Story Series | Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven | Now

Audrey manages to scrape together a decent breakfast for her guest, which, since she doesn’t yet have a table or chairs, they enjoy out on the sundrenched patio, sitting on the steps leading to the front door with their plates in their laps. 

“The mimosas were a grand idea,” Jay says, massaging his temples.

“It does help take the edge off.”

“And you know what, so were those bedtime Advils. I’m stealing that trick.”

“You should. I’m appalled you don’t know it by now, aren’t you Irish?”

He laughs. “Only half.” 

His phone buzzes then, and he checks the screen. 

“It’s my mum. Mind if I answer? I don’t know if I texted her where I went last night…”

“Answer it!” 

Jay puts his phone to his ear and immediately announces, “I’m alive.”

Audrey can hear a muffled, “I mean, I thought so, but fuck, text me next time, will you? What happened to you last night?”

Jericho laughs and glances at Audrey, smiling apologetically. “I got a last-minute gig down by the river and met—met a friend and—”

“Okay, okay, say no more. Tell me more about this gig?”

Audrey peers out into her courtyard, pretending not to eavesdrop. 

“I’ll tell you when I get to the hotel, Mum.” 

“Okay, okay. Well, are you coming back soon? I invited a friend over for brunch, he’s very high up at the Opéra national de Paris and I thought I might introduce you, he told me they happen to be looking for pianists for the ballet...”

“Mum…”

“Oh, it’s nothing, I just figured, you know, you never know where opportunities might arise…”

“Fine, Mum, that’s fine, that’s great, I’ll be there soon. Thank you. I should probably release my poor friend from my presence anyway.” He grins at Audrey, who rolls her eyes. 

“Could you grab some champagne on your way here?” 

Jay shuts his eyes irritably. “Sure.” 

“Thanks, darling. See you soon.”

Jay hangs up with a deep, regretful sigh and as soon as he turns to Audrey she hands him the unopened bottle of Moët that was nestled in the ice bucket next to her. 

“Oh, come on,” he protests. 

“I probably shouldn’t have this near me, anyway,” she says reasonably, pressing the bottle into his hands. “Besides, it’ll save you a hungover trip to the market.” 

Jay laughs. “Fine. But I owe you a replacement bottle.”

“If we keep going on like this we’re never going to be square.”

“I’m fine with that.” 

A few minutes later, Jay has gathered his things and is slinging his bag over his shoulder with one hand on the front gate. Audrey leans against the barrier wall next to him and crosses her arms, looking at him through smiling, squinting eyes. 

“So,” he says. 

“So.”

“Thanks for that.”

“For what?”

“Oh, all of it.”

“The pleasure was literally all mine.”

“Not all yours.”

Audrey grins down at her shoes. 

“Let’s text about meeting again? Please? Not to sound desperate. But please?”

Audrey laughs now, and looks up to look at him. “Yes. Yes, please.” 

Jay returns her smile and leans in to kiss her. She meets him half-way, stepping on her toes to press her lips against his. 

“See you.”

“See you.”

Jay exits the courtyard and traipses off. Audrey watches until he waves from the corner, just like he did the other night, and she waves back, then brushes her fingers along her mouth. 

She turns to face her house and realizes she hasn’t smiled this much — hasn’t smiled at all, really — in months. 

It’s almost 1:30, and the movers are supposed to be here at 2:00 to get rid of the stuff in the attic. Audrey decides to go up there and move the furniture closer to the trapdoor to make the thing as quick and efficient as possible. 

Upstairs, the spare bedroom is alight just like the other rooms in the house. She climbs the ladder and coughs as a spurt of dust falls directly into her face. 

Spluttering, she manages to throw the trapdoor open and hoists herself into the musty, grey attic, which is significantly darker and gloomier than the rest of the house, especially now that she’s decorated more than half of the rooms below. 

She spends a minute or two clearing paths through the clutter from the trapdoor to the various items of furniture. Then she turns to the couch, the largest beast. 

“All right, you nasty old thing,” Audrey mutters, sauntering over to the musty and frayed heap of fabric sitting at its perch by the window that faces the graveyard. “I’m really sorry about this, but you’re being evicted. I’d keep you if I wasn’t positive you were ripe with asbestos.” 

