Page 7 of Spooked (31 Days of Trick or Treat: Biker & Mobster #13)

I find only one anomaly on the first floor.

During my second visit to the lounge, in the corner, I see a heap of half-burned items. Curtains, if I’m not mistaken.

Another sniff in the air, and I’m sure I can sense the lingering hint of gas.

Has someone tried to start a fire here? Whether deliberate or not, it doesn’t seem to have spread too far.

There’s little to no damage to the structure of the house.

Nevertheless, I faithfully use my phone to record the scene.

Having completed my photographic inventory of the first floor, I carefully start my upward ascent of the stairs, testing each step before I put my full weight on it.

There are creaks, but nothing major that would suggest the structure is unsound.

As I rise, I admire the Palladian windows and dentil mouldings.

In its heyday, this place would have been worth a fortune.

It’s hardly any stretch of the imagination to hear voices and music of people partying downstairs, staff moving unseen between floors, and all kinds of decadent enjoyment.

A twenties’ ball, celebrations after the First World War, and maybe the second.

I’m certain this house holds a myriad of memories if only its walls could talk.

On the second floor, corridors spread out to the right and left of the impressive staircase, and a less elaborate stairway leads to the upper third floor, presumably where the servants spent their time when not attending to their mistresses and masters.

I find six impressive bedrooms. Entering the first, I hold tight onto the doorframe, as there’s a huge hole in the floor, thanking the gods that I’d proceeded carefully.

If I’d fallen through, I’d have undone all the hard work the surgeons had achieved on my left leg and probably damaged my right as well, let alone picking up any other injuries to add to my collection.

Checking my phone, I notice I have no signal, so I’d be fucked if I incapacitated myself.

Once my heart rate has returned to normal, I continue to explore.

The second bedroom and third bedroom are in about the same state, devoid of all furniture, and the floors look so weak that I hastily retreat.

Retracing my footsteps, I return to the staircase and head down the other corridor.

The next bedroom here is smaller, empty and bleak, with cobweb-covered glass obscuring the windows.

Feeling hairs rising on the back of my neck, I realise this place is giving me the creeps, and I’m one of the most levelheaded guys you could ever meet.

I don’t follow religion, worship a spiritual being in the sky, or believe there’s anything after this one life we’re given.

Which means there should be no reason at all why I keep looking over my shoulder, or why I’m experiencing the overwhelming feeling that I should get out of here now.

I force myself on, ensuring I’m photographing everything, wanting to make sure I capture everything the first time. I’m already starting to feel I never want to come back.

I look into the next room, where magazine cuttings from the 2000s hang on the walls, showing pop stars of the day, suggesting that once a teenager lived here, but there’s nothing else to be seen. I take photos but otherwise leave the room as I found it.

The final door on this floor, I hesitate before opening, as if I’ve some sixth sense of warning.

Despite the hairs rising on the back of my neck, I straighten my back, reminding myself that I’m here to do a job.

My hand shakes as I press down on the handle, then I can’t suppress my gasp.

It’s a room trapped in time, this time fully furnished, dominated by a four-poster bed, complete with brocade hangings and a mattress.

There’s a dressing table, adorned with three surround mirrors, with a full set of brushes and combs laid out on top, and a full-height, ornately carved double closet.

While the overwhelming smell of decay sweeps in from the corridor behind, here there’s a faint lingering odour of perfume.

I feel like an intruder as I snap picture after picture, without venturing fully into the room.

Slowly, I become aware that the house is darkening although it’s only midday.

The light coming in from the windows has diminished to the extent I need to turn on the flashlight on my phone.

I leap back as a flash of lightning briefly illuminates my surroundings, followed by a crack of thunder so loud, it has to be right overhead.

It’s fucking October. Too late for monsoons.

Must be an errant storm that’s blown up.

But hell, that was so close I swear I can smell sulphur.

I don’t understand my urgent urge to retreat, but I obey it anyway. As I manoeuvre my crutches to take me closer to the stairs, I hear a sudden crack, and a huge beam falls from the ceiling only inches in front of my feet. Frozen, I look up to see flakes of plaster fluttering down.

There’s an inner voice screaming inside my skull, get out, you don’t belong here, and I find myself propelling my body toward the stairwell, only to realise I haven’t explored the upper floors.

How could I explain to Shooter and Bullet that I couldn’t complete the job because I felt, let’s face it, scared?

I couldn’t. I pull myself together. The beam fell because it was its time.

The whole damn property should be condemned, and I’m just here to prove it.

I make my way around the hallway back to the upper stairway, then, heart beating like it’s going to jump out of my chest, I start to make my way up.

Crash. A rumble of thunder so loud, I’m not sure my eardrums are still intact, accompanied by the roaring of rain hitting the roof.

Then another beam falls, blocking the stairwell.

Now I’m not a suspicious guy, but I’m in an old house at the end of its life, and it’s falling down around me. I’m disabled. I can’t run. All I can do is limp my way down. I’m not afraid to admit I turn, and as fast as I can, make my way back to the ground floor.

It might be my overactive imagination, but I swear I hear the house groaning, old wood giving way.

I don’t miss the way the walls seem to be moving, as if they’re breathing in and out, and hear words on the wind coming through the broken windows.

“You’re not welcome here.” “Get out.” “Leave before it’s too late. ”

My heart thumping, breathing laboured, my crutches impeding my progress as I descend each step, I hop/swing my way toward the main doorway.

I step out into the open, suddenly realising the sky ahead has cleared and there are no clouds in sight, and no signs of any rainstorm. Even the ground is bone dry.

What the fuck?

Without even a glance back, I go to the SUV, get in and start the engine. My tyres spin as I roar away from that house. I don’t stop to close the gate.