Page 6 of The Haunting of William Thorn

Fire poker in hand, William crept back up the stairs.

Although the footsteps had stopped before he’d thrown the journal down and left the living room with his weapon of choice in hand, his mind still reeled with unwanted possibilities.

Rats , he thought. But that wasn’t an option unless the rats were a hundred pounds and walked on careful, slow feet.

Squatters seemed more likely, which was what made him take the fire poker and raise it before him like a sword.

“If you can hear me,” he started, feigning confidence but failing as his voice cracked. “I’ve had a really long day, I’m cold and tired, but I’m also a Gemini in need of a good drink. If there is… or you are… hiding in my house, I’m not opposed to smacking you bloody…”

No one responded.

Although William had checked most of the rooms earlier, he had been searching for a fuse box rather than a person.

Anyone could have seen him arrive and hidden beneath sheets or behind the countless pieces of furniture littering each room.

The thought that he’d been watched made him sick. But more so, he felt angry.

Anger was a default emotion for William, and a new one at that.

Since Archie’s death, William had flares of fast, hot fury assault him at times even when such an emotion wasn’t warranted.

His therapist told him it was a natural response to grief, and in time it would fade.

But he found that his ire kindled, burning hotter as time continued.

In truth, it was what came before Archie passed that spoiled the person William once was. Since then, he’d left holes in doors from his fist, or a broken bottle or two smashed against the floor.

He both hated this new side to him and revelled in it.

And if there was someone in his house, the anger would come in rather handy.

“I know you are here,” William called out again, knuckles white as he tightened on his weapon. “I heard you.”

He’d be a shit Final Girl in a horror film.

William’s muscles tensed and bunched with energy, ready to put force behind a swing if and when required.

The thought of leaving out the front door did pass his mind, but for one, this was his home now, and two, what would he do?

Running to the nearest town wasn’t an option being miles away, and his phone had no signal and was almost entirely out of battery.

Even if it had battery, he had no hope of charging it until he could get the electrics working.

William was more like the Final Gay, except didn’t the gay characters usually die first in horror films…?

Well shit.

On he forged, moving from room to room, sticking the pointy end of the poker into unusually sheet-covered shapes. William half expected a cry of pain from his inanimate victims, but it was either the dull thud of metal against wood or the cushioned resistance of material he stabbed.

Confident no one hid beneath beds or behind heavy curtains, William stood before the final set of stairs that led to the top floor.

The attic. If anyone was hiding in the house this would no doubt be the place.

Ahead of him, he caught the moon rising beyond the window, casting its ominous glow across the landscape beyond.

Fields of silver and trees crowned with light, the view looked otherworldly.

He thought of what he saw earlier and felt a little sick.

Actually, very sick, because that could’ve been his intruder fleeing.

If they’ve already left, what did you hear?

Apart from the attic, the cellar was the only other place best suited for a hiding squatter, and for all William cared about, the intruder could stay down there, undisturbed.

The sound definitely came from above him, which was a relief because there was no chance he was going into the cellar tonight. Not until he was brave from at least one bottle of wine. And until the electrics were working again.

William reached the narrow slip of a landing and had two rooms left to investigate.

Phone in hand, he flashed the torchlight before him to the two doors.

They were opposite to one another, and both closed.

Up in the attic space, the air was warmer but also thick with mould and dust. He almost choked on it.

William tried one door, but the handle wouldn’t budge, as with the other door.

They were both locked.

William pressed his ear to both, waiting and listening. There was nothing of note from within, but he drew a rickety chair and placed it before the door anyway. If a person was hiding there, the chair would fall and notify him when they came back out.

After searching high and low, literally, William was satisfied the sound was nothing too ominous. He promptly gave up on his search for the promise of wine.

For the rest of the night, William wouldn’t let the fire poker stray too far.

There was no one here, but if someone was in the locked attic rooms, good luck to them.

Somewhere stuffed in the bottom of William’s bag was a large ring of keys given to him by Archie’s lawyer.

But he wasn’t going to bother unlocking the rooms until tomorrow.

Old houses talk. That’s what it had to be. The excuse seemed good enough for William, who put it in the back of his mind, like many things. For now.

The next horror he had to face was a shower. Since he was already on the middle floor William thought it was the best use of his time to tackle that reality next.

Not but three minutes later, William stood beneath a pathetic trickle until his skin stung with the freezing water.

