The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 23

“Buildings are home to histories, but is it our imaginations that project them? Or are they really there, in the fabric of the building, its dust-sheened floors, its still air?

“Approach this from the viewpoint of a character already confused and on edge about where she is, and why, and ‘Trick of the Light’ is the result. I’m very pleased with the story, and delighted and proud to see it included herein.

“It spooked me a little when I was writing it. and surely that’s a good sign.”

* * *

IT WAS THE longest drive she had ever made on her own, and she so wanted the house to feel like home. But when she turned up the short driveway from the narrow country road, and the place revealed itself behind a riot of trees and bushes, Penny stopped the car and looked down into her lap.

“Oh, Peter,” she said. In her mind’s eye he was smiling. But in his eyes there was no humour. Only a gentle mockery.

I should never have come. I don’t belong here. Peter would have loved it, but I should be back at home in our nice little house, coffee brewing, patio doors open to the garden I made my own, and which sometimes he would sit in with a map book open on his lap, pretending to be with me but never quite there. I should never.

Penny’s hands were clasped in her lap. She forced them apart and reached for the ignition, turning the keys and silencing the car’s grumble. It, like her, had never come so far.

She looked up slowly at the house, trembling with a subdued fear of elsewhere that had been with her forever, but also a little excited too. This was her taking control. Her heart hurried, her stomach felt low and heavy, and she thought perhaps she might never be able to move her legs again. The mass of the house drew her with a gravity she had never been able to understand, but which now she so wanted to. For Peter’s memory, and for the short time she had left, she so wanted to understand.

She had bought it because of its uniqueness. While it had a traditional-enough lower two levels — tall bay windows, stone walls, an inset oak front door, sandstone quoins — a tower rose a further two storeys, ending in a small circular room with a conical roof and dark windows.

The estate agent had told her that an old boss of the coal mines had used the tower to oversee work in the valleys. The mines were long gone and the valleys changed, but Penny quite liked the grounding of this story. It gave the building a solid history, and that was good. Mystery had always troubled her.

Beyond photographs, this was her first time seeing the house. Her first time being here, in her new home. She knew that Peter would have been impressed.

“I think you’ll like it here,” she said, and as she reached for the door handle, a movement caught her eye. She leaned forward and looked up at the tower’s upper windows. Squinting against sunlight glaring from the windscreen, holding up one hand, she saw the smudge of a face pressed against the glass.

“Oh!” Penny gasped. She leaned left and right, trying to change her angle of sight through the windscreen, but the face remained. It was pale and blurred by dust. She was too far away to see expression or distinctive features, but she had the impression that the mouth was open.

Shouting, perhaps.

Penny shoved the car door open and stood, shoes crunching on the gravel driveway, fully expecting the face to have vanished as she emerged from the vehicle’s warm protection. But it was still there.

“Ah, Mrs Summers,” a voice said. A tall, thin man emerged from the front porch, and though she had not met him, she recognised her solicitor’s smooth manner and gentle voice. “Is there.?” He rushed to her, his concern almost comical.

Dust, she thought. The shape was much less solid now.

“Hello, Mr Gough.” She only glanced at him as she held out her hand, and he shook her hand whilst looking up at the tower.

“A problem?” he asked. “Broken windows? A bird’s nest in the aerial?”

“No,” Penny said. I did not see a face at the window. “No problem. Just a trick of the light.”

Mr Gough’s affected concern vanished instantly, and his smile and smoothness returned. “It is a beautiful sunny day, isn’t it?”

Penny did not reply. She approached her new home, and already she could hear the phone inside ringing.

* * *

Peter moves his food around the plate. Pork chops, boiled potatoes, carrots, cauliflower. He’s eaten some of the meat, and picks at where shreds are trapped between his teeth.

“Fuck’s sake,” he says.

“Peter, please don’t talk to me like that,” Penny says. Sometimes she thinks she would prefer outright anger, but Peter rarely loses his temper in front of her, and he has never touched her. Not in anger. And recently, not in any other way either.

“It’s just. ” He trails off, and she knows what he has to say.

“It doesn’t appeal to me,” she says. “The heat, for one. Flies, midges, the diseases they carry. The toilets out there, and you know me and my stomach. The water. you can’t drink the water. And the sun is so strong. I burn just thinking about going out in the sun.”

“All those things seem big to you now,” Peter says. She can hear his desperation and impatience. They have been through this so many times before.

“I can’t help how I feel,” she says. It makes her sad, this gulf between them. It has always been present, but there were bridges — their love, the passion, and Peter sometimes going off on his own. But he says he cannot do that anymore. Says he needs her with him, now that he’s getting older. Just because he has changed, doesn’t mean she must too. The bridges are failing.

“Just a week,” he says. “The food is amazing, and there’s this one place in the hills that is just perfect for watching the sunset.”

“The food here is good,” Penny says, glancing down at his plate.

“This crap?” He shoves his plate across the table. It knocks over a glass of water, and Penny shifts back on her chair to avoid getting soaked. He’ll apologise, she thinks, but something subtle has changed. “You just want to stay here in your little house, cooking the same food, watching TV, letting the world go by and watching. watching the sun set over the roof of your neighbours’ houses.”

“Our neighbours,” she corrects him.

“Fuck’s sake,” he says again. “It’s always been you living here, Penny. I just exist.”

“I can’t help it if you want to—” she says, but Peter has already turned around and walked from the room. She hears him storming upstairs, opening and closing cupboards, and when he comes down again he is wearing his walking boots, trousers, and a fleece.

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere,” he says. The gentle way he closes the front door is worse than a slam.

Penny sits for a while, sad, analysing what has passed between them. Then she clears the table, makes a cup of tea, and turns on the TV in time for EastEnders.

“I worry about you,” Belinda said.

“I’m fine.”

“Mum, you don’t sound fine.”

“It was a long drive, that’s all, dear. And you know me, I haven’t driven that long in. ” Ever, Penny thought. I’m further from home than I’ve ever been. She felt suddenly sick, and sat gently on the second stair.

Take a rest, Peter says, tough voice soothing. Take the weight off.

A shadow filled the doorway and Mr Gough paused, as if waiting for her permission. She waved without looking, and the shadow entered her house.

“So the house?” Belinda asked.

“Is beautiful. He’ll love it.” There was an awkward silence.