft hum, kept on winding itself around his body.

Without any fuss of fanfare Tommy fell asleep.

In his sleep a fourth memory formed.

When he was about three he had taken seriously ill with swine flu; this had been at a time when it had just been him and his mommy, DS, real name Duncan Struthers, had still to intrude on their happy life. His mommy loved him very much and he loved her.

Choked to the gills, his body was sore all over, and his head throbbed. The doctor, an older gentleman with round wire rimmed glasses on his Jewish nose, and a silver hairline in advanced state of retreat, had visited on the second day of his illness. Tommy’s mommy, frantic with worry, never left his bedside as the doctor, first examined the boy, then, shaking his head, filled in a prescription on his pad, all the while looking at her over his specs.

'Young Tommy has swine flu'

his mommy made a small noise.

He pulled the note from his pad and put it in the front shirt pocket. He paused before continuing.

'I have written a prescription for Decascamine. That should help the symptoms and deal with the virus itself. I don;t want him taking too much medication at his age'

he paused again,

'This is for you. I am going to write you a personal prescription. You don’t have to take it, but it is there if you want it.'

Tommy watched as the old doctor finished writing, then tear the note from his pad and place it out of sight on the bedside table.

'I'll take this' he patted his shirt pocket 'personally to the pharmacy, because of the risk of the contagion being passed on. Shouldn't really. Against the law, but the pharmacist knows me well enough. I would normally leave it with a trusted neighbour. Not an option in this case.'

he got to his feet and put the pad away before pulling his jacket on.

'I'll see myself out'

She sat there, his small clammy hand in her warm dry one.

'Mommy?'

Tommy shook her.

'Mommy, are you ok?'

She seemed to awaken, coming to life with visible effort

'I'm fine son, just thinking about things'

'What things?'

'Oh, you are a curious little kitty aren’t you'

His mommy’s smile reassured him. He snuggled down into the covers.

'No I’m not. I'm a curious little boy'

She laughed. Tommy liked the sound.

'Curious little boys need their rest if they want to get rid of the sniffles'

'What’s Swine flu?'

'It's like cat flu and bird flu, but people can get it as well'

'I don’t want a cat or a bird. Can I get a dog?'

'When you are old enough you can get anything you want Tommy'

'I love you mommy. When I am older I promise to take care of you when you have the sniffles'

'We can look after each other when we are older'

'Okay'

Tommy yawned.

His mother wiped his brow and kissed his nose.

'I'll always be there for you Tommy'

Banforth street was silent.

It had been a long and busy day, shops doing their usual trade this close to Christmas. The coffee shop at the corner where Banforth joins Harbour street feeding and watering shoppers and traders alike, while, at the other end; where he stood now in fact, children pile pennies into the arcade, whooping and shouting as machines fed them an overdose of fun, while their parents bought presents.

Paul could remember all those years ago when he was a child. The yearly ritual of the Christmas shop when his parents had given him a handful of coins and arranged to meet him and his younger sister outside the arcade in half an hour, during which they would buy in Christmas day and, he was sure of it, grab a fly coffee and bun in Jessie s Café before collecting them. For his part, Paul would buy himself and his sister a snack, then spend the rest on Penny Crane, and the two pence falls, his sisters favourite. Not that he minded. He loved his younger sibling dearly and enjoyed spending time with her.

Now things were very different. His sister was no longer with him (she was now a professor of Sociology and Criminology at Edinburgh University.) and their parents had passed over, twenty years ago this week. And, deep down Paul knew that it had been his fault. Or at least he blamed himself, because he knew it was at least partly his fault that the boy had died. It hadn't just been him it affected he knew. The other boys had suffered as well. Two had died in accidents, and the other had hung himself from a roof beam in his house, not long after the incident in front of this house.

The building across the road winked at him.

After the police and the school had finished with their endless questions life more or less returned to normal, apart from the occasional stare in the street, voiced opinions, whispered conversations, 'that’s him' they would say behind hands 'that’s the boy who murdered the Galwood kid'

It didn’t really bother Paul that much. He had tough skin. As for the others, well, they didn’t.

But the stress of it all did show eventually. One night, about a month later he started having nightmares. He wasn't sure of the details as the memory faded as soon as he awoke. But he was left with the results, evidence he quickly buried at the bottom of the laundry basket before his parents awoke. He was sure he got away with it. Not a word from either of his parents, or anyone else, though he had an idea that his sister suspected. She had brains enough to work it out.

It was those brains that were the reason he was here now. Facing his demons down once and for all. Dealing with them here and now so that they would not come back again as they had a few days ago, worse than ever. Worse now because he remembered his dream. Worse because it was affecting his wife, who bore the brunt of his reaction.. if he ever had reason to think she was lieing about things, then the bruises up her side and leg were exhibit A. exhibit B got caught before it could damage his pride.

Paul stepped off the curb. He had to do that, but it did not mean he was totally powerless to his problem. He reasoned that the odds of any traffic on Banforth Street at three o'clock in the morning were sufficiently in his favour. The only thing he had not taken seriously in to account was the house.

And it was still hungry.

The boy watched from an upstairs window as the fire engine skidded to a stop at the end of the street, it's back end nearly level with the cab at the front. It was a dark colour he knew to be red and not green, just as he knew the wet smear trailing from the engines front wheels was red and not black, green, brown or any other colour. A woman’s hand, three black fingernails broken, dirt encrusted, folded itself gently on the boys right shoulder. He looked up at the darkness above him and smiled.

Another white butterfly drifted out of the shadows, curled itself around the blind string hanging down the middle of the window, and drew a cover over the scenes within. The house fell asleep, contented and satisfied, for now.