Married Quarters

    Phoebe could only fiddle with her food, their first meal together in their first home together. She’d shrugged off the unease she felt on stepping into her husband’s cottage, rented for years whilst he served abroad. Something about it was getting under her skin.

    “There’s nothing wrong with this place. Laura talked rubbish about feeling weird round here. Give it time.”

    At the mention of his ex-wife, Phoebe looked at her new husband, struggling with his chopsticks before giving up and reaching for a fork. He looked tired; rings around his eyes, stubble shading his jawline. 

Sighing she pushed the take-away containers aside. Ravenous before ordering the meal, her appetite now faded.

“We didn’t move too fast did we? Me selling my place?”

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

She tilted her head to one side and smiled.

“About us getting married, absolutely not. About moving into your cottage, I didn’t have first thoughts because you’d already decided. Finish up my food, please, I’m not hungry. Shame to waste it. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Her chair squeaked as she went to the sink. Boxes of kitchenalia were stacked neatly, methodically labelled by Wilt. She’d dug out the kettle, toaster, some crockery and cutlery to tide them over until she could get stuck into unpacking properly over the coming week.

“Did you put the mugs back in the box?”

Phoebe turned to Wilt, who was checking his phone, digging into her Kung Po chicken.

“Nope. I’ve not touched a thing except for getting the boxes in order. The removals firm didn’t have a clue. Your boxes for the bedroom were in the porch for some reason.”

    She frowned.

    “Weird. I checked them upstairs and made sure everything was ticked off.”

    Wilt laughed, “I bet you did.”

    “So why were they in the porch?”

    He shrugged, shovelling in another mouthful of rice.

    “Maybe you missed a couple?”

    Phoebe opened the box marked ‘cups, mugs, teapot.’

    “They’re here. The ones I took out this afternoon. See what I mean?”

    Wilt put his fork down.

    “No, I don’t see what you mean. We’re both knackered, things are upside down because we’ve just moved in. I’ll clear up, you go grab a shower.”

    He reached out to her hand resting on the table, but Phoebe withdrew it sharply. She wasn’t so tired she didn’t know what she’d unpacked and what she hadn’t.

    “I’ll make us a cuppa, go on. You look exhausted.”

    He leaned in for a kiss, but she pushed past him, shaking her head.

    “Bonnie’s coming over next week. If there’s something off about this cottage, she’ll know.”

#

    Phoebe lay in bed, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind whistling through the trees outside. Despite feeling exhausted, she’d got into bed and couldn’t sleep.

    She found her slippers and headed to the bathroom when she stopped at a sound coming from downstairs. Something being dragged across the kitchen tiles.

    Momentarily she thought about waking Wilt, but gave herself a mental slap, she was a senior army officer, she’d witnessed myriad horrors of an earthly nature and wasn’t given to flights of fancy.

    A scraping sound made her stop dead as she went downstairs. The sound was clear and loud, coming from the open door to the kitchen. There was definitely someone moving about. Despite herself, she felt scared.

    Quietly, heart pounding, she reached the hallway. It was pitch black, no suitably eerie moon and no street lights to provide any second hand illumination. The kitchen door was ajar, so with a gentle push she reached around to feel for the light switch.

    “Jesus!”

    What the hell was going on?

The dining table had been moved to the centre of the kitchen floor, the chairs piled up on the tabletop, precariously balanced. Phoebe gaped, back pressed to the wall. The ceiling light, temporarily sporting a single bulb, swung ever so slightly from side to side, as if caught by a draft.

    She walked smartly to the kitchen window and checked the latch. It was closed tight. She tried the back door. Locked. The only other way anyone could have left was through the lounge, so she hurried in, turning on the light.

    It was as they’d left it, boxes neatly stacked, furniture covered in dust cloths carefully pushed up against the wall. She weaved through towards the only other route out of the cottage via the conservatory door. It too was locked. She placed her hand on the cold window to peer into the garden. Nothing.

    If this was Wilt’s idea of a practical joke, she’d kill him. Spooked, Phoebe turned to go ask him what the hell he thought he was doing when a cold draft brushed past her neck. She put her hand on the spot where she’d felt the breeze and looked round.

