111 West End

Chapter Nine: The Agent

The two guys in front of Ben were not the tenants he envisioned for 112 West End. Dressed in t-shirts and jeans with cropped hair, they weren't the professional types best suited to his house.

"What do you do for work?" Ben asked.

"We're Army officers," the shorter one said. Ben couldn't remember his name. Maybe Steve. He looked like a Steve.

"Ah, right. So do you move often?"

"It depends." The taller one answered.

"How many of you plan to live here?" Ben looked at Steve.

"There's four of us."

"Hmm..." Ben decided. Four young officers in his house would never work. He looked at his wristwatch. "I'll leave you to look around."

"Great, thanks."

Ben watched as they wandered into the hall. 112 West End wasn't as grand as next door, but it was still impressive. With four bedrooms, three receptions, two bathrooms, and a spacious kitchen, it had everything a fine country house should have. The only downside was the awkward stairs and lower ceilings.

Even after weeks of back and forth with various designs, the conservation officer had insisted the staircase and ceilings were to remain with no structural alterations. 

112 West End was a compromise.

"Thank you for letting us look around," Steve said, pulling Ben from his thoughts. "We think the house is perfect. What can we do to secure it?"

Ben had hoped they'd decide it was too big, or too old-fashioned. "If you contact Anne at the office, she will send you the forms. Let me show you out."

"We'll go there now," Steve said.

"Of course." Ben forced a smile. He opened the door and shook their hands as they left. When they drove away, he called the office and told Anne she was to inform the two young gentlemen the house was no longer available.

Ben had just hung up when Mrs Reynolds stepped out of her house.

"Good morning, Mrs Reynolds." Ben slipped his phone into his coat pocket.

"Oh, good morning, you made me jump." Georgie locked the front door and rattled it to check it was secure.

"I do apologise."

"Are we to have new neighbours?"

"No. The house was not right for them. Too old-fashioned."

"Really? No accounting for taste." She shrugged and buttoned her coat higher.

"How is Mr Reynolds?" Ben asked, noting the absence of his silver Mercedes.

"He's good. Nick's working in Germany at the moment."

"Is he away for long?"

"No. He'll be back next week."

Ben nodded. "Well, I'll let you get on. I have an appointment in town."

"Sure. Have a good day, Mr Goldman."

  "And you, Mrs Reynolds." Ben stepped inside the house and pushed the door to. He waited until she drove away and closed the door.

Ben placed the brass key in the lock and turned it. The door between 111 and 112 was heavier than the others and creaked on its hinges as it opened.

"Hello, again," Ben whispered. "Did you miss me?"

He trod carefully along the flagstones towards the stairs. This section of the house always gave him chills. The darkness seemed to gather there and occasionally he would glimpse a flicker of gold. A spark of light amongst the gloom. He initially thought it was a trick of the light. But now he knew better.

Ben watched for the spark as he climbed the stairs. Today the house was quiet as if in anticipation. The stairs turned, and he looked up.

He staggered back, his foot missing the lower step. Ben grabbed the handrail to regain his balance, but his knee hit the stairs with a sickening crunch. Adrenaline masked any pain he should've felt.

What the hell?

In front of him hung a painting he'd not seen for fourteen years. A painting that filled him with horror. He clapped a hand over his mouth as bile stung his throat. Ben ran up the last steps, along the landing, and into the bathroom. He knelt over the toilet and vomited until his sides ached.

When he had done, he flushed the toilet and splashed his face with cold water. He clutched the sides of the basin as his body shook.

This can't be happening.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he left the safety of the bathroom and limped along the landing, the pain in his knee increasing with each step. He stood in front of the portrait.

A man with wispy grey hair, heavy wrinkles, and deep-set eyes stared back at him. This man had worked until his death and the hands on the grandfather clock behind him were forever stuck at five minutes past twelve.

Ben read the brass nameplate... Doctor Arthur Bennet by Natalie Wilson.

"Fuck you!" he hissed.

Ben's head swam as his chest constricted. He needed to get out. He hobbled down the stairs and along the hall. But he could no longer ignore the faint ticking, the sudden chill, and the rustle of fabric... or the thud as he locked the door between 111 and 112 West End.