The Witch House by David Calcutt

Once more I see myself, 11 years old, standing at the corner of the lane, and gazing through the wire-mesh fence. My three companions stand beside me. It’s late summer, early evening, the sky a bold and ever-deepening blue, the day seeming to go on without end. But gathering in the alleys and in the eaves of the houses, around the doorsteps and the feet of the lampposts, shadows are thickening, and already a scent of autumn sharpens the air. And before us, harbouring its own shadows, stands the witch house.

It rests in a wide expanse of wasteground, a rough tangle of weeds and brambles, thistles and nettle-beds. Its paintwork is long faded and peeled, its brickwork crumbling, its window-frames rotten, and its whole improbable bulk leans precariously to one side, as if about to topple over in a cataclysm of broken timbers and dust. Yet it does not fall. It stands as it has always stood, fixed, unchanging, as if it has roots that have grown down into the bedrock and which hold it fast in its perverse and stubborn dereliction.

We call it the witch house, but none of us knows why. Perhaps the house conjured its own name out of its abandonment and ruin. It needed, after all, to be called something, wanted a word to speak itself into our fantasies. So we call it the witch house, even though we don’t believe in witches. But we do believe in the Boy.

It’s the Boy we’ve come to see. At least, to catch a glimpse, or even just a fleeting, half-glimpse of him. His face appearing in the empty window at the top of the house, thin and pale and drawn, and his large, round eyes peering out, searching for something or for someone he knows must be there but cannot yet see. His hand raised as if to greet, or to beckon. And then, the dawning realisation that what he longs to see is not there, will never be there, and the distress that gradually crumples his face into a grey, shapeless rag which then itself disintegrates into the desolate emptiness from which he emerged. Then for a time we will stand in silence, filled ourselves with that same feeling of grief and desolation, which only the loudest laughter and mockery of each other is able to dispel.

This is the story that over the six weeks of the summer holidays we have gradually pieced together, one adding one element, one another, re-shaping and re-adjusting it, until now we can’t remember which one of us first had the idea, if any of us actually did. Perhaps the story, like the Boy himself, it has always been there, a part of the fabric of the house, waiting for us to find it. To find him. And now, as we stand behind the fence gazing through the mesh towards the house, our eyes fixed upon that single, haunted window, we realise that this is why we have gathered here once more at the end of the long summer, to bring the story to its conclusion. But it takes one of us to speak it first, sound it out in the air, and make it real.

“Let’s go in there and find him.”

And straightaway we’re talking all at once, our voices tripping and tumbling over each other, gabbling excitedly as we push at the fence and manage to force it open just wide enough to squeeze ourselves through. Then racing across the wasteground to see who can get there first, not caring about the scratches on our legs from the brambles, or the stings from the nettles, like wild things suddenly released from captivity, hooting, laughing, until, red-faced and out of breath, we come to a stop outside the house.

Its silence raises a hand before us, forcing us to pause. We look up at the empty windows, the rotting woodwork, the broken tiles tumbled from the roof, the leaning walls. The ghosts of lives lived here and forgotten seep out through the cracks and curl like mist about our feet. Then one of us laughs, scattering those mournful spirits, and kicks at the door, and it splinters open and we go in.

There’s a grime-filled darkness flecked with patches of dull light, a gloomy mustiness that catches in our throats and, lurking in corners, a stale, rank smell, like something rotting from the inside. Rooms thick with dust and cobwebs, scattered pieces of abandoned furniture – an armchair, a cupboard with no doors and nothing inside, a table on which the skeleton of a lampshade stands. And there, bundled against the wall of a back room, a heap of old clothes and a ragged blanket.

“This is where he sleeps.”

Our voices are hushed to whispers and we keep huddled together, like conspirators plotting some heinous crime.

“We should wait here for him. It’ll be dark soon.”

“It won’t be dark for ages. We’ve got to go and find him.”

“Where? He’s not down here.”

“Course not. He’s upstairs, where we always see him.”

We go out into the hallway, our feet scraping softly on the bare floorboards. Along one wall are the rooms we have already explored. Opposite them is the stairway, steep and narrow. The steps creak beneath our feet, the banister wobbles precariously at the touch of our hands. At the top, more rooms, a bare bedstead, a rolled-up rug, a wardrobe with its door half open.  A tarnished mirror none of us cares to look into. But no presence other than our own. Suddenly, the sheer, undeniable vacancy of the house, yawns about us.

“There’s nobody here.”

“Probably never was.”

“It’s just an old empty house.”

“We imagined it.”

“Made it up.”

“It was just a game.”

“A stupid game.”

“Let’s go.”

We leave the room we’re in and make for the stairs, footsteps in heavy shoes clatter down them, scornful now of the dusty silence and decay, the front door slams open and figures bluster out, loud and noisy, into the warm summer evening. But one remains behind.

I watch them go, then turn back and make my way along the landing to where a door lies tucked within a small alcove. Behind the door, six steps lead upward into the attic. I climb them, making no sound. The shadows squatting in the corners whisper and sigh, claws scuffle and spiders feet tap along the beams. At the window I can see out across the wasteground to where my companions stand at the fence, waiting to catch a glimpse. I raise my hand in greeting, looking for one who is not there. But I cannot find him. My face crumples in grief, and once more the darkness spreads its arms wide to enfold me.

David Calcutt

Image – A window looking out from a dark room onto daylight. Pixabay.com