    A shadow seemed to move between the boxes, towards the kitchen door. It happened so fast she wasn’t sure if it wasn’t just tired eyes seeing things. She felt the breeze again, closer this time, like breath upon her neck, followed by a deep, rasping voice,

    “Get out!”

#

    Phoebe waved Wilt off as he scrambled gravel, leaving for a month’s tour of duty in Germany. He sounded the horn as he pulled onto the lane. All she was left with was birdsong, the rattle of the dry autumn leaves in the breeze and the distant thrum of motorway traffic. Normality. Wrapping her arms around herself she turned and looked at the house.

    It was the perfect epitome of a quaint English country cottage. White washed walls, windows made up of little panes, the only newish addition was a small porch draped in climbing plants she presumed were roses with possibly an entwined clematis.

She could see why he loved it, and why he hadn’t sold it but rented it out after he and Laura divorced.

    He’d dismissed her story about the voice, suggesting she see the army psych team. Warily, she went back indoors, avoiding the kitchen where she got a bad vibe. 

    She thought she heard a noise.

It came again. A knock.

    Trying to control her breathing she climbed the creaking stairs. At the top she waited.

    Again, a knock. A rap. Like knuckles on a hard surface.

    She checked the smaller bedroom they’d selected as their home office.

    Again, a rap.

    She looked into the spare bedroom. It was plainly decorated, neutral bedding, no pictures on the walls. Her kids might stay here if they ever spoke to her again. They loathed Wilt.

    Again, a rap, this time closer.

    Phoebe edged her way into their bedroom with its sloping ceilings and uneven wooden floors.

    A sharp rap at the window made her turn. It was fleeting, and a dark shadow beyond the glass seemed to dissolve as soon as she saw it. With a trembling hand she slowly unlatched the handle to see if anything was outside. Nothing, just that straggly rose bush.

    She breathed deeply, telling herself off for being so daft. Wilt could get the loppers out when he was back. Phoebe gave the duvet a shake and plumped the pillows, shaking her head. Why was she so skittish? Turning, she found the bedroom door closed. Weird, she thought, it was open a second ago.

    Another noise made her spin, a low groan in the corner near the window. A large shadowy shape filled her vision, a gasp at her ear.

    “Get out!”

#

    “When did this happen?”

    Phoebe had found some emergency cigarettes in her car and was outside when Bonnie arrived. Drawing deeply, she closed her eyes and shook her head.

    “The kitchen? A moment ago. That’s why I’m out here. I ran down the stairs after I heard the voice and saw the state of the place and…”

    Trailing off, Phoebe shook her head.

    “It’s nuts. You understand, right? You believe me?”

    She smiled as Bonnie wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder and gave her a hug.

    “I’ll help clear up.”

    Phoebe stood in the doorway as Bonnie put all the strewn contents of the cupboards and drawers back where they belonged.

    “Whatever it is, it’s messy. You saw a dark figure?”

    Phoebe shook her head.

    “Not a figure, a mass, a shadow of some kind. I don’t know, Bon, I’m not up on these things like you.”

    She watched Bonnie fill the kettle and grab a couple of mugs. Bonnie was her daughter’s friend from school, the kid who got picked on for being odd, a Goth, a professional ghost hunter or whatever it was. They’d stayed in touch, and hearing about her relationship collapsing, the miscarriage and what happened in London, she’d offered Bonnie a place to recharge.

     “Can you sense anything? Something’s here.”

    Phoebe shuddered. She didn’t take her eyes off the young woman with her dyed hair and Doc Martins in a ‘Sparks’ t-shirt.

    “I can, but…” Bonnie looked about her. “It’s a very pretty cottage, Wilt did good.”

    Phoebe shrugged.

    “Didn’t say it was haunted, did he? Doesn’t bode well does it?”

    She let Bonnie pour the milk. The tea looked a bit weak, but she was grateful to have company.

    “Give me the tour then.”

    Phoebe led her into the lounge.

    “You said it started the night you both moved in, went quiet last week, then you’ve had issues today?”

