The Blood House
Author: Amy Cross
Date: 2017-04-02 20:45:46+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Fiction
Description: Seventy-five years ago, a family of three disappeared from their remote English home. Blood was left smeared all over the floors and walls, but despite an extensive search, their bodies were never found. Now the house is ready to kill again. On the run from his creditors, Owen Richards moves his wife and daughter out to the same house. Despite the strange portrait of an old man in the hallway, and the faint ticking sound coming from the walls, he insists that the house offers a perfect chance for them to start afresh. Before their first night in their new home is over, however, Owen and his fa
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services LLC - Kdp Print Us

Copyright 2016 Amy Cross

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

Kindle edition

Dark Season Books

First published: March 2016

This edition: July 2016

This book's front cover incorporates elements licensed from the Bigstock photo site.

“Mama lost her head...”

Seventy-five years ago, a family of three disappeared from their remote English home. Blood was left smeared all over the floors and walls, but despite an extensive search, their bodies were never found.

Now the house is ready to kill again.

On the run from his creditors, Owen Richards moves his wife and daughter out to the same house. Despite the strange portrait of an old man in the hallway, and the faint ticking sound coming from the walls, he insists that the house offers a perfect chance for them to start afresh.

Before their first night in their new home is over, however, Owen and his family are going to come face-to-face with the diabolical creation of a long-dead old man. Deadly dangers lurk in every room, and the constant ticking sound is just the first hint of a much greater monstrosity. No-one has ever managed to survive the house, or to outsmart its creator. And beneath the house, a horrific mechanism predicts every move the Richards family might make as they desperately try to escape.

The Blood House is a horror novella about three people trapped in a nightmare, and about an old man who was willing to stop at nothing in his quest to be remembered as a great genius.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

The Blood House

Prologue

75 years ago

“Help!” she screamed, slamming through the door and landing hard on the porch. “Somebody help me!”

Reaching out, she used her left hand to grab the top step, hauling herself along. Her entire right arm had been cut away, sliced at the shoulder, and a trail of blood led back into the dark house as the girl dragged herself over the step and fell, crashing down until she hit the dry mud.

“Help me!” she shouted, looking toward the road. Filled with panic, she dug her the fingers of her left hand into the ground and started dragging herself away from the house. With her right arm gone, and both her legs broken at the knees, she was wholly reliant on her remaining left arm. Sobbing and trembling, she couldn't help glancing over her shoulder, looking back at the house with terror-filled eyes.

A little further across the clearing, a crow had settled on the branch of an old tree and was watching the scene. The bird's beady black eyes flicked first one way and then the other, as the girl's scream continued to ring out from nearby. Unsettled but curious, the crow made its way along the branch, ready to fly away at any moment if it sensed danger. For now, however, it was content to simply observe the strange sight of the bloodied, screaming human girl as she dragged herself – inch by inch – away from the house.

“Mama lost her head,” she gasped, barely able to get the words out. “Mama... Mama... Papa's still in bed... Mama lost her head...”

After a moment, the crow turned and looked over at the bare, dusty road.

Suddenly the girl let out a brief, violent scream that ended abruptly after just a couple of seconds.

The crow looked back toward the house. Just a few seconds ago, the girl had been screaming and begging for help, yet now she was gone. There was blood smeared across the dusty ground, though, and the smeared red trail ran all the way up the steps to the dark, gaping door. The crow watched for a moment, trying to work out where the girl had gone, but the scene was completely silent now. Letting out a nervous caw, the crow stepped back along the branch, still confused by the fact that the human had miraculously vanished in mid-scream.

Suddenly the front door of the house slammed shut, causing the crow to immediately take flight and wheel high into the afternoon sky.

Once the bird was gone, the house stood silent and still, but the trail of blood could still be seen running from the door, down the steps, and across the yard until the point where the girl had seemingly disappeared.

Finally, the faintest clicking sound could be heard coming from the door. Or, more precisely, from the lock, as the bolt slid back into place, sealing the house from the inside.

Chapter One

Two weeks ago

“Mr. Richards, can you please open the door? I know you're in there.”

Another knocking sound filled the room, followed by the creak of the door handle as someone tried again to get inside.

“Mr. Richards, this is ridiculous. You and I both know why I'm here, so why don't we get this over with?”

Silence.

“Mr. Richards, you're just wasting everybody's time.”

Over on the far side of the room, Owen Richards sat crouched under his desk, keeping well out of sight and barely even daring to breathe. He flinched as he heard the handle being turned again, and then he felt a flash of relief at the sound of footsteps walking away. Checking his watch, he saw that it was almost 9am, which meant the guy from the lawyer's office would undoubtedly be back again around lunch, maybe even before. Over the past few weeks, the same man had been getting progressively more persistent, and Owen had found himself living in constant fear. Still, he'd managed to avoid being served, and he figured he could keep ducking and diving for as long as he needed.

Finally, after a few minutes, he dared crawl out from under the desk. Staying quiet, he watched the door for a moment, before crawling over and peering through the keyhole. Sure enough, there was no sign of anyone in the corridor outside.

“Okay,” he muttered, getting to his feet and straightening his tie. “Time to get out of here for the day.”

Grabbing the paperwork he'd come for, he unlocked the door and stepped out into the corridor.

“Owen Richards,” a voice said suddenly, “you are hereby served.”

Stepping back, Owen tried to slam the door shut, only for the thin folder of documents to slip through the crack and land at his feet.

“That doesn't count!” he stammered. “Legally -”

“Doesn't count, my ass,” the guy sneered on the other side of the door, already walking away. “Tell it to the judge, Mr. Richards. I'm sure you'll be the first guy who's ever given him a sob story. You just got served.”

“Damn!” Owen muttered, slamming the door shut so hard that it rebounded and almost hit him in the face. Looking down at the papers, he briefly considered picking them up before, with a sigh, kicking them across the room. “You're not gonna get me,” he said bitterly, staring at the folder as it came to a rest next to the desk. Finally he stormed over to the window and slid it open, leaning out just in time to see the guy walking out the front of the building a couple of floors below. “So you served me!” he yelled. “So what? It'll be a cold day in hell before I go anywhere near a goddamn courtroom. How does it feel to be working for a bunch of total assholes?”

He waited, but the guy didn't look up at him.

“Damn it!” he said again, stepping back from the window. “Why can't they just leave me alone?”

***

“I might have to get out of town,” he said a few hours later, scanning the newspaper's classified page as he stirred his coffee. “I swear to God, I'm developing an ulcer. I need to go somewhere else and start again. Somewhere those bastards from the Conneal corporation won't be able to catch up to me.”

“Uh-huh,” Monahan muttered, sitting on the next bar-stool along and staring into his beer. “And how do Helen and Jenna feel about that?”

“They'll be fine.”

“So you haven't asked them?”

“They'll go where I go,” Owen told him, taking a sip of coffee. “Helen understands that my work sometimes means we have to uproot ourselves. We've moved before, we'll do it again.”

“That woman has the patience of a saint.”

“And Jenna's very adaptable. She'll see it as an adventure. Trust me, my daughter likes a challenge.”

“You know Conneal won't give up, right?” Monahan continued. “You can move anywhere you like, you can even go abroad, but they'll keep coming until they get you into court. There's no way they'll just forget about that two hundred grand you...” He paused. “Well, whatever you did with it. They're gonna want it back.”

“I re-allocated it within the department's budget,” Owen said firmly. “I already explained!”

“Then why are they suing you?”

He paused. “It's complicated. I don't want to go into it.”

“They'd have left you alone if you hadn't gotten so angry,” Monahan pointed out.

Owen sighed.

“I mean it,” Monahan added. “That's always been your problem. Even if you actually get away with one of your insane schemes, even if you win the day, you always make the wrong choice. You can't just walk away.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Owen muttered. Still looking at the adverts, he spotted several listings for apartments and houses. “When did rental prices get so high?” he asked with a sigh. “Jesus Christ, who can afford these places?”

“People with actual jobs,” Monahan pointed out, “and stable financial situations.”

“And what's with all the references you always need? Since when did renting an apartment meant turning over your entire life so it can be scrutinized by some realtor hack.”

“I guess they wanna make sure they're not renting to someone who might skip out on the last month's check,” Monahan replied, glancing at him. “Know anyone who might do something like that?”

“Can it,” Owen sighed, “I don't need -”

Stopping suddenly, he re-read one particular listing,

“Found something?” Monahan asked.

“Traditional Victorian-era family home available now, no onward chain,” Owen read out loud. “Rustic environment, remote location, certain conditions apply. Two hundred a month, all bills included -”

“That must be a misprint,” Monahan pointed out.

“Isn't a misprint legally binding?”

“No chance.”

“Would suit small family,” Owen continued, still reading from the listing, “with desire to move out of town and live closer to nature. No references required...” He nodded. “That's a bonus. No references required, no deposit, call now to discuss renting this fully-furnished house of character.”

“Character means it's a dump,” Monahan said with a sigh. “The whole thing sounds too good to be true.”

“It's worth a shot, though,” Owen replied, already typing the number into his phone.

“And you think your creditors won't find you? Lawyers are like rats, my friend. They catch up with everyone eventually.”

“That's just what they want you to think,” Owen replied. “They perpetuate this cult of inevitability, but every system can be beaten. No matter how bad things look, you can always wriggle out and live to fight another day. And that's why I'm taking my family away from the heat for a while. We'll go off the grid and then we'll come back in six months or a year, ready to take on the world again.”

“You can't be serious. There's no way Helen and Jenna are gonna want to move out of town.”

“It'll just be for a while,” Owen muttered, tapping the screen to call. “They know how things are. Believe it or not, they believe in me. They know everything'll be okay once I get back on my feet.” As the phone began to ring, he climbed off the stool and made his way across the diner, looking for a little privacy. “Hi,” he said as soon as he heard someone picking up on the other end of the line. “My name's Owen Richards. I'm calling about the house you've listed for rental.”

“Too good to be true,” Monahan sighed, taking another sip of beer. “There'll be a catch. There's always a catch.”

Chapter Two

“It's perfect,” Owen whispered later that night, as he put his arm around Helen in bed. “This is a wonderful opportunity, honey. We always said we wanted to get away from the rat-race and raise Jenna somewhere a little more natural.”

“We never said that,” Helen replied, turning to him.

“Well, we thought it,” he continued.

“I didn't think it,” she told him. “Not once. We're city people, Owen. We belong in the city. We can be happy here.”

“Just hear me out,” he said with a sigh. “This house is in the middle of nature.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It's away from the fumes and pollution of the city.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It's a chance for us to reconnect with the world.”

She frowned. “Uh-huh. And for you to make sure you don't reconnect with the people you owe money to?”

“You're being cynical.”