She grips the couch with both arms spread wide and shoves it a few inches from the wall. Then another few inches. Then she squeezes between it and the wall, checking first to ensure there aren’t any mice — she just sees the black floor — and shoves it forward a few more feet towards the trapdoor. 

Once the couch is sufficiently removed from its resting place of the last thirty-odd years, Audrey steps back, sweating, to survey her work. But when her eyes land again on the newly unveiled patch of floor that the couch had been sitting on, she pauses, one eyebrow raised. The floor isn’t black; the wood she just uncovered is actually lacquered in a large, dark stain. 

She steps closer. In the dim light coming through the window, it looks almost shiny, like long-dried nail polish — about five feet of it, running along the edge of the floor where it meets the wall. 

“What the fuck?” she whispers, kneeling next to the large splotch and leaning in close to examine it. She shivers involuntarily. 

And then, as quick and as nauseatingly unpleasant as a shot of warm vodka, she feels breath on her neck. 

“Get out.”

Audrey screams before the second word is whispered in her ear and, losing complete control of herself, scrambles to her feet, arms splayed wildly in defence. But no one is there; she’s alone in the attic, and nothing appears amiss. 

“What?” she shrieks, tears brimming in her eyes now, whether of relief or fear she can’t tell. 

And then she hears another, similarly quiet sound: “Hello?”

“H-hello?” she croaks, quivering all over, looking manically around and hurrying blindly toward the trapdoor. 

“Mlle. Beaufille?” 

It’s a voice coming from way down below. 

It’s just the movers. 

“Jesus Christ,” Audrey gasps, her hand on the back of her neck where she could swear she just felt someone’s hot, bitter breath, but it must have been a shift in the dank air up here, and the voice must have been the movers calling to her from the courtyard… 

Still trembling violently, Audrey steps onto the ladder, descends a few steps and pauses with her head still through the trapdoor to glance back at the couch. It’s sitting right where she left it, and still the attic looks unsuspicious. 

“Fucking fuck,” she mutters all the way down the stairs, still rubbing her neck, feeling her pulse beating there, so hard she worries it might burst from her skin. 

It’s fine, she tells herself. You’re just hungover. And you inhaled a gallon of dust on your way up that ladder. You’re fine. 

Not quite satisfied with this conclusion, Audrey opens the front door. Two burly men nearly jump out of their skins at the abrupt movement and one lets out a high-pitched yelp. 

“Mlle. Beaufille,” one of them says, composing himself. His accent sounds Portugese. 

“Oui, I’m sorry, I was up in the attic, and I couldn’t hear you knocking,” Audrey says, alarmed at how breathless she is. She tries to take a few discreet, deep inhales. Her heart is still hammering so loudly she can barely hear her visitors. 

“Pas de problème,” the man says, his eyes flicking past her into the main floor beyond. “So, the furniture is in the attic?” 

“Oui,” Audrey says, opening the door wider to let them in. They step inside and she closes the door behind them. “As I mentioned in my email, the trapdoor is definitely large enough to get all the pieces out, it’ll just be a bit of a difficult job. Which is why I hired you guys, instead of trying it myself and probably breaking my neck.”

Audrey laughs nervously, but the movers don’t reciprocate. In fact, they barely seem to have heard her; they’re both staring around the room, taking in the open-concept space, their eyes wide and mouths slack as though they’re tourists ogling at some spectacle.

“Well, I’ll show you up.” Audrey gestures for them to follow her to the spiral staircase, and they oblige, though slowly. 

“Up there,” she says when they enter the guest bedroom. She points at the open trapdoor. The men nod and stalk over to the ladder. 

“Is this sturdy?” one asks her, eyeing the ladder with distrust. 

“I think so.” 

“Fantastique,” he mutters sarcastically.

“Do you need anything from me?” Audrey asks as the first mover starts climbing the ladder. 

“No.”

“All right, then.” Audrey watches them both disappear through the trapdoor and listens for a moment to their muffled murmurings as they strategize the removal of the desk and couch. She purses her lips. They seem fine, perfectly fine, which relieves her more than she thought it would. 