    Phoebe nodded.

    Bonnie asked, “It’s been okay with Wilt here, apart from the first night?”

    She nodded again, then shook her head.

    “Bon, I had a bad feeling even before we moved in. Second thoughts about selling my house and moving into the home he had with Laura. We should have bought something fresh somewhere.”

    “Second thoughts about the marriage?”

    Phoebe didn’t bite. She hadn’t said that.

    “We were fine as we were.”

    Tap, tap, tap. A rapping sounded from upstairs.

    Both women froze, Phoebe’s eyes on Bonnie.

    Tap, Tap. Louder this time. The chimneybreast shook, photos in frames visibly juddering.

    “Is this what you heard before you saw that shape?”

    Phoebe nodded.

    Bang, Bang. The door rattled on its hinges.

    “Stay here.”

    “Bugger that!”

    Phoebe followed Bonnie as she raced through the kitchen and up the stairs.

    “Our room is…”

    “Don’t tell me.”

    Bonnie took a turn at the top of stairs and listened.

    BANG!

    The house shook. Phoebe gripped the banister as Bonnie found the bedroom and went in. As when the sun goes behind a cloud on an autumn day, a chill descended.

    Silence. Phoebe watched as Bonnie stood in the doorway and looked about her.

    BANG!

    The same cold breath she’d felt earlier blew down the nape of her neck, an indistinct whisper passing by. The bedroom door slammed shut.

    “Bon?”

    There was no reply. Phoebe grabbed the door handle but it resisted.

    “Bonnie, what’s happening?”

    There was a sudden clawing sound across the inside of the door, and the sunlight from the landing window seemed to dim. The temperature dipped further, and Pheobe let out a cry as something small and sharp hit her on the back of her head. She looked down at the rug. A button. Then another hit her, and another.

    The door flew open, and Bonnie stepped out, holding one side of her face, motioning for Phoebe to move downstairs fast.

    “What happened?”

    Phoebe turned to look at Bonnie, stumbling slightly at the foot of the stairs.

    “In there.”

    Bonnie pointed at the kitchen door and then nearly ran into Phoebe’s back as she pulled up sharp. The kitchen table was upturned and balanced on its legs were the four chairs, swaying ever so gently.

    Phoebe didn’t get tearful. She was made of rocks and iron, she didn’t run away, she took control and stood her ground. This, though…

    “I can’t stay here.”

Bonnie, with a worried expression, took the older woman’s hands.

    “This house doesn’t want to be a home.”

#

    Phoebe wouldn’t sit at the upright kitchen table as she and Bonnie half heartedly shared a couple of rounds of sandwiches.

    “There’s an angry presence.”

    Phoebe knew Bonnie was trying hard to sensitively convey the madness. The young woman had scratches across her cheek, as if she’d caught herself on thorns.

    “Look, I’m happy to call Wilt and tell him that I’m not staying here. I’m sure we can get married quarters on the base, or we can rent somewhere temporarily.”

    Do something practical, she told herself, a project to focus on, that’d clear my head, ground me, escape the insanity.

    “Don’t rush into anything. Let me at least try and communicate with it.”

    Phoebe wasn’t convinced.

    “If you’d asked me a week ago whether I believed in ghosts or hauntings or whatever, I’d have laughed in your face. No offence.”

    Bonnie smiled, letting her friend continue.

    “It hurt you. If it can trash a kitchen, make walls shake, shout in my ear and harm you of all people then I’m happy to stop occupying someone else’s home. I clearly wasn’t meant to be here.”

    “Let me try.”

#

     It was dusk and night was creeping in. A fox barked in the field nearby, a sound that freaked Phoebe out.

    “Sit at the table with me. There’s a lot of energy centred here in the kitchen.”

    Phoebe had opened a beer and perched herself on the edge of a chair, ready to make her escape.

    “Do we need to turn the lights off or something?”

    Bonnie shook her head.

    “Nah, it doesn’t make any difference.”

    One of the other chairs began to wobble of its own accord. Wide eyed, Phoebe inched away from it.