“I just don't know if I want to move again,” she continued, keeping her voice low. “Honey, when we came to this apartment, you promised that things'd be different. You swore there'd be no more running and hiding.”

“I'm not running and hiding.”

“Then why do -”

“Those guys are assholes!” he hissed. “They just won't give up! I thought they'd have tired themselves out by now, but no, they're still coming after me!”

“Maybe you can cut a deal. Maybe they'll let you just pay part of the money back.”

“That's not how they work. They don't just want money anymore. They want blood.”

She sighed.

“This is the last time,” he continued, “I promise. We'll just go live in this remote house, getting close to nature, and while we're there I'll work on my new projects. I guarantee you that within a year, I'll have come up with an idea that'll make us millions! Then we can pay off every goddamn creditor and come back to the city, and we can finally buy our own place! Hell, maybe we can even put Jenna in some fancy private school! Plus, we can -”

“Stop.”

“I'm serious, I have ideas already and -”

“Stop,” she said again, placing a finger against his lips. “Don't make promises you can't keep.” She paused, watching him for a moment. “You've already phoned these people and agreed to rent the house from them, haven't you?”

He nodded.

“And you've also told our current landlord that we're leaving at the end of the month, right?”

He nodded again.

“Without even consulting me first?”

“We have to get out of here,” he continued. “Honey, I won't let you down this time, I promise. One day, we'll look back on this moment and laugh.”

“I'd settle for just looking back and not crying,” she replied. “I'd also quite like to try living in the same place for more than a year.”

“We'll buy a goddamn mansion one day,” he told her, kissing her on the cheek. “You still have faith in me, don't you? I know I've messed up a few times, but I've learned and now I know how to make a go of my new projects. Just keep the faith, honey, and I will give you and Jenna everything you could possibly want in the whole world. Everything and more.”

She paused, before sighing. “I guess the decision's already made, huh? Just turn the light out.”

“You're not mad, are you?”

“No, I'm not mad.” She turned and kissed his shoulder. “You can tell me all the details in the morning. Right now, I'm exhausted. Can you turn the light out?”

“Promise you're not mad at me.”

“I'm not mad at you.”

“Promise you'll enter into this new chapter of our lives with enthusiasm and confidence.”

“Whatever. The lights, honey, please...”

Owen paused for a moment, before leaning over and flicking one of the switches on the panel next to the bed. The light directly above them turned off, but two others came to life by the door. He tried another switch, and this time a brighter light was switched on over by the far wall.

“The one in the middle,” Helen told him, sounding exhausted, “and the one on the bottom left.”

“They're the ones I tried,” he replied, hitting several more switches but still not managing to turn the room dark. “This damn thing is way too complicated for its own good.”

Sighing, Helen rolled over and reached past him, quickly flicking a couple of switches and turning the lights off.

“I already pressed those ones!” Owen said as he heard his wife rolling back across the bed. “I swear!”

“Good night, honey,” she said with another sigh. “We'll talk more in the morning.”

“But you're not annoyed, are you?”

“No, I'm not annoyed. I'm just tired.”

“Trust me,” he continued, putting an arm around her, “this move is gonna change everything. I can feel it in my bones, Helen. I'm so close to making a fortune. You'll see. This is the best decision I've ever made.”

He waited for a reply. After a few seconds, he heard yet another sigh in the darkness.

“I'll show you,” he told her, kissing her shoulder. “One day, you're gonna be so proud of me.”

Chapter Three

Today

Footsteps approached the front door. Voices talking, two men making smalltalk. And then finally, for the first time in almost seventy-five years, an old bronze key slid into the warded tumbler lock.

Once the key had been fully inserted, the cavity in its tip lined up perfectly with the multiple cylindrical slats that formed the main mechanism. Flakes of rust came loose as the key was turned, and there was a faint clicking sound as the notches slid over the various obstructions that would deny access to any other pattern. This, in turn, caused a bolt to move out of its resting position, accompanied by a low, quick clunking noise, and then the entire lock shuddered slightly as the hinges creaked and the door was pushed open.

“Welcome,” Mr. Daniels said, taking the key from the lock and stepping aside. “Please, won't you go first?”

“You weren't kidding, were you?” Owen replied, making his way into the house and stopping in the hallway, at the foot of a narrow, steep staircase. “The place smells... fusty.”

“As I told you,” Mr. Daniels continued with a faint smile, “the house hasn't been disturbed since the previous tenants departed in the early 1940s. The late Mr. Marchionne left very strict instructions regarding the way the house was to be rented out, and we have been obliged to follow those instructions to the letter.”

Looking around, Owen spotted an old, faded photograph on the opposite wall. He stepped over and saw a sepia image of a heavily-bearded elderly gentleman, with the name Cesar Marchionne inscribed carefully in the corner.

“That's him,” Mr. Daniels said, stepping over and smiling as he looked at the photo. “Cesar Augustus Marchionne, the man who designed and built this house with his bare hands. By all accounts, he was one of the great geniuses of his age. It's said that in the late nineteenth century, there wasn't another man in the whole of England who possessed even a fraction of Cesar's Marchionne's brilliance.”

“Huh,” Owen muttered, scrunching his nose as he looked at the photo for a moment. “And he still owns the house today, right?”

“His family trust owns the house,” Mr. Daniels replied, handing him the key, “and as executor of that trust, I am beholden to carry out his wishes. He left very clear instructions in his will.”

“Weird,” Owen said with a grin. “I mean, if the guy's been dead for over a century, how can he still decide who does and doesn't get to rent this place?”

“The legal framework is quite comprehensive,” Mr. Daniels explained, glancing over his shoulder and watching for a moment as Owen's wife and daughter remained sitting in the car. He could hear raised voices, as if they were arguing, although he couldn't quite make out what was being said.

“Just my daughter,” Owen told him. “She still hasn't quite accepted that we've moved out here to the middle of nowhere. She thinks if she sulks enough, we'll change our minds and go back to the city. Kids, huh?”

“Indeed,” Mr. Daniels muttered, watching for a moment longer before turning back to him. “You had a chance to study the tenancy agreement, I take it?”

“All eighty-plus pages.”

“There really aren't that many rules,” Mr. Daniels continued, stepping past him and making his way through to the front room. Stopping, he looked around at the ancient, worn furniture that had sat untouched for decades. “You can, of course, spruce the place up a little, but the contract is quite clear.” He paused, before turning to Owen. “You are to make absolutely no structural changes to the house whatsoever. Not even so much as hammering a nail into a wall. Is that understood?”

“Loud and clear,” Owen muttered, noticing that every item of furniture appeared to be bolted to the floor.

“You must make sure that your wife and daughter also comply with these rules.”

“No problem.”

“All of them.”

“Like I said, no problem.”

Mr. Daniels paused for a moment, eying Owen with a hint of suspicion.

“I mean it,” Owen continued, testing one of the armchairs and finding that it, too, had been secured in place. “I totally get that the house comes with a bunch of crazy rules. I'm just glad we were able to rent a place at all. With the way things are going lately, I thought we'd only be able to afford a shoebox, but this house...” He looked around for a moment. “I mean, it's huge. It's out of the way, it's miles from civilization, but it's massive. I've always dreamed of upping sticks and coming to live somewhere remote. The city can smother the imagination sometimes.”

“Then you've found the perfect location,” Mr. Daniels told him, reaching into his pocket and taking out the tenancy agreement, which he proceeded to set down on the table before offering Owen a pen. “I merely require your signature, and then I can leave you to get on with the business of settling in.”

“And I'll set up a standing order for the rent tomorrow,” Owen replied, taking the pen. “Don't worry, I'll pay on time every month. You can trust me, I'm not the kind of guy who's late with that sorta thing.”

“I'm sure you aren't,” Mr. Daniels said with a smile, watching keenly as Owen scribbled his name at the bottom of the form.

“So do you mind if I ask you a question?” Owen continued, handing the pen and paper back to him. “I mean, I totally get that this house comes with a load of rules, and I get that it's your job to enforce those rules, but...” He paused, before glancing at the photo of Cesar Marchionne out in the hallway. “The guy's been dead for more than a century. Doesn't there come a point when his last will and testament gets tossed aside? It just seems weird that he could leave this house behind but attach so many goddamn strings to its use.”

“Mr. Marchionne's rules are very clear,” Mr. Daniels replied, “and the rest of the Marchionne Corporation is only funded by the trust fund if the house is taken care of. Anyone who wishes to rent this property must abide by those rules without exception. If you don't think that you can do that, I would urge you to turn around and leave immediately.”

Owen shook his head. “We're here now. For better or for worse, this is our home for the next year.” Peering through to the hallway, he could just about see the car parked outside, with his wife and daughter still arguing inside. “A certain fifteen-year-old somebody is just going to have to accept that fact.”

Chapter Four

“We're in the middle of goddamn nowhere!” Jenna said firmly, staring at her mother with barely-disguised annoyance. “Look out the window, Mum! Do you see anything even remotely nearby? We are in the middle of -”

“Nowhere,” Helen replied with a sigh. “Yes, I know, you keep saying that but -”

“What if we get horribly murdered?”

Helen frowned. “Why would that happen?”

“We're thousands of miles from the nearest town.”

“Not thousands,” Helen pointed out. “Fourteen, fifteen at most.”

“Far enough that no-one'd hear us screaming while an ax murderer slaughtered us.”

“I don't think there are many ax murderers around, honey.”

“You're my parents,” Jenna continued. “You're supposed to be keeping us safe, as a family. Moving us to the ass-end of nowhere is crazy! Besides, what about my life back in the city? What about my friends?”

“You can make new friends.”

“Like who?” Jenna hissed, raising her voice slightly. “There's no-one around!”

“We'll fix your bike and you can -”

“Ugh!” Jenna sighed, slumping down in the car's back seat. “I'm begging you, Mum. Talk to Dad and make him see sense. I know you don't want to be out here either. I know you feel the same way as me.”

“We need to get our finances on an even keel. Once we've -”

“Ugh!” Jenna grunted again, slamming her fist against the seat. “This is so unfair! I can't believe you're going to home-school me! That's, like, what hicks do in America!”

“That's not true,” Helen told her. “Home-schooling has a fine tradition and can be a viable alternative to mainstream education. Plus it means we get to spend some time together, which is a bonus, right?” She waited for a reply. “Right, honey?”

“This is so unfair! Why do I have to suffer, just 'cause Dad can't hold down a decent job?”

“Jenna -”

“And because he's not man enough to pay what he owes to his old company.”

“Quiet!” Helen hissed, glancing at the house to make sure they couldn't be overheard. “Don't let your father hear you say things like that, Jenna. He's struggling enough as it is! It's not like moving out here was part of some great life-plan! It's just a way for us to recover from the setbacks we've experienced lately, and for your father to get some time to work on a few projects.” She paused, still watching the house. “Besides, it's not that bad. It's a decent size, and you've got miles and miles of unspoiled countryside to explore.”