Above, the movers’ feet start shuffling and she can hear them hoisting what must surely be the desk. 

Her heart has finally slowed to its normal pace. God, she’s not sure what’s got into her this last week. Imagining things, nerves wrought… 

You moved to a new house, and your dad’s dead, and you’re an alcoholic, she reminds herself. 

“Right,” she says aloud. And on that note, she realizes she’s ready for a shot of whiskey. 

Downstairs, she approaches her half-stocked bar cart and shakily dumps some bourbon into an egg cup and downs it, wincing but relishing in the heat as it sears her throat, snapping her back to her senses. 

She leans against the kitchen counter and stares bleary-eyed across the main floor at the pictures on her mantelpiece. Her father’s author portrait sits there amongst the twinkle lights, framed in gaudy gold. Biting her lip, she looks from his face to the empty egg cup in her hand. She washes it out and puts the bourbon bottle away. 

The movers manage to bring down the desk after about ten minutes, and after planting it safely in their truck they meander back upstairs, huffing and puffing, for the couch. 

Audrey waits for them in the living room, closer now to her dad’s portrait, feeling safer by the moment, almost like she’s in his presence. What would he have done if he’d been spooked by his own fragile mind? He probably would have made a novel out of it. She remembers Jay’s comment last night. I mean, I barely know you, but you give me the impression that you could do anything you wanted to do.

She looks down at all the ghost-hunting gear Jay unpacked last night, still piled next to the fireplace, and purses her lips thoughtfully. 

And then, floors above, there’s a loud thud and an eruption of male screams that make Audrey jump. She makes for the spiral staircase but skids to a halt at the bottom; the two men are blundering down the stairs, screeching in Portugese at the top of their large lungs. Audrey stares at them, mouth gaping, as they clear the last few steps and sprint for the closed front door, the first man actually slamming head first into the mahogany. 

“Oh!” Audrey yelps, but before she can say or do anything in response, the man’s fellow, still screaming, lifts him up with some effort, flings the door open and carries him out — but not before he looks back at Audrey, his eyes wide, and screams something in Portuguese that sounds thoroughly foreboding. 

Audrey winces as the door slams behind them, leaving her standing at the bottom of the stairs in shock. Then she shakes her head to clear it, and leans back a bit to peer up the staircase. When she sees nothing unusual, she heaves a frustrated sigh, climbs the steps two at a time and stomps into the spare bedroom. The trapdoor is closed. 

“Bloody hell,” she mutters. She no longer regrets the whiskey; feeling emboldened by its lingering fire, she storms up the ladder and whacks open the trapdoor to peer suspiciously around the attic’s shadowy depths. From what she can see, the movers managed to carry the couch a bit closer, but clearly dropped it in a hurry; it’s now lying on its side with dust still furling all around it, disturbed by the flurry of movement just minutes ago. Her narrowed eyes flick around the dim space for a minute, waiting, almost daring something to happen, but all she can sense is that same prickle on her skin — that vague feeling of unease, like her body is trying to tell her something her mind can’t… 

“UGH,” she finally screams, and lets the trapdoor shut above her as she jumps down to the floor. She doesn’t know what’s going on but she doesn’t like it. All she wants is some peace, some normalcy, for once in her goddamned life.

As she climbs back down the stairs, huffing dramatically like an unsatisfied child, a voice at the back of her mind tells her she’s not the type to attract those things — peace and normalcy — and internally, with a wave of resentment, she agrees. Still spitting curse words under her breath, she walks back over to the empty fireplace and dials the number for the moving company.  

“Yes, hello,” she grunts, “my name is Audrey Beaufille and I just had two of your movers run screaming from my house. They didn’t even finish the job I paid them for—”

“Ah, yes, Mlle. Beaufille, I am so sorry about that. They just called to inform us of the situation.”

“Oh, yeah? So what the hell happened?”

“You see, er, they noticed a spot of mould in the room, a very dangerous, er, breed of mould, and as our company policy states that movers have the right to refuse unsafe work, they decided to, er, abandon the task as they felt, er, unsafe.”