The pressure was abysmal, but it did the job.

Washing the day’s travel and evening’s worth of ash, scavenging and fear from him was a relief.

By the time he was done, he didn’t think about potential squatters or noises, only the desperation to warm up by a newly lit fire and drink himself into a state so sleep would be easy.

It crossed his mind that he should’ve lit the fire before the shower. Hindsight and all that, it was very on brand for William to not think so methodically.

He changed into an oversized hoodie, baggy jogging bottoms and slippers shaped like dogs. Ridiculous, yes, but comfortable also. And at least no one could judge him here – not that he cared if they did.

Returning to the living room, he lit a fire with ease, and besides the slightly concerning smell of burning and the initial billowing of smoke from the chimney, the house didn’t burn down.

William drew himself up on the large sofa and practically melted into its pillows. With the open bottle of red wine raised to his mouth, he took five deep swigs. Maybe six actually.

Who needed a glass anyway?

“Much better,” he said to himself, lifting the bottle in a cheers. When no one replied, not even the creaking house, he smiled to himself. “Much better indeed.”

The more William drank, the harder his thoughts came. Thick and fast the lighter the bottle became. He enjoyed the soothing wave of alcohol as it numbed his throat and filled his belly, although it did little to still the unwanted voices in his head.

He wondered what Archie would’ve thought of William coming here.

How William was facing a future that he never knew existed until after Archie died.

He could almost hear Archie’s laugh – the deep rumbling of it, always so demanding and infectious that it made William chuckle to himself at the memory.

But one thing was certain: Archie wanted Hanbury to be a place they could both exist.

Now, William was alone.

William disregarded the solicitor’s suggestion of selling the manor. This was his chance to escape. But mostly he didn’t sell because if anything could bring Archie back from the dead, it was the opportunity for him to say, ‘don’t leave me out, Will’.

Then there was the one thought that had helped make the decision to come here easier.

The concept of never leaving Hanbury Manor.

William was in the middle of nowhere, cold and alone. If he survived this, he thought about getting a big hairy dog eventually, calling it Zeus, just as Archie would’ve wanted. Even if the thought of doing anything Archie wanted to do in life only hurt him.

The fire spat and hissed, sending flecks of hot ash onto the wood flooring. Odd, William should’ve perhaps cared that the floor would likely be ruined, but he knew it was one of the first things he would have ripped up when work began.

He had come to Hanbury Manor to familiarise himself with it while finalising his plans for the property. Keep it or sell up. Either way, the chance to make a home with Archie as they had always planned – together – was gone.

There was another reason for his one-week stay here, a darker concept that he’d pushed to the corners of his mind. He had five more days until that decision had to be made.

By the time the bottle was almost finished, it was so dark beyond the window that William couldn’t even guess the time.

His body was exhausted, but his mind wouldn’t shut off.

He had no idea which room he would sleep in tonight, and the thought of leaving the sofa was displeasing.

If he wasn’t careful, the bottle of wine would be finished, and he would be left with nothing to occupy himself.

Then his eyes fell on the burnt journal he’d left on the table.

He pondered it for a moment, head fuzzy from the malbec.

As he contemplated it, the house seemed to quiver in response.

The winds beyond the manor rattled the glass in their frames, making it seem like the roof would peel away.

He heard the creaking above him again, but this time he put it down to just the gale outside.

William reached over, fingers gripping the neck of the bottle for dear life. He pulled the journal toward him, palm tickling the leather-bound cover until it slipped from the table, and he caught it in his only spare hand.

“So then, Robert,” William said, reading the name scrawled on the page. “Let’s see if you have enough allure to distract me from my shambles of a life.”

It felt odd speaking aloud but comforting as the manor responded in its own way.

William leaned back, taking yet another large swig of wine until the bottle was truly empty, and he was gasping for breath.

Discarding the bottle on the floor, he didn’t take his eyes off the book as he placed it on his lap.

The glow of the fire flickered across it, offering just enough light to read.

He felt uncomfortable he peeled the book open for a second time. As though he was prying into something he shouldn’t. But it wasn’t enough to stop him from turning through the first handful of empty pages until he came across the first page covered in impeccable handwriting.

“Tell me your story, and I’ll tell you mine,” William slurred to himself, finger tracing the date in the top left-hand corner of the page. “But you first.”

Read and find out , the journal seemed to say. We all have one.