“I hate the countryside.”

“You've barely set foot outside the city before.”

“That was a deliberate choice on my part.”

“You just need to get used to the area.”

“I hate nature.”

Helen sighed.

“I do!” Jenna hissed. “I hate grass, I hate mud, I hate soil, I hate insects, I hate all kinds of weather, and I especially hate people who go on and on about how I should love nature! Ugh!” She sighed. “Just in case you're going to get your hopes up, Mum, let me be very clear about one thing. I am not going to get used to life out here. I am not going to learn to love living in a dilapidated old dump. And I am not going to start enjoying the natural world. I am going to hate every minute of our time in this shit-hole, and I am only going to get through it by thinking about how much better things will be one day when I finally make it back to civilization. Is that clear?”

“You don't think you're being a little dramatic?”

Jenna shook her head.

“You're very much like him in some ways, you know,” Helen continued.

Jenna rolled her eyes.

“I mean it, sweetheart. You and your father are way more similar than you'd like to admit. You're both stubborn, you're both set in your ways, and you both think you know best. You also share a streak of frustration.”

Sighing, and muttering some obscenities under her breath, Jenna opened the door and slid out of the car. Turning, she used a hand to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun, and she watched the dark, decrepit old house for a moment.

“God,” she said finally. “Look at it. We haven't just come to live in the sticks. We might as well have traveled back in time.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and unlocked the screen. “And I am shocked, truly shocked, to see that I have precisely zero bars of signal in this hell-hole.”

“Your father's going to speak to the man about getting a land-line installed,” Helen replied, making her way to the back of the car and pulling another bag out of the trunk. “We won't be completely cut off from the world.”

“A land-line? What is this, the medieval period?”

“There'll be internet too. Dial-up, but still internet.”

Jenna turned to her, and for a moment she watched her mother hauling a couple more bags out and dropping them onto the dusty ground.

“But three people were murdered here, right?” she asked finally.

Helen paused, as if the question had caught her completely off-guard.

“Relax, Mum,” Jenna continued, “I know about this house's questionable history. I'm assuming you and Dad decided not to tell me 'cause you didn't want to freak me out, but I know. I did my research.”

“We were going to tell you eventually,” Helen said cautiously.

“Sure you were.”

“We just didn't think this was the more appropriate time to bring up something so gruesome!”

“The Cavendish family, right?” Jenna asked, before turning and looking at the house again. “Seventy-five years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish and their daughter were murdered here. And judging by the time-line I overheard you and Dad discussing, I'd say that means the house has been empty ever since then, so there haven't been any other tenants in the intervening years. Not until we move in today.”

“They weren't murdered,” Helen replied. “That's sensationalist rubbish. They just...” She paused again. “They disappeared.”

“Forever,” Jenna pointed out, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “And when the cops came looking for them, they found blood smeared all over the house. Apparently there was even a blood-trail running out the front of the house into the yard.” She looked around at the barren patch of land. “Probably right around here somewhere.”

She turned to her mother.

“I'm basically right, aren't I?”

“It all happened three-quarters of a century ago.”

“It's gross. They never even found the bodies. What if they're, like, buried on the property?”

“Don't tell me you're starting to believe in ghosts now,” Helen said with a sigh.

“As if!” Jenna rolled her eyes. “I'm not a total dork. I'm just saying it's creepy, that's all. I mean, why has no-one else rented the house since then?”

“Your father said something about an eccentric owner who left all these weird rules in his will.”

“Seriously?” Jenna scrunched her nose again. “That's pretty lame.”

“Are you going to help me with these bags?” Helen asked.

Sighing, Jenna wandered over and hauled one of the bags onto her shoulder. At the same time, she reached into the trunk and pulled out her baseball bat.

“Do you really need that thing?” Helen asked.

“Admit it, Mum,” she muttered, “you're not happy about moving out here either. You're just as pissed-off as I am. I mean, why should our lives suffer just 'cause Dad's a loser who couldn't hold down his job?”

“Hey!” Helen snapped, turning to her. “Don't you dare talk about your father like that!”

“I'm right, though, aren't I?” Jenna replied, taking a step back with the heavy bag weighing her down. “Dad's the one who got fired. Dad's the one who couldn't get another job. Dad's the one who'd bet the savings on an investment that tanked. Dad's the one who made some dodgy dealings with company money, and who's now being sued for a couple of hundred grand. Ergo, Dad's the one who's responsible for us ending up here.” She waited for her mother to reply, but she quickly saw that she'd hit home with some of her comments. “What's worse,” she added, “is that loserdom is contagious. Dad's a loser, and he's turning us into losers too. You can't deny that.”

Sighing, she turned and started to lug the bag toward the house, leaving Helen to pull some more heavy bags from the trunk.

Chapter Five

“So Cesar Marchionne built this entire house from scratch?” Owen asked as he wandered into the master bedroom. “With his own two hands and no help from anyone else?”

“I told you he was an impressive man,” Mr. Daniels replied, leaning heavily on his cane as he limped through. “Mr. Marchionne spent five years alone out here, completely separated from the rest of the world while he worked on the construction. He wasn't just an excellent inventor, he was also a very practical man.”

Stopping next to the bed, Owen looked down at the worn, faded fabric.

“And we can't change any of the furniture?” he asked. Pulling on the bed's frame, he found that it was bolted to the floor. “Nothing at all?”

“The terms of the tenancy agreement are quite clear,” Mr. Daniels continued. “You may, of course, change the soft furnishings. The sheets, the cushions, the curtains, that sort of thing. In fact, you might find that they're a little dusty.”

“But we can't move anything solid, huh?”

“Nothing solid.”

Hearing loud footsteps clattering into the room below, Owen turned and looked toward the door.

“Your daughter, I assume?” Mr. Daniels asked warily.

“Teenager,” Owen replied. “Fifteen delightful years old, and not exactly thrilled at the idea of coming to live out here. You know what kids are like, I guess?”

“Indeed,” Mr. Daniels said with a faint smile, as the footsteps started thudding up the stairs.

“Dad?” Jenna called out. “Which room in this godforsaken hovel is mine? Are we -”

Stopping in the doorway, she spotted Mr. Daniels.

“Oh,” she said cautiously. “Hey.”

“Mr. Daniels,” Owen continued, “this is my daughter, Jenna. She's still at the very start of the journey that'll lead her to embrace life out here.”

“As if,” Jenna muttered, hauling the bag over her shoulder and dropping it to the ground, causing the floorboards to thud and the walls to rattle slightly.

“Careful!” Mr. Daniels hissed, taking a step toward her. He glanced at her baseball bat with a hint of concern. “Please... This is a very old house!”

“Sorry,” Jenna muttered with a frown.

“Your room is the next one along,” Owen told her, “and please try to show a little respect for the place, honey. It's an old building, it was built at a time when teenagers tended to be more delicate.”

“I can be delicate,” Jenna replied, grabbing the straps of the bag and starting to haul it through to the hallway. “If I want to be. Oh, and Dad, I know about the Cavendish family who were horribly slaughtered in this house. Seriously, you didn't think you could hide that little fact from me, did you? Nice try, but no cigar.”

As he heard his daughter dragging the bag to the next room, Owen turned to Mr. Daniels.

“I hope the house's history won't be a problem for your family,” Mr. Daniels said calmly, as if he was suppressing a faint smile. “It's only natural that once a building has stood for many years, it will have seen certain... events take place within its walls. I'm sure that any house over a certain age must have played host to death.”

“What was it, three people who vanished?” Owen asked. “I read something about it online. A family moved in and then after a few days...” He paused for a moment. “They never found them, did they? They found blood, but not the family themselves?”

“I believe that is the story.”

Owen flinched as he heard Jenna dumping her bag on the floor in the next room, and then he flinched again as he heard a loud creaking sound, as if she was testing the bed.

“And the house has stood empty since the last family disappeared?” he asked.

“That is correct,” Mr. Daniels, replied, “but there is no connection between the two events. It is simply that Mr. Marchionne's last will and testament specified a certain period that must elapse before new tenants were allowed to move in. He neglected to explain why this was so important to him, but it is not my job to second-guess his reasons.”

“So the place has been sitting empty for all that time, until today?”

“Precisely,” Mr. Daniels replied. “Until today.”

***

“I shall drop by again to see how you're doing in the week,” Mr. Daniels explained as he limped down the steps at the front of the house. “I shan't make a habit of intruding, of course, but the late Mr. Marchionne's instructions -”

“Let me guess,” Owen replied with a smile as he walked the elderly man toward the car parked over by the cherry tree, “Mr. Marchionne specified in his will that a representative from the trust should come and check on the new tenants at a certain point.”

“We must follow Mr. Marchionne's instructions to the letter,” Mr. Daniels replied, unlocking the car door before turning to Owen. “He left a great deal of money that is managed by the trust in order to -”

Before he could finish, loud rock music suddenly began blaring from one of the house's upstairs rooms. A moment later, the music was turned down a little, but Mr. Daniels still appeared a little shocked as he looked toward the building.

“My daughter is revolting,” Owen explained. “She's entering that awkward phase.”

“So it appears.”

“But we'll take really good care of the house, and I promise you, we'll stick to every rule that you laid out for us. Feel free to drop by any time, Mr. Daniels. You'll see that the house is quite safe with us.”

“I have no doubts whatsoever,” Mr. Daniels replied, reaching out and shaking Owen's hand. “Oh, and you'll find control boxes for the fuse system and the electrical supply in the basement,” he added. “I've had them all checked over, so they're quite safe, but if you experience any problems in that regard, you might want to take a look at the master switches. I'm told they can be a little temperamental sometimes.”

“I'll do that,” Owen said, taking a step back. “I should be okay, though. I'm pretty good with that sort of thing. I'm a practical kinda guy.”

He waited as Mr. Daniels climbed into his car, and then he watched as the old man carefully reversed across the driveway and onto the road. Finally, Owen let out a sigh of relief as the car rumbled away. Hearing footsteps nearby, he turned just in time to see Helen making her way down the steps, and he gave his wife a quick hug as she reached him.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“No comment,” she muttered, glancing back at the house.

“It's not that bad.”

“Jenna hates it.”

“Jenna hates everything. She's a teenager.”

He waited for Helen to reply, but he could see the disappointment in her eyes.

“We'll be okay here,” he added.

“Of course we will,” she said, forcing a smile. “We can make anything work, and we're only an hour's drive from town.”

“And it's not forever,” he continued, putting an arm around her as they both looked at the house, and as Jenna's music continued to ring out from one of the bedrooms. “We just need to get back on our feet, and then we can think about moving back to civilization. I mean, living here is better than going back to stay with your parents, isn't it? And it's better than having those assholes still chasing me for money I don't have yet.”

“Come on,” she replied, patting his shoulder and then making her way back toward the house. “Let's try to make it feel a little more like home.”

Chapter Six

“Still nothing,” Helen muttered, trying the stove again. She turned the dials several times, but still the hobs refused to start working. Glancing across the kitchen, she frowned. “I don't think anything on this side of the room has power.”

“That's weird,” Owen replied, checking the switches over by the far wall. “This side's fine. Must be something to do with the fuses.”

“We need to be able to make food,” she pointed out, clearly trying to hide her exasperation. “Owen, can you take a look? Didn't you say something about master switches in the basement?”

“I guess so,” he said with a sigh, wandering over to the door in the corner.

“And if you accidentally cut off the power to Jenna's room for the rest of the night,” Helen added, glancing at the ceiling as loud music continued to play throughout the house, “I wouldn't be totally distraught.”

***

“How's it going down there?” Helen shouted a few minutes later, as Owen made his way through the dark basement. “Any luck?”

“Not yet! It's kinda hard to find my way around!”

With just the light from his phone, Owen was struggling to reach the far side of the cold, crowded space. Wooden beams criss-crossed his path, and spider webs hung down to brush his face every few seconds. Finally, however, he managed to find an old wooden panel set against the wall, with various ancient-looking metal dials and switches alongside some gauges and indicators.

“Jesus,” he muttered, holding the phone's screen closer to the panel, “it's like something from the last century.” He sighed. “Well, I guess it is from the last century.”

Noticing a faint ticking sound from behind the panel, he turned his head and listened for a moment. Sighing, he opened another of the panels and saw various small black switches, some of which appeared to have been left in the 'off' position. Flicking them up, he turned and looked back toward the door.

“Try now!” he shouted.

“Still nothing!”

“I must be missing something,” he continued, swinging the panel shut and then making his way toward another bank of switches on the wall. Spotting a large black handle, he gave it a tug and found that it was stuck. Still, a sign next to the handle indicated that it was the master-switch for one of the fuse-boxes, so he pulled harder until finally the handle jolted upward.

“There!” Helen called down to him. “We have power!”

Frowning, Owen leaned closer to the panel as he realized that flicking the main switch seemed to have started some kind of ticking sound. After a moment, he noticed that the sound wasn't just coming from the switch itself. In fact, the entire basement now seemed to be alive with a steady, metronomic rhythm.

***

“So is this house clockwork, or what?” Helen asked with a faint, nervous smile as she looked across the dinner table. She waited for Jenna to say something, but her smile faded as she saw that her daughter was still dejectedly mopping tomato soup trails with a chunk of bread.

“Old Mr. Daniels didn't say anything about it,” Owen said, still looking up at the ceiling as the ticking sound continued. “It's not very loud, though. I'm sure I can fix it before bedtime.”

“I'm starting to like the place,” Helen continued, trying once again to smile and keeping her eyes fixed on Jenna. “I know it's not ideal, but there's no point moping. Tomorrow we can explore the area a little, see what's out there.” Glancing at the window, she saw that night had well and truly fallen now, and she couldn't help shivering as she thought of the vast, empty expanse of scrub-land that surrounded the house for miles in every direction. “There must be all sorts of wild-life in the area,” she added. “Maybe we should take some binoculars and -”

Suddenly she jumped as she heard a loud clanging sound, and she turned to see that Jenna had dropped a spoon into her bowl and was sitting back in her chair.

“May I be excused, please?”

“Jenna -”

“I'm finished.”

“We were going to have dessert,” Helen replied, glancing at Owen and hoping for a show of support. “I brought a cake all the way from -”

“Not hungry,” Jenna said sourly, staring down at her bowl. “I ate the soup. Isn't that enough?”

“Honey, please -”

“You'll stay at the table,” Owen said suddenly, watching Jenna with a hint of anger in his eyes. “We're having our first family dinner in the new house. I was actually thinking it'd be good to make this a regular thing. Now we're leading a less rushed life, we can make more time for one another.”

“Are you serious?” Jenna asked, turning to him.

“Your mother's got a cake ready for us,” he continued. “I'm sure it's lovely.”

Rolling her eyes, Jenna looked back down at her bowl.

“It's certainly an unusual house,” Helen continued, still trying to kick-start a conversation. “I've noticed that some of the walls are quite thick. Has anyone else noticed that?”

“A man built this place all by himself,” Owen pointed out, watching Jenna carefully, “with his own two hands. Doesn't that seem impressive?”

“Sure,” Jenna muttered. “More impressive than anything you've ever done.”

Owen sighed.

“Jenna,” Helen whispered, nudging her daughter's foot under the table. “Don't talk to your father that way.”

Jenna turned and glared at her.

“Maybe we should try a séance later,” Owen said suddenly. “Anyone up for that?”

Helen turned to him, her eyes filled with shock. “What?”

He grinned and shrugged. “No harm in trying, right? It might be fun.”

“Jack!” Helen hissed. “No!”

“I was just trying to think of something that might lighten the atmosphere,” Owen replied. “I figured maybe Jenna's not happy about certain things that happened here in the past and -”

“I don't give a shit about what happened here in the past,” Jenna snapped, turning to him. “I give a shit about what's happening here now!”

“Don't curse at me like that,” Owen said firmly. “You weren't raised to use that kind of language.”

“Oh, wasn't I?” Jenna asked, getting to her feet. “Are you suddenly going to pretend to give a damn about anyone apart from yourself?”

“Sit down, honey,” Helen hissed.

“You might be willing to put up with his crap,” Jenna told her, storming around the table and heading to the door, “but I'm not. I hate this house and I swear to God, the moment I turn sixteen I am out of here!”

“Jenna!”

“Let her go,” Owen said as they heard the front door swinging open and then slamming shut. “She's just being a typical teenager. Her hormones are probably all screwy.”

“She's not happy here,” Helen replied.

“The place just takes some getting used to. You're okay with it, right?”

Helen paused, before getting up and starting to gather the soup bowls. “We can save the cake for another time,” she muttered, heading through to the kitchen. “There's no point wasting it tonight.”

Left alone, Owen leaned back in his chair and sighed. For a moment, he listened to the faint ticking sound that could still be heard all around. Suddenly there was a faint bump, and he turned just as something metallic seemed to start grinding up through the gap in the farthest wall. After a few seconds, the sound stopped.

“Huh,” he muttered out loud. “Well I for one happen to think that this house is pretty goddamn cool.”

Chapter Seven

The front door swung open and Owen stepped out onto the dark porch. He looked around, and finally he spotted a dark figure sitting hunched at the top of the steps.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, making his way over.

When Jenna failed to answer, he sat next to her and stared out at the pitch darkness that surrounded the house. There wasn't an electric light anywhere to be seen, and the stars were strikingly clear above.

“Doesn't it feel good to get out of the city,” he continued finally, “and see the natural world? If you ask me, too many people spend their entire lives in a bubble of noise and frenzied activity. We could all do with listening to our quiet inner voices now and again, and you can't do that if the voice is drowned out. And the starts, I mean... Look up, honey. With all the light pollution in the city, you've probably never seen a view like this.”

He waited for a reply.

“Look up. Look at the stars.”

Again he waited, but Jenna failed to respond.

“Look up, honey.” He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “Don't the stars make you feel -”

Before he could finish, she flinched and pull away.

“I'm just trying to make you see the value of this place,” he continued. “Will you look up? For me? The stars are pretty awesome.”

He waited again. This time, he heard Jenna sighing.

“Listen, Jenna -”

“I've seen the stars,” she muttered. “I'm not blind.”

“You know what we should get? A telescope. I reckon -”

“My room reeks,” she said bitterly, still not looking at him. “That's why I'm out here. I'm not contemplating nature or marveling at the stars. My goddamn room stinks of... I don't know what, but it stinks of something.”

“Are you sure?”

Another sigh.

“Well, I'll take a look at it later,” he continued. “For now, just take a deep breath and enjoy a few lungfuls of clear, countryside air. It's good for you, you know.”

“Do you know what'd really be good for me?” she asked, finally turning to him. “Still being in the city. Still being at home. Hell, it'd be good for me to have a stable life where my father isn't running from creditors and lawyers all the goddamn time.”

“You're being a little unfair.”

“Mum hates it out here too. She's just too loyal to tell you what she really thinks.”

“Your mother's a very strong woman,” he replied, before pausing for a moment. “You're right. There are some people who are out to get me. They shouldn't be, but they are, and they're using every legal recourse at their disposal to hound, harass and -”

“Change the record, Dad.”

“I'm serious,” he continued. “I'm going to turn it around on them and crush them eventually, but it takes time to do that. They've got the full weight of the legal system behind them, but I'm going to find a way to strike back soon.” He paused again, looking out at the darkness. “I just have to duck and weave for a while,” he added. “Just for now. I'm in a mess, but you know what I always say, there's a way out of any situation. You just have to find it.”

“Is there a way out of this conversation?” Jenna asked, before getting to her feet and stomping back inside, leaving her father to sit alone on the porch.

“Can you try to be more positive?” he called after her. “For your mother's sake? Jenna? Even if you're annoyed at me, your mother would really appreciate -”

The door swung shut, leaving him sitting alone. Turning, he stared up at the blanket of stars.

“It's not forever,” he muttered to himself. “We won't be stuck in this place for too long, I swear.”

***

“You're right,” Helen said with a frown, standing in Jenna's bedroom, “there is a... I don't know, it's kind of...”

She paused, sniffing the air.

“I don't know how to describe it, it's like -”

“Foul,” Jenna suggested dourly, “rotten, putrid, disgusting, abhorrent, gross. Take your pick.”

“I don't think I've ever smelled anything like it.”

“My room stinks,” Jenna continued. “I can't sleep in here. There's just no way. I'm officially grossed out by the whole thing.”

“Maybe something died,” Helen suggested, heading across the room as she tried to locate the source of the strange, pungent aroma. “Like a mouse or something. After all, the place has been empty for so long, it wouldn't be that weird if some of the local wildlife had found its way inside.”

“I hate mice,” Jenna said with a sigh.

“Or a bird,” Helen added, trying to pull the bed away from the wall before finding that like most of the other furniture in the house, the frame was bolted to the floor. Getting down on her hands and knees, she peered under the bed instead.

“There's nothing under there,” Jenna told her. “I already looked. I'm not completely incapable. I've checked the entire room several times over and I can't find anything.”

“It seems a little stronger in this corner,” Helen pointed out. “I haven't noticed a smell anywhere else in the house.”

“Maybe it's the Cavendish family.”

“Who?” Helen asked, turning to her before sighing. “No, Jenna, that's not what it is. Come on, don't be ridiculous.”

“How do you know it's not them?” Jenna asked. “A family of three disappeared in this house seventy-five years ago, leaving nothing behind but a load of bloody smears. Maybe their rotting corpses are piled up in the basement, maybe they're buried under the floorboards.”

“I think someone would've noticed that by now.”

“Or maybe some weird-ass freak killed them, and he's still here now, and the stink is his piss-stained pants that he never washes.”

“Don't you think you're being a little paranoid?”

“So what is it?” Jenna asked. “Something's causing that awful smell.”

Crawling around the side of the bed, Helen followed her nose, trying to pinpoint the source of the persistent stench. After a moment, however, she realized she could still hear the constant ticking sound from behind the walls.

“What is that?” she muttered, leaning closer and pressing her ear against the wood.

“Are you seriously saying you can sleep with that noise going on?” Jenna asked.

“Your father's going to find out what's causing it.”

“Oh, Dad's looking into the problem?” Jenna replied, with mock surprise. “Cool. Then I'm sure it'll be fixed any minute now. I mean, it's not like he'll just screw everything up as usual.”

“Jenna -”

“I hate this house,” Jenna continued. “It stinks, it has that weird sound, all the goddamn stuff is bolted to the floor, we're in the middle of nowhere, and...” She paused for a moment, watching as her mother crawled to the next corner, still in search of the smell's source. “Leave him, Mum,” she said finally. “Please, I'm begging you, leave Dad.”

“Don't say things like that.”

“I absolutely mean it. Let's go tonight, before we even have to spend one night in this house. Dad's a loser, and a liar, and a goddamn fantasist. We can go stay with Gran and Grandad, and we can get on our feet way faster than if we stick with Dad. He always promises so much, but nothing ever happens, and I can see it in your eyes, you know he's a waste of space.”

“Jenna, please...” Still on her hands and knees, Helen peered at a gap in the wall. Between two of the wooden panels, there was a small space, just a couple of millimeters wide, running vertically from floor to ceiling. Leaning closer, she realized she could feel a very faint breeze coming from the gap, and she could just about make out something glinting in the darkness.

“What is it, Mum?” Jenna asked cautiously.

“Hang on.” After trying and failing to get a better look at whatever was in the gap, Helen took out a hairpin and straightened it before slipping one end into the narrow space. She quickly felt the tip pressing against something solid, but she still couldn't get a fix on what it might be. Jiggling the hairpin a little, she realized that there seemed to be a very thin sheet of metal in the gap, and when she moved the hairpin up and down she found that the metal ran to the floor and up toward the ceiling.

“Mum? What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Helen muttered, getting to her feet and peering into the gap a little higher up. Sure enough, the blade-like metal surface could still just about be made out. She poked the hairpin through again, pressing against the object, but it was clearly stuck fast.

“Mum?”

“Nothing,” she said again, figuring that she didn't want to get her daughter's over-active imagination running. Slipping the hairpin away, she turned to her and smiled. “There's a slight breeze, that's all. Like I said, your father'll take a look tomorrow. I'm building up quite a list of things for him to do.” She made her way over toward the door. “Things'll get better, sweetheart.”

“It's not gonna get better!” Jenna hissed. “Dad's not gonna suddenly pull money and a stable life out of his ass for us! He lets us down all the time and -”

“Jenna, that's enough!” Helen shouted, momentarily losing her temper as she stepped out into the hallway. “Don't you dare talk about your father like that!”

“Why are you so loyal to him?”

“I can't find what's causing that smell,” Helen continued, turning to her, “but you'll just have to live with it. It's getting late and we have a lot to do tomorrow.” For a moment, she was distracted by the sight of several round holes in the door-frame, each about an inch wide. The holes weren't jagged; rather, they were clean and clearly deliberate.

“Leave him, Mum,” Jenna said suddenly.

“Go to bed.”

“Mum -”

“This discussion is over!” Helen said firmly, turning and heading along the corridor. When she got to the top of the stairs, however, she spotted another gap in the wall, and when she leaned closer she saw that once again there seemed to be something hidden in the narrow space. She ran a fingertip along the edge of the gap for a moment, before forcing herself to put any worries out of her mind. Exhausted, she headed through to the bathroom, where she couldn't help noticing more neat little holes in the door-frame.

Chapter Eight

“Are you coming up?” Helen asked a little while later, stopping in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs. She'd already changed into her dressing gown and prepared for bed. “Owen?”

“Look at this,” he replied, holding up a wax cylinder with writing on the side. “Edison Records,” he read from the label. “Echo all over the world. Do you know what this is?”

“I'm going to bed. I'll be -”

“It's an old phonograph recording system,” he continued, turning to the device on a table in the corner of the living room. “I saw one before, but only in a museum. It's one of the earliest types of device used for recording and playing music. This cylinder's blank, but the ones mounted here look to have recordings on them. Of course it's all bolted down, like pretty much everything else in this house.”

Stepping into the room, Helen saw a set of twelve cylinders held in metal cases above a box that was attached to a large metal amplifier.

“It's...” She paused, but she felt too tired to really show interest. “It's fascinating, honey.”

“This thing must be from the eighteen-hundreds,” Owen explained, with a hint of awe in his voice. “You know, Edison was a guy who had his head screwed on right. That man made so much money from his inventions, it's unreal.” He paused, turning the cylinder around as if he was lost in thought. “I'm gonna be like that one day. I'm gonna make something that changes the world, and then I'll have enough money to pay off the bastards who are after me and buy us a house. Hell, we'll have a yacht too!”

“I'm sure,” Helen replied, kissing the back of his neck. “I'm going to bed.”

“I can't get this thing working, though,” he continued, setting the cylinder down. “It looks like someone rigged it up to some kind of homemade system, but I don't see how you're supposed to activate it.” He paused, examining the wires and leads that ran from the cylinders to the main device, and which were also attached to a large panel on the wall. “Of course, it's bolted to the table, and the table's bolted to the floor, like everything else in the house, so it's not like we can move it. I'll have to study it so we can hear what's on the cylinders.” He turned to his wife. “I think I've found a project for the next few days. Aren't you fascinated by this thing?”

“Weren't you going to start working on some new ideas of your own?” she asked cautiously. “You mentioned -”

“I need to get my mind working first,” he told her. “It'll be like a loosening-up exercise, you know? Something to get the juices running before I turn my attention to my own work. You wouldn't expect an athlete to start a marathon without warming up, would you?”

“No,” she replied with a sigh, “I guess not.” Wandering back to the door, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that Owen was already muttering to himself as he made his way around the side of the table to examine the machine more closely. “Don't stay up too late,” she told him. “I might be asleep when you come to bed. I feel like I'm about to drop.”

She waited for a reply, but he was clearly too engrossed in the machine to even notice that she'd said anything.

“Okay,” she muttered as she left the room. “Goodnight, honey.”

***

One hour later, Helen lay alone in the dark, still unable to get comfortable on the bed. A patch of moonlight lit the far end of the room with a cold blue glow, and as she stared up at the ceiling she felt as if she'd never manage to sleep again.

“We can go stay with Gran and Grandad,” she heard Jenna's voice saying, “and we can get on our feet way faster than if we stick with Dad. He always promises so much, but nothing ever happens, and I can see it in your eyes, you know he's a waste of space.”

Her daughter's words were rushing through her mind, refusing to leave her alone. Although her body was exhausted, her mind had suddenly come alive with thoughts and doubts, to the extent that she was starting to wonder whether Jenna might have had a point.

“A wife stands by her husband,” she heard her mother's voice saying, echoing from a long time ago. “You have faith in Owen, don't you?”

“Of course,” she remembered replying, back when she was ten years younger and Owen had screwed up for the first time.

There were so many things Jenna didn't understand. About life, about love, about loyalty...

Turning, she looked toward the wall and listened to the ticking sound, which had been running for hours now without a break. She knew that her daughter was on the other side of the wall, probably having an equally restless night, but she figured there was no point going through to check on her. Glancing over at the other side of the bed, she saw the empty space where Owen still hadn't come up to sleep. She imagined him downstairs still fiddling with the machine he'd found, and she realized that he'd probably spend the next few days obsessively working on the damn thing. Still, she told herself that he'd have to get on with his own work eventually.

Deep down, she still believed in -

Suddenly she heard a loud metallic clanking sound. She turned and looked at the wall, as the sound gave way to a slightly more insistent ticking. A moment later, she heard what sounded like some kind of gear being turned.

And a moment after that, footsteps hurried along the landing and the door swung open.

“What the hell was that?” Jenna asked, sounding distinctly unimpressed.

“Nothing,” Helen replied, turning to her. “Go to sleep.”

“This house is alive!” Jenna continued. “There's something going on in the walls!”

“It's just the plumbing or -”

“It's not the plumbing, Mum! Jesus Christ, it's like we're living inside a giant clock!”

“Jenna, just -”

Before Helen could finish, another loud bump rang out from the other side of the room.

“I felt that!” Jenna said, placing a hand on the wall. “Mum, I actually felt a vibration! The wall shook!”

“You're exaggerating,” Helen replied, sitting up in bed. She wanted to tell her daughter to go back to bed, but she couldn't help noticing that the ticking sound seemed both louder and faster.

“How the hell are we supposed to sleep?” Jenna asked. “Do you have, like, ear-plugs?”

“Yeah, somewhere,” Helen replied, still listening to the sound, which now seemed to be coming from all around. She couldn't deny that the house seemed to be a hive of activity, albeit with everything happening just out of sight.

“It's like there's something going on in the walls,” Jenna pointed out. “And the floor and the ceiling, too. Who the hell built this house, Mum? Jesus, no wonder Dad was able to get it so cheap! No-one in their right mind would ever want to live here! It's going to drive us insane! More insane than we already are!”

“There's nothing in the -”

Another jarring metal bump rang out from behind the wall next to the bed. Looking over, Helen paused for a moment, unable to shake the feeling that some kind of mechanism seemed to be steadily ticking behind the faded old wallpaper.

“Do you remember that night when we stayed in a run-down old hotel in Bristol?” Jenna asked. “And our room was next to the elevator shaft? This is like that, but worse.”

“I'm sure we can make it stop,” Helen replied. “In the morning, your Dad -”

“He can't fix anything,” Jenna snapped. “Knowing Dad, he'll just make it worse. Like he keeps doing with our lives.”

***

“Huh,” Owen muttered, staring up at the living room ceiling as he listened to some kind of metal grinding sound. “It's almost as if...”

His voice trailed off.

“Can you stop it?” Helen asked wearily. “I'm pretty sure it only started when you were down in the basement earlier, fiddling with the power.” She checked her watch. “It's one in the morning.”

Owen turned and looked at the far wall. Behind the wallpaper and plaster, it seemed as if a chain was rattling.

“Fascinating,” he muttered.

“We're going to lose our minds,” Jenna said sourly, placing a hand on the wall. “I can feel it. Like, I can actually feel the entire house vibrating!”

Stepping over to join her, Owen put his hand next to hers.

“You're right,” he said under his breath. “The whole house is...”

Jenna waited for him to finish the sentence, before turning to her mother and rolling her eyes.

“We can't live like this,” Helen said with a sigh. “Owen, there has to be some way to stop it. Whatever's going on between the walls, it's going to drive me crazy. Jenna's right, this place isn't habitable.”

“Old Marchionne was supposed to be a genius,” Owen muttered, slipping past his wife and daughter and heading out into the hallway. “He must have built some kind of new invention into the structure of the house, but obviously we're not seeing whatever it's meant to do. Maybe it's some kind of 'internet of things' set-up, but developed a hundred years before the internet was even a thing.” He made his way to the framed photo of Cesar Marchionne and stared at the old man for a moment. “What is it?” he whispered. “What crazy invention did you hide in this place?”

As if to offer a partial answer, the house groaned slightly, and the ticking sound continued. Owen continued to watch the photo, staring at the balding old man whose large white beard covered the lower half of his face. Dark, brooding eyes looked down toward the bottom of the frame, and Owen couldn't shake a feeling of awe as he studied the image.

“I think maybe Cesar Marchionne and I have a great deal in common,” he said finally. “Both inventors. Both misunderstood in our day. Both passionate about our work.” He took a deep breath. “Both ending up here, in this same spot. A great man like Cesar Marchionne wouldn't have wasted several years building a house. Anyone can build a house. Maybe if I can uncover the truth about his work, I can pick things up where he left off.”

“This isn't a puzzle to be solved, Owen,” Helen pointed out. “This is supposed to be our home.”

“I could write a book about him!” Owen continued. “A bestseller! I just need to work out what he was trying to achieve when he built this house.”

Helen turned to Jenna, who simply rolled her eyes again.

“I wonder what he created,” Owen continued, looking up at the ceiling as he heard some kind of pulley being activated. “Maybe the man was ahead of his time. No, scratch that, undoubtedly he was ahead of his time. I bet none of the stuck-in-the-mud ignoramuses of the late nineteenth century understood Cesar Marchionne's genius.”

“Can you stop the annoying noise?” Helen asked.

Ignoring the question, Owen made his way across the hallway, following the metal clanking sound that seemed to be moving slowly toward the kitchen.

“Can you stop it?” Helen asked again. “Owen? Can you find a way to turn the damn thing off so we can sleep tonight?”

“I'll see what I can do,” he muttered, heading into the kitchen while still staring at the ceiling.

“Dad's on the case,” Jenna said, rolling her eyes. “The problem's bound to get fixed. Meanwhile, excuse me while I go put chewing gum in my ears. Maybe I'll manage to sleep.”

As her daughter stomped upstairs, Helen was left alone in the hallway, listening to the sound of the house ticking and clunking all around her. For a moment, she couldn't shake the feeling that metal pieces were slowly sliding into place out of sight. Looking up, she spotted more small holes around the edge of the door, and another thin gap in the wall.

Chapter Nine

“This is ridiculous,” Jenna muttered a couple of hours later, making her way cautiously along the dark corridor. Having been unable to find a light-switch that worked, she was now trying to feel her way to the bathroom, although after a moment she stubbed her toe against the side of an old cabinet that stood at the top of the stairs.

Stopping, she let out a gasp of pain.

“Damn it!”

Looking down, she saw to her horror that the nail on her little toe was split open, with blood already dribbling out onto the bare wooden floor.

“Motherf -”

Wincing as she felt another flash of pain, she crouched down and took a closer look. The toenail had been cracked open all the way to the base, and a fresh bead of blood was running down the side. Glancing at the floorboard, she saw that a small patch of blood was already soaking into the wood. Getting to her feet, she limped through to the bathroom and promptly switched the light on, before sitting on the edge of the rusty old bath and lifting her right foot so she could get a better view of the damage.

All around, even in the bathroom, the house continued to tick and groan.

“Great,” she said with a sigh, seeing that the two pieces of broken nail were hanging loose.

Grabbing a small bag from next to the sink, she rifled through its contents and eventually pulled out a pair of tweezers. Wincing again, she began to carefully pull the broken nail away, until finally she saw the meaty pink nail-bed glistening in the bathroom's bright light.

“Thanks Dad,” she muttered, as she began to clean up the mess. “This must be the -”

Suddenly the house fell silent.

She froze for a moment, listening to the absolute quiet that now filled the air. She looked around, waiting for the ticking sound to return, but there was nothing. Still not quite able to believe that the constant annoyance had ended, she glanced up at the ceiling, then at the floor, then at the pipes that ran across the wall, then at the door.

“Huh,” she said out loud.

She waited.

Silence.

“Huh,” she said again, getting to her feet and limping over to the toilet. “I guess miracles do happen.”

A couple of minutes later, once she'd finished, she switched the light off and limped back out to the corridor. The house was still completely quiet, as if whatever had been going on behind the walls was now, finally, at an end. Spotting a gap in the wall opposite, she limped over and put her ear next to the wood, but sure enough there was no sound of anything happening on the other side. She even placed her hand against the surface, just in case there was any hint of a vibration.

Nothing.

“Well thank you, God,” she muttered, stepping back and enjoying the silence for a moment before turning and making her way back toward her room.

When she reached the top of the stairs, however, she glanced down and realized that her father seemed to have finally gone to bed. There was no sign of anyone down in the front room, and she figured that maybe she could grab a glass of water and perhaps take a look around without having to deal with Owen's annoying presence. Still limping slightly thanks to the pain in her damaged toe, she began to make her way down the bare wooden stairs. With the light off, she kept one hand on the wall, while muttering under her breath about the unfairness of the situation and about how she hated the house.

Still, at least the ticking sound had stopped.

Suddenly she felt one of the steps move slightly under her right foot, shifting down like a lever. She paused, a little unsteady, and a fraction of a second later she heard a clicking sound from behind the wall.

“Oh great,” she muttered with a sigh, making her way down the next couple of steps. “I knew it was too good to be -”

Bumping her damaged toe against the wall, she let out a gasp and stumbled. She reached out to grab the bannister but wasn't quite in time. Instead, she twisted and fell, briefly crying out as she tumbled down the final couple of steps. As she did so, she heard a sudden grinding noise and saw something flash through the air just a few inches above her face, accompanied by the sound of metal slicing across metal. Before she could react, however, she landed hard against the floor at the bottom of the stairs.

“Damn it!” she hissed, before rolling onto her back and looking up the stairs.

Three long metal spikes were protruding from the wall, running all the way over to the bannister.

Unable to believe what she was seeing, Jenna stared wide-eyed and shocked as the spikes glistened in a patch of moonlight. The ticking sound continued, as slowly the spikes began to retract into three holes in the wall. A moment later, she heard a faint bump from further up the stairs and she saw that the loose step was clicking back into position.

A moment after that, the ticking sounds faded again.

She stayed frozen in place on the floor. All thoughts of her damaged toe were forgotten now, and she simply stared at the three holes in the wall. She opened her mouth to call out, but no words came. Telling herself that there was no way a set of spikes had actually appeared, she began to sit up, although she was starting to realize that if she hadn't tripped and fallen, the spikes would have gone right through her waist and chest.

Shaking all over, she turned and looked across the dark hallway. There was no sign of anyone, although moonlight was streaming through the window and after a moment she spotted the framed photo of Cesar Marchionne on the opposite wall.

“Mum?” she said cautiously, her voice trembling with fear.

She waited, but the house was completely silent now. She wanted to just go back to bed and figure everything out for herself, but at the same time she was starting to feel a rush of panic.

“Mum?” she shouted again, before realizing that the whole situation was completely bizarre and impossible.

Crawling up the first step, she peered at the three holes in the wall. She made sure not to put herself in a position where she could get hurt, but she couldn't help reaching up and running her fingers around the edges of the holes, just to make sure they were real.

They were.

“No way,” she whispered, feeling a growing sense of panic in her chest. “No goddamn...”

Suddenly filled with the need to know for sure, she ducked down and started crawling up the stairs until she reached the step that had moved earlier under her foot. She hesitated for a moment, and then she looked around to make sure that there were no more holes in the wall, before finally she reached out and pushed the step down. Sure enough, it clicked the same as before, and she heard the ticking sound starting again behind the wall.

She turned and looked down toward the bottom of the stairs, watching the holes and -

Suddenly the three spikes shot out again, shuddering slightly as they came to a halt in the moonlight. Wide-eyed with shock, Jenna watched as the spikes stayed completely still, and then she saw then retracting once again into the wall, sliding away as cleanly as they'd appeared until they were one again out of sight.

“Mum?” she called out, before turning and scrambling back up the stairs. She was beyond panic now, and all she knew was that she had to warn her parents. “Mum! Dad! Wake up! There's -”

Before she could finish, she tripped on the last step and fell, landing hard on the floor. Letting out a gasp of pain, she rolled over and scrambled to her feet.

“Mum!” she shouted, limping quickly along the corridor. “Dad! You have to wake up, there's -”

Suddenly her right foot pressed down on a loose section of floorboard, which clicked slightly. The ticking sound immediately returned in the walls, and Jenna froze, looking around for any sign of more holes in the wall. After a fraction of a second, she heard a faint grinding sound over her shoulder, and finally she noticed a small hole on the edge of the cabinet.

She ducked out of the way, just as another spike shot out from the cabinet and almost hit the opposite wall, stopping just millimeters short. She stared in shock for a moment, before the spike slowly began to slide back into its slot.

“Mum!” she shouted, turning and crawling toward the door at the far end of the corridor. “Mum! Wake up!”

The door swung open and her parents emerged, slipping their earplugs out.

“What?” Helen asked, as Jenna clattered into her. “Honey, what's wrong? What in God's name are you doing on the floor?”

Chapter Ten

“Well nothing's happening now,” Owen muttered, pushing on the step again. Glancing back down, he looked at the holes in the wall and waited for a moment, before turning and looking back up at Helen and Jenna. “See for yourselves. I don't see spikes.”

“I'm telling you!” Jenna shouted, trembling as tears streamed down her face. “Why would I make something like this up!”

“It's okay,” Helen replied, pulling her closer for a hug as they sat at the top of the stairs. “Try to stay calm.”

“Spikes?” Owen continued, making his way down and examining the three holes in the wall. “Actual spikes?”

“Don't get too close!” Jenna yelled. “Dad, I swear to God, they're real!”

Peering closer at the holes, Owen ran a finger around the edges.

“Stop!” Jenna shouted. “They might come out!”

“Just calm down,” Helen said, kissing the side of her head.

“Don't tell me to calm down!” Jenna hissed, turning to her. “This house just tried to kill me! Twice!”

Helen sighed.

“You don't believe me!” Jenna continued. “I swear on my life, spikes came out of the wall!”

“Maybe you just had a very vivid nightmare,” Owen suggested, still examining the holes.

Jenna turned and looked down at him, her eyes filled with anger.

“A new house is a big change,” he continued, “and you've got to admit, you've been a little on-edge lately. Maybe -”

“I'm not a moron,” Jenna replied, interrupting him. Her bottom lip was trembling, and fresh tears were rolling down her cheeks. “I know the difference between being awake and being asleep. This goddamn house tried to goddamn kill me! Twice!”

“It seems completely harmless now,” he pointed out.

“That's because...” She looked down at the step for a moment. “Maybe it only works once. Or twice. I don't know, but I swear to God it happened!” She turned to Helen. “We have to get out of here! Right now!”

Helen sighed as she checked her watch. “It's three in the morning, sweetheart.”

“I don't care! The house is alive and it's trying to kill us!”

“What happened to your toe?”

“I stubbed it. Mum, seriously, if I hadn't slipped on my way down, those spikes would have skewered me!” She turned to Owen. “Take the wall apart! You'll see them!”

“No-one's pulling the wall apart tonight,” Helen told her. “Come on, you're being irrational.”

“There's something in there,” Owen muttered, trying to slip a fingertip into one of the holes but finding it was too tight. “I can't quite see what, though...”

“Stop!” Jenna yelled. “You might trigger it!”

“Just calm down,” Helen said soothingly, rubbing her daughter's shoulder. “Whatever happened, it'll seem much less scary in the morning.”

“Jenna might have a point,” Owen said, stepping through a door in the hallway and looking into the front room. “If there really are spikes in the wall, they must have retracted into this wall here. The geography of the house would technically allow that to happen. I guess I could take the wall apart and double-check, although...” He paused, before making his way back through and looking up at Jenna. “Don't you think you're taking this too far? I appreciate the effort, Jenna, but claiming that the house is somehow out to get you -”

“I'm not lying!” Jenna shouted. “Why can't you get that through your thick head! There's something seriously wrong with this place!”

“Maybe we should all go to bed,” Helen replied, standing and reaching down to take Jenna's hand. “In the morning, everything'll look a lot better.”

“This house is booby-trapped!” Jenna hissed.

“Come on, let's get you to your room.”

Jenna stared up at her mother for a moment, before taking her hand and getting to her feet. Turning, she looked down the stairs and saw that Owen was still examining the holes, and that he'd found a pencil from somewhere and was poking it into one of the gaps.

“Be careful, Dad!”

“I know what I'm doing!”

“Since when?”

“You're getting over-excited,” Helen told her. “This is ridiculous.”

“Do you really think I'd make something like this up?” she asked, her voice still trembling with shock. “I'm not insane!”

“Of course you're not,” Helen continued, as Jenna stood and took her hand. “Owen, we need to know what's going on in this house. If there are spikes or whatever in the walls, you need to find them. Not that I think there...” She paused, clearly struggling to make sense of the madness. “This is just too crazy,” she added, leading Jenna along toward one of the bedrooms. “I feel like I'm losing my mind.”

“Do you believe me?” Jenna asked.

She waited for a reply, but by the time they reached the door to her room she was starting to realize that her mother's silence was an answer in its own right.

“Why would I lie?” she continued. “Mum, I'm not stupid. I wouldn't lie about something that'd be so easily disproved. What would I even gain from that, apart from making myself look like a prat?”

“Sit down, sweetheart.”

“Mum -”

“Just sit down.”

Heading over to her bed, Jenna sat on the edge. Her feet were twitching and she was wringing her hands, unable to stay still as she felt a wave of nervous energy rippling through her body. She waited for her mother to join her, but instead Helen hesitated in the doorway.

“Do you think I'm a liar?” Jenna asked. “When have I ever lied, Mum? I'm not the liar in the family.”

“I know. I know, honey.”

“Dad lies enough for the three of us.”

“Let's not get into that now.”

“I admit that it all sounds crazy,” Jenna continued, “and I agree with you, it is hard to believe. Hell, if I hadn't seen those spikes myself, I don't think I'd have believed it, but...” She paused, waiting desperately for her mother to show a little support. “They're real. I promise.”

“Your father's taking a look now,” Helen replied. “If there's anything to find -”

“There is!”

“If there's anything to find, then he'll find it. And if there isn't...”

Her voice trailed off.

“You know I'm not a bullshitter,” Jenna said after a moment. “Deep down, Mum, you know I don't lie. I always swore I'd never be like Dad.”

Helen paused. “I know that,” she said finally, nodding. “Sure, sweetheart, I know you always tell the truth. I just think that with all the stress we've been under lately -”

“You think I imagined it?”

“Stress can do surprising things to a person's mind.”

“Ugh!” Leaning back, Jenna slumped down on her bed and stared up for a moment at the bare ceiling. She could hear her father bumping around in the room below, no doubt trying to locate the spikes, but she didn't care about his opinion. All she cared about was that her mother believed her, and she felt fresh tears in her eyes as she realized she was being written off as some crazy teenager.

“You should try to get some sleep,” Helen said finally, sounding exhausted. “Things'll look better in the morning.”

“Whatever,” Jenna replied, feeling a cold shiver running through her body. After a moment, however, she realized that perhaps her mother was right. “Maybe I am nuts,” she added. She took a deep breath as she replayed the night's events over and over in her mind's eye. Suddenly the idea of the spikes seemed ridiculous, and she began to doubt herself. “Maybe I'm just some easily-led, over-imaginative jerk,” she continued, “and I let this house get to me. Maybe it was just some kind of weird waking dream.”

“At least the house is quiet now,” Helen pointed out, just before there as another bump from downstairs. “Apart from your father's work, that is.”

“Sure.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Jenna paused. “Goodnight, Mum.”

She waited, before hearing her mother stepping out of the room.

Suddenly there was a clicking sound from nearby. Sitting bolt upright, Jenna saw that her mother had frozen in the doorway, looking down at her left foot, while the ticking sound had returned on the far side of the room.

“Mum -”

“This floorboard just moved a little,” Helen said with a frown. “Weird, eh?”

“Mum,” Jenna continued, feeling a rush of panic in her chest as she heard something rattling in the wall, “don't stand there!”

Helen turned to her. “What are you talking about?”

“Mum, move!”

Helen glanced at the frame and spotted a set of three holes at chest height.

“Mum, get out of there!”

Leaping up from the bed, Jenna was already halfway across the room when suddenly she saw three spikes slicing out from the frame, cutting straight through her mother's torso and slamming her like a rag-doll against the frame.

Chapter Eleven

“Mum!” Jenna screamed, reaching her mother as blood started dribbling down the front of Helen's night-shirt. “Dad! Help!”

“What...” Helen stammered, looking down at the spikes that were embedded in her chest, on the left-hand side of her body. One had entered just below her ribs, one had crushed through the ribs, and one was in her shoulder. Her eyes were filled with shock and confusion, as if she couldn't quite process what was happening.

“Dad!” Jenna shouted. “Help!”

“What's going on up there?” Owen shouted from downstairs.

“Dad, the -”

Suddenly the spikes retracted, sliding back into the holes with blood caked around their tips. Helen remained standing for a moment, as a torrent of blood began to rush from her wounds, but she quickly let out a pained sigh and slumped forward. Jenna caught her, almost collapsing under the weight as she felt her mother's blood rushing over her hands.

“Help!” she screamed. “Dad! Mum's hurt!”

“What do you mean?”

She heard footsteps from below.

“Helen?” Owen shouted. “What are you two -”

Suddenly there was a loud bump from downstairs, accompanied by the sound of metal hitting wood.

“Dad?” Jenna yelled, struggling as she began to drag her mother toward the bed. “Dad, are you coming? Just get the hell up here!”

“Get out of the house,” Helen whispered, reaching down and touching the front of her bloodied night-shirt. “Jenna, you have to... get out of...”

“No way,” Jenna stammered, lowering her onto the bed and then looking down to see several large, growing patches of blood. “Dad!” she screamed, looking toward the doorway. “Dad, help! Mum's really hurt!”

She waited, but the only sound was the renewed ticking sound from behind the walls.

“Dad!”

Again she waited, before turning back to Helen. “I think maybe Dad's hurt too,” she stammered, as she broke into a series of sobs. “Oh God, what's happening?”

“Get out,” Helen replied, already starting to look pale. “Jenna, get... get out of this place. Something's wrong...”

“I have to patch you up,” Jenna stammered, reaching down and starting to move the night-shirt aside. As soon as she saw her mother's bloodied abdomen, however, she froze as she stared down at the thick, bloodied would that had been cut by the spike. “Jesus,” she continued, lifting the shirt up a little further with trembling fingers, only to see another wound, this time with shards of broken bone poking through. “Oh God, no...”

“Get out of here!” Helen hissed, wincing as she tried but failed to sit up. “Jenna, please, for God's sake, you have to move! I'll be right behind you, but you have to run!”

“I told you something was wrong in this place,” Jenna replied, looking around for something she could use to stop the flow of blood. “Mum, tell me what to do. I don't have a clue!”

Still looking around the room, she realized after a moment that her mother hadn't replied. Turning, she saw that Helen's head was tilted to one side, and her eyes were slipping shut.

“No!” she shouted, shaking her shoulders. “Mum, don't fall asleep!”

Helen whispered something, but her words were too slurred to make out. More and more blood was blossoming across her chest and running down onto the bed-sheet.

“Dad!” Jenna screamed, looking toward the door again. Getting to her feet, she made her way across the room but stopped before she got too close to the frame. She looked for a moment at the three holes, and she saw a few trickles of blood running down the wood. “Dad!” she shouted, trying to stay calm even though her entire body was trembling. “Dad, say something! Dad, for God's sake, where the hell are you?”

She waited, but all she heard was the house's constant ticking sound, which was clicking almost as fast as her heart was pounding.

Suddenly there was a bump behind the wall right next to her. Stepping back, Jenna listened as some kind of metal object slid through the gap, then another and then another. She couldn't see anything moving, but the sound was unmistakeable. Whatever was going on behind the walls, the house was busy rearranging its weapons.

“Oh God,” she continued, turning and heading back toward her mother. “Mum, we -”

Stopping suddenly, she was shocked to see that one end of the bed-sheet was now soaked in blood, which had flowed from her mother's body and was now starting to drip down onto the wooden floorboards.

“Mum!” she shouted, hurrying over and climbing onto the bed, before lifting Helen's head and cradling it in her hands. “Mum, wake up! Mum, we have to get out of here!”

Slowly, Helen's eyes began to open, staring up at her daughter. Her pupils were a little larger than before.

“Mum, please,” Jenna continued, as the ticking sound continued, “we have to move! We have to stick together!”

“I'm too weak,” Helen whispered. “You have to get out. Call help.”

“I can't leave you,” Jenna sobbed. “Mum, you have to try to walk!”

“Where's... Where's your father?”

“I called out to him but he didn't reply. I think he's hurt too. I think something must have got him downstairs.” She flinched as she heard another bump, this time from the closest wall, and she listened to some kind of chain rattling just out of sight. A moment later, she heard more rumblings from elsewhere in the house. “What the hell is this place? What are we inside?”

Reaching over to the table next to her bed, she grabbed her phone and checked the screen.

“No signal,” she muttered, tossing the phone aside. “Why the hell is there still no signal in this goddamn place?”

“Jenna,” Helen whispered, “please -”

“Dad!” Jenna screamed, as loud as she could manage. “Help us!” Reaching down, she banged a fist against the floor. “Dad, we need you! Mum's hurt really bad!”

She waited, but still the only sound came from the ticking mechanisms hidden between the walls. Nearby, something large and metallic seemed to be moving through the space behind the far wall.

“You have to get up,” Jenna continued, looking down at her mother. “We're gonna get out of here. We can do it. We were walking around all day in the house, and it's not like we triggered any of these traps before. Maybe they only just became live, but either way, we have to get to the front door and then outside. It has to be possible, and if it's possible, we're gonna do it!”

“Go,” Helen whispered. “Leave me here...”

“No! Get up!”

“Jenna -”

“Get the hell up, Mum! I'm not leaving you!”

Taking a deep breath, Helen adjusted her position slightly and then started leaning on her left elbow as she tried to sit up. After just a couple of seconds, however, she let out an agonized cry of pain as she felt broken ribs digging into her flesh. She tried to slump back down, but Jenna grabbed her and began to pull her up.

“Stop!” Helen screamed. “Let go!”

“You have to push through it!” Jenna shouted, trying to force her mother up from the bed. “We need to get outside and call for help! Everything'll be okay if we just get out of the house and find some signal for my phone.” She grabbed her phone and shoved it into her pocket, before putting an arm around her mother and starting to lift her up.

“Stop!” Helen yelled again, before letting out a series of pained gasps. Tears were streaming down her face now, and fresh blood was leaking from her wounds and soaking through her night-shirt. Still, she just about managed to stand, even though her whole body was shaking. “Stop,” she gasped. “Jenna, please... I think you're making it worse.”

“Come on!” Jenna shouted, forcing her to take a step forward. “There's no way I'm leaving you up here!”

“You have to go,” Helen stammered, before gasping as she felt a fresh wave of pain. “Leave me here. You can come back later once you've got help, but right now you have to -”

She screamed again, and this time her knees buckled.

Jenna just about managed to catch her, holding her up and forcing her to take a couple more stumbled steps toward the door.

“Nearly there,” she hissed. “Come on, Mum. Not too...”

Stopping suddenly, she looked down at the floorboards in the open doorway.

“Which one was it?”

“I don't know,” Helen whispered, once again starting to lose consciousness. “I don't... I don't remember...” She muttered something else, but her voice was becoming quieter and quieter as she slipped away.

Grabbing one of her slippers, Jenna pushed it forward until it was in the doorway. She glanced at the bloodied holes on the frame, and then she cautiously reached a foot out and slid the slipper forward. Realizing that it wouldn't be heavy enough, however, she jabbed it down against the floor and then pulled back, waiting to see if the spikes returned.

Nothing.

After a couple of seconds, she pushed the slipper a little further forward and jabbed it again. Her heart was pounding, racing twice as fast now as the clicking sound that filled the house. She jabbed the slipper again.

She waited.

Nothing.

“Stay with me, Mum,” she hissed, as she pushed the slipper a little further and then forced it down. “I'm just trying to figure out which of the -”

Suddenly she felt a clicking sensation as the floorboard moved. She stepped back, and a moment later the three spikes shot back out across the doorway. There was blood smeared along their metal sides, and Jenna stared in horror as the spikes held in place for a couple of seconds before retracting.

“The whole house must be full of them,” she stammered. Reaching out, she pushed the floorboard again, but this time there was no click. Turning, she looked around for a moment before spotting her baseball bat, which she quickly grabbed and then held through the open doorway, pressing it against each of the boards in turn. When none of them moved, she pulled her mother out into the corridor and then held her up as she looked along toward the top of the stairs.

“I can't do this,” Helen stammered. “Jenna, I'll only slow you down...”

She tried to pull away, but Jenna held her firmly.

“Dad!” she yelled. “Dad, can you hear me?”

She waited, with tears running down her cheeks, before adjusting her grip around her mother's waist and then taking a step forward. Holding the baseball bat out, she prodded the floorboard in the doorway, and this time she felt the click again. Sure enough, the bloodied metal spikes shot out for a third time.

“It has to reset,” she said as the spikes retracted. “It's like, for a short time after each trap has gone off, it can't be triggered again. I don't know how long for, maybe only ten seconds or something like that.”

Turning, she began to use the bat to press each of the floorboards ahead, as she supported her mother and led her toward the top of the stairs. They had to move slowly, and she checked each board twice, just so she could be absolutely sure that it was safe. As they were about to reach the stairs, however, the baseball bat's tip activated another rigged board, which immediately clicked down.

“I don't see them,” Jenna said, trying not to panic as she looked around for more of the tell-tale holes. “Mum, I don't -”

Suddenly part of the skirting board shot out and rattled across the floor, trailing several stretches of thin, razor-sharp wire that ran vertically to another board on the ceiling. Before she had time to react, Jenna saw the wire hit the wall on the other side of the corridor and fall still, although the death-trap frame rattled slightly on impact.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “Another step and that would've...”

The wire suddenly sprang back the other way and slammed into the wall at the spot where it had started.

“If we'd been standing there,” Jenna stammered, “it would've sliced us apart.”

Reaching down, she pressed the baseball bat's tip against the floor, and this time the board failed to click. She tried a couple more times, with the same result.

“Quick,” she told Helen, leading her over the danger point and finally getting her to the top of the stairs. Her mother slumped down, and this time Jenna wasn't quick enough to catch her.

“Dad!” she yelled, looking down the stairs toward the dark hallway below. “Dad, where are you? Can you hear me?”

She waited, before looking back down at her mother.

“It's okay, Mum,” she continued, seeing fresh blood soaking through her mother's night-shirt. “I think I've got it figured out. I just have to set off each trap before we reach it, and then...” She took a deep breath, trying to make sense of what was happening. “And then we can make it to the front door, and we can get the hell out of here.” Reaching down, she checked to make sure her phone was still in her pocket. “Once we're outside, I can try to find some signal and call for help.”

“Please go,” Helen whispered, clearly struggling to stay awake. “Jenna, please... Get out of here...”

“Not without you,” she replied, looking down the stairs again. She paused for a moment, staring at the front door, which seemed so near and yet so far. She had no idea how many traps lay in wait, but she felt certain that there must be more. “Not without you,” she said again, “and not without Dad.”

“Jenna, no...”

“We're getting away from this place,” she continued, counting the steps and finding that there were thirteen leading down to the hallway. “All three of us! I'm gonna find Dad and all three of us are gonna walk out of here. Whatever goddamn psychopath built this place...”

Her voice trailed off as she saw the framed photograph of Cesar Marchionne in the darkness below, next to the front door. As the ticking sound continued all around her, she couldn't help staring at the man's dark eyes, and for a moment she felt almost as if he was somehow staring back at her. A shiver passed through her chest, before she reminded herself that she had to find a way out. There'd be time for questions and explanations later.

“Okay,” she said after a moment, reaching down with the baseball bat and using the tip to press against the top step. She tried a couple of times, before satisfying herself that it wasn't part of the trap.

Leaning further, she tried the next step, bumping the bat against the surface and pushing as hard as possible. When nothing happened, she moved the bat further along and tried again, still with no result.

“We can do this,” she continued, turning to her mother and seeing that her eyes were closed. “Hey!” She gently tapped the side of Helen's face, just hard enough to make her eyes open again. “It's not that hard. I think I've got it figured out. Whatever's going on in this house, it's pretty old-fashioned. We can just set off any traps before we get to them, and get the hell out. The stairs are the hardest part.”

Helen's lips moved, but she was clearly too weak to say anything. A patch of blood had begun to seep out from beneath her slumped body.

“Just hold on,” Jenna said firmly, before turning and using the bat to check the next step down, then the next. Once she felt that it was safe to move, she grabbed her mother's arm and hauled her down onto the top step.

Letting out a cry of pain, Helen tried to pull back.

“Just trust me!” Jenna hissed. “I've got you, okay?” She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves as she looked down the stairs again. “Four checked so far. Only nine to go. We're, like, a third of the way already. I know one of the steps triggers spikes at the bottom.”

She paused, before using her bat to check the fifth step down, and then the sixth.

“Careful not to touch the walls,” she continued, “or the bannister. It might not just be the floor that sets these things off. At least we know the house is old, so nothing's motion sensitive. It's just...”

She paused again, seeing that her mother's eyes had closed.

“Hey!” she hissed, nudging her shoulder. “Mum, no! Stay with me!”

Helen's eyes opened again, but now her gaze was glassy and vacant, as if she was no longer aware of her surroundings. Her lips trembled, but no words came out and she looked paler than ever.

“Come on!” Jenna shouted, grabbing her mother and starting to ease her down the next couple of steps. “I'm not gonna let you give up. The front door's just down there, see? We can figure everything else out later, we can find out what the hell's going on with this place, but right now I'm getting you out of here! The car's right outside.”

Helen let out a slow, agonized groan as she was forced down onto another step.

“I don't see too many holes or gaps anywhere,” Jenna explained, looking around. “Just those ones at the bottom, the first ones I saw, the ones you and Dad...”

Her voice trailed off as she listened to the ticking sound from behind the walls.

“Dad!” she shouted, still hoping against hope that her father would be around somewhere. “Dad, please! Dad, you have to help! Please, you can't be hurt, please just...”

She waited, her bottom lip trembling, before finally she burst into tears. For a moment, she sat weeping uncontrollably, before suddenly pulling herself together.

“He's not coming,” she whispered under her breath. “He never helps.”

Helen let out a faint, pained groan as her eyes close again.

“Wake up!” Jenna told her, nudging her shoulder again. Getting no reply, she tried again, before checking her mother's neck and finding a weak pulse. “I'm getting you out of here,” she added, using the baseball bat to hit the next few steps down. Her hands were trembling with fear, but she knew what she had to do. Once she was sure the next steps were safe, she began to drag her mother a little further, while using the bat to keep probing ahead.

As they reached the halfway point, Jenna turned and tried again to wake her mother.

“Please, Mum,” she whimpered, “just stay with me. Everything's gonna be okay, but you have to stay with me.”