    “Ignore it. It’s just attention seeking.”

    Draining her can, Phoebe popped another.

    “Okay, if I look like I’m in a trance or asleep don’t try and wake me.”

    Nodding, Phoebe was drawn to something in the corner of her eye. She turned but it was gone. She observed Bonnie’s eyes closing as she clutched one of the manifested buttons, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath. The lights overhead flickered briefly. Just on the edge of hearing was the faintest whisper, a furious voice, something or someone was very angry.

    Bonnie’s lips began to contort before she shouted in a hard voice, “Get out!”

    Phoebe put her can down to prevent spilling it.

    The light overhead flickered again, as did the clocks on the microwave and stove. The radio burst into life, music blaring before stopping, Bonnie’s rapid breathing the only sound.

    “Get out!”

    Phoebe realised her teeth were chattering, it was bitterly cold.

    Bonnie spoke in her own voice, quietly and calmly, as if to someone in another room.

    “Why can’t you leave?”

    Tilting her head she appeared to be listening to a reply.

    “This isn’t your home anymore. Let this couple take care of it from now on.”

    “Bugger that,” Phoebe muttered under her breath.

    A kitchen drawer slid open, rattling cutlery.

    Phoebe jumped when her phone lit up. A message from Wilt.

    “Hi love, arrived safely. Has Bonnie arrived to exorcize the old pile? Always wondered why the letting agent was forever chasing tenants, forfeiting their deposits because they upped and left. Got lots on this evening, call tomorrow. Wilton x”

    A chair slid backwards into the cupboards and fell with a clatter. She re-read the message. Chasing tenants who walked out?

    “In the kitchen?”

    Bonnie, eyes screwed up, shook her head, trying to catch what was being said.

    “Slow down. In here?”

    She gave a huge sigh then nodded.

    “I understand.”

    The lights went out leaving Phoebe with just her phone to see by. The tap tapping began again overhead, growing louder until it became a rhythmic tattoo of banging, making the plates rattle.

    “Phoebe?”

    That was Bonnie’s real voice, wasn’t it?

    “I think we should step outside.”

#

    Phoebe’s office on the base was small but neat. She’d not been sure about a desk job after all the years of active service, but, for now, it felt right.

    Her phone rang.

    “He’s here.”

    “Send him in.”

    The door opened without a knock and a confused and angry Wilt stormed in, wearing a ‘what the hell?’ expression.

“Are you crazy?”

    “When were you going to tell me?”

    She could barely look at her husband and wasn’t doing a good job of concealing her anger.

    “I’ve flown back because you said it was urgent. Life or death. Do you know the hoops I had to go through, how many favours I’ve had to call in?”

    “Why didn’t you tell me about the cottage? The home you created with your first wife. What happened to her?”

    “Laura? She’s living with some guy in Milton Keynes, you met her at that Christmas party.”

    “Not Laura, she was number two. Wife number one? Cathy? Cathy Rossley, nee Gant?”

    She pointed at the copy of a marriage entry on her desk.

    “Home address, The Cottage, Axham Green. Ring any bells?”

    She watched Wilt’s eyes flick between her desk, her face, her pen, the window behind her. Outside, there was more activity than usual for this backwater army base.

    “Cathy Rossley went missing fifteen years ago.”

    Wilt swallowed.

“They brought in cadaver dogs and ground penetrating radar.”

    He didn’t reply, distracted by military police vehicles in the car park. Uniformed personnel were heading their way.

    “I was a bit taken aback, to be fair. Having the front porch dug up. Them finding old bin bags of clothes, jewellery, bones.”

    His jaw moved up and down. There was a knock at the door.

    “Your dead wife was desperate to tell us all about you. What you did. Dismembering her body on the kitchen table. Bonnie had an illuminating chat with Cathy.”

    Wilt’s breathing was loud, anxious. He knew he was trapped.

    “This is bullshit. I don’t believe in ghosts!”

    “The police don’t either. They’ve got forensic evidence.”

    Phoebe fixed her eyes on her husband.

    “The police want to talk to you.”

    “Phoebe, listen…”

“Get out!”

#