“Mould? There’s no mould up there, this entire place was inspected professionally right before I moved in. And I was just up there myself—”

“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, but there’s nothing we can do.”

“Well, I want a refund, then!”

“Certainly, Mademoiselle, we’re already processing a full refund to your account.” 

“Good. Pussies.”

Audrey hangs up, wishing old phones still existed so she could slam down the receiver, right as there’s another knock on the door. She looks through the window to see that her ridiculously expensive bed frame has arrived. 

A few minutes later she’s signed for the package and hauled it into the living area, with no help from the deliverer. Whatever, she thinks; at this point, she doesn’t give a crap if people refuse to help her with the house. It’s her house, and she’s damn well never needed others in the past. As usual, she’ll do it all herself. 

With renewed vigor, she decides to push today’s oddities to the back of her mind with the rest of her unsolved problems and puts on a record. Dragging the pieces of her bed frame up the stairs and assembling them on her own proves to be a sufficient distraction from literally anything else. Like a blessing, as soon as the frame is finished and positioned against the wall, there’s another knock down below: her mattress is here. A few hours amble past as she deals with a slew of deliveries, tuning out all disgruntling thoughts with the sound of her father’s crackly records and dismissing the constant, feverish prickle of her skin as the sweat of her hard work. 

Night falls, and the house looks even homier, almost every room now resembling a spread in a cottager’s magazine, but somehow it feels emptier and colder than ever before, and Audrey is having trouble ignoring the disquieting buzz that’s followed her around the house all afternoon, and that damned stink is still floating in the air like a curse. 

The record ends as Audrey positions the last chair around the small scrubbed dining room table that arrived an hour ago, and the house plunges into an eerie silence. Having done this five times today, Audrey spins on her heel and beelines for the gramophone, hurriedly sliding the record into its case and flipping through her collection for a replacement to fill the air with more music before her mind begins to wander again. She finds one of her favourites and, pulling it from the crate, she actually allows herself a smile. It’s a Riley Sheppard Band album, and the cover is adorned with the grainy image of two sets of bare legs intertwined by a fire, apparently relaxing in post-coital bliss. It reminds her now of last night with Jericho. 

She places the record under the needly, gently this time — it’s not worth hurrying with this one, it’s already well-worn and it’s the last record she’d ever want to scratch — and sits next to the gramophone for a moment, waiting for the music to begin.

The soft plucking of a guitar crackles through the old horn and the first song on the record, lullaby-like in its lyricless serenity, casts its usual spell over Audrey, coaxing her out of her nerves, or at least a little further away from them, and for the first time since Jericho left she surrenders to a moment of rest. 

Audrey is finally allowing her posture to droop and her neck to slacken in relaxation, wondering why she didn’t think to put this record on earlier, when she freezes; slowly, almost involuntarily, she straightens up, her eyes wide. There’s that feeling, but stronger, more acute this time, like there’s a pair of eyes on her. Like there’s someone standing right behind her. 

Her heart thundering so hard she feels nauseous, her every nerve telling her to run, Audrey slowly turns her head to peer over her shoulder. 

Again, she sees no one. But the feeling is still here — the feeling of a stare.

She shakily gets to her feet, alarmed at how suddenly weak her limbs feel, how dizzy she is. Feeling inexplicably faint, her eyes fluttering, she stares directly in front of her, feeling her own posture bend instinctively to cower from a specific spot a few feet away. She forces down a loud, quivering inhale and holds it, the air around her so still and silent, hearing nothing but the blood rushing through her ears, her eyes bulging, fixed on that one seemingly vacant spot in front of her, the feeling getting stronger by the second, more acute, overwhelming. Her body is vibrating with adrenaline yet begging to collapse from the deepest exhaustion she’s ever felt in her life, an exhaustion that transcends the physical, an exhaustion of the mind, from trying to comprehend something she can’t hear or see but can feel… Stars and sparkles pop in her eyes, her vision blackens at the edges… 

Right before she tumbles backwards into unconsciousness, Audrey distantly registers a shadow standing in that spot in front of her, a shadow tilting its head, watching her. It comes closer. Then, with a crash that sounds a hundred miles away, everything goes black.