A House Like This Needed People

The Gables sits on the edge of the village in two acres of its own grounds. If you angle your gaze correctly when walking over the village’s only bridge you can just about make out its roof and chimneys peeking over the top of the hedge. I caught my first glimpse of The Gables, the day we moved to the village. Evelyn had gone ahead with the children. I was driving the furniture in a hired van. Perched up high behind the wheel I had a slightly elevated view. I saw the house and its lawns and the sweeping drive and knew straight away the place was to be avoided. Of course, I’d be careful not to frighten the children -they were at a very impressionable age- but I’d make sure they never went near The Gables. It was clearly the sort of house that needed people. I recognised that hungry look. Growing up, there’d been a similar place on our way home from school. Ancient. Rickety. Haunted-looking.

The kind of house you pitched stones at.

I never did. I was an extremely sensible child.

I knew how to keep myself safe.

Evelyn and I don’t see eye to eye about The Gables. My wife’s a very practical woman. She only believes in science and facts. She won’t let me warn the children. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Evelyn’s one of those mothers who doesn’t let Santa into the house. She won’t read fairy tales or play at monsters with the children. She’s quite capable of ignoring all the rumours floating around the village. The missing gardener and those two teenagers. The whole family’s worth of previous tenants who, I’m reliably informed, have disappeared. Evelyn doesn’t listen to gossip. Evelyn insists it’s just a house. She says there must be a logical explanation for the people who’ve gone missing. She’s determined to go ‘round and investigate herself.

I try to tell her she’s not allowed. You can imagine how well this goes down. Evelyn’s not the sort of woman who’s easily cowed. I ask her politely. I revert to begging. I say, “please, Darling, don’t go over to The Gables. I’m not ready to lose you yet.” She laughs -she actually laughs in my face- and I have to admit that on her lips, the whole thing sounds a little ludicrous. “Do you really expect me to believe, that dear old house, eats people?” she asks. I nod, “yes, I do” and even as I’m nodding, find that I’m laughing at how silly it sounds.

We come to a kind of compromise. We’ll go together in the car. We pick a Saturday morning, when the sun is high and the sky is blue. The village looks like a regular village and The Gables is almost picturesque. I’m not exactly sure what we’re doing. I understand it’s a kind of therapy. Evelyn’s believes my phobia is rooted deep in my psyche. Today we are exorcising my childhood fears. But what exactly will this look like? Will we walk around? Will we go inside? Will we venture down to the basement in search of skeletons and bloody stains? Will it be enough to stand at the window and just peak in?

We are standing at the window, peering through the filthy glass at what was once the living room. I can see empty bookshelves and a coffee table, two dusty armchairs and a fireplace. It doesn’t look particularly creepy, more like an off-season holiday rental. I can imagine people living here. “See,” says Evelyn, resting her hand upon my shoulder, “there’s nothing to be afraid of here. It’s just an ordinary, empty house.” I try to agree with Evelyn. I want to tell her this morning has helped. I am no longer scared of The Gables. I’d even be happy if we lived here. But nothing’s really changed. I still believe the house is just offering us a nice façade. Behind those curtains and that coffee table, I can sense its hunger. It’s like a vortex, drawing both us both gradually in. 

It’s hard not to run when the fear comes on you. I am proud of myself for resisting the urge. I say, “ok, you win Evelyn. It’s a lovely old place. Can we go now?” and manage to keep my voice from shaking. I turn on my heels and walk back up the drive, slowly, slowly with deliberation, holding my wife’s hand tightly. We walk side by side to the gates of The Gables. Neither of us looks back. Neither of us speaks. I am the first to notice the car is empty. The children aren’t in the backseat where we left them. The door is open on the passenger side. I am the first to understand what’s happened but if I’m honest I think I already knew.

 Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1953 novel After the Funeral