TWO - SOPHIA
Present...
It's been twenty years since they moved out and the house has just sat there decaying ever since. It's strange walking outside and seeing it, like watching a dying relative but one you never really got on with, never really knew.
I remember when I was little, I used to play in the garden and try to ignore the strange house, thinking it was something out of a Halloween movie. It just sat there, the grass alternately growing wild or dead and rotting depending on the time of year.
I would sometimes see a man or woman coming out of it. The woman was small, her eyes darting about. If she saw me, she might manage a little smile but she never talked to me. The man would yell through his big bushy beard if I got too close to his fence, berating my Dad for not keeping me under closer supervision. I always thought of him as Mr Twit, like in the story.
Since they went, no one has touched the house. No for sale sign appeared on the lawn. The police cars left, the ambulances left, everyone just left and the house continued to sit there, rotting.
Even the local kids didn't go in. Every other derelict building in a ten mile radius is fair game for exploring but not the Trent house. You do not go in there.
This is why it's strange to stand and look at it and see someone emerging from the remains of the front door.
I look away, it was none of my business what happened back then and it's none of my business now. My parents made it very clear when it all happened, I was to put it out of my mind, pretend they were never there.
But how could I do that? I'd seen the two of them up in the attic, peering out at me. I didn't know why they were watching me, I just wished they'd come down and give me someone to play with, it got boring playing on your own. I thought they were lucky, having each other to play with, I had no one.
I look back at the house. Whoever was there has gone. Probably someone from the council, come to check it, see if they need to do something about it. All I know is that someone must still own it or it would have been either done up or demolished by now.
I pick up my empty coffee mug and get up from the garden chair. I go inside, dropping the mug into the kitchen sink. I didn't like the look of the man coming out of the house, too gaunt, too pale, too strong a reminder of the past.
Did he know them? Did he know what they did in there?
I feel much better when I'm inside with the door closed. He only fixed his eyes on me for a second when he came out but it was long enough to give me the creeps.
Twenty years. Two decades. A hell of a long time to get over it. But I had never had an answer to my question. Could I have done something about it? Could I have stopped that little girl from getting killed?
I log onto the computer and get to work. Time to get another chapter written. Living in the family home might mean no mortgage but unfortunately it doesn't mean no bills. Writing and self publishing earns me just enough to get by, no extravagant holidays but also no bailiffs hammering on the door demanding payment.
I spend the day writing, churning out enough words to assuage my guilt when I stop to make tea.
I've gotten three chapters finished. Another day and it'll be ready to send out to my beta readers, the few people online I trust with my work.
It'll do. Sometimes I'm still working late into the night but not today, whenever I got distracted, I started to think about next door and that got me back to work sharpish.
After I've eaten, I settle down with a book, researching the eighteenth century in Europe, ready for the next project.
I put the book down when my eyes start to sink, I head upstairs, climbing into bed a little after eleven.
I'm woken by a noise. I turn to grab my phone to check the time. It's not there. Did I leave it downstairs?
I listen. Did I hear something or did I dream it? There's no noise beyond the rustling of the leaves on the trees outside.
No, wait. There it is again. A creak downstairs. I'm on edge all of a sudden. I step out of bed and cross the floor to the landing. Nothing.
I want to go downstairs and get my phone but I don't. I go into the bedroom and wedge a chair against the door handle. If it's a burglar, let them take things and then go. I'm a woman in a house alone, there's no way I'm confronting him.
I climb back into bed and reach for the bedside lamp, hoping to turn it on without it clicking too loudly. My hand brushes something and I cry out. It's an arm.
I look up and there he is. I start to scream and at once his hand is on my mouth pressing me down into the bed. "Want to live?" he asks.
I nod frantically.
"No screaming."
His hand slackens and I go to wriggle away from him, my heart pounding. He grabs me, shoving me out of the bed and onto the floor. He lands a kick in my stomach and all the air leaves my lungs.
"Feisty," he says, lowering his hood. I recognise him. It's the man I saw next door. "I like it."
A bag goes over my head and I fight for breath, squirming to free myself as he wraps something around my wrists, pulling it tight. "Make a sound and you pay the price," he says, tugging hard at my ear until it burns with pain. "Move."
He shoves me forwards, kicking the chair away from the door. I'm forced downstairs, stumbling to the ground and landing heavily, unable to steady myself with my hands bound.
I feel cold air on me. The door to the yard is open. I'm outside and just as I prepare myself to scream, I'm slammed into a van, thumping into the far wall as the door rolls home, clunking in place, trapping me inside.
How has this happened? Who is he? A minute ago, I was in bed. Now I'm in the back of a van, rolling around on the floor as the engine starts and we move away. "Don't worry," he says. "You're about to meet an old friend. I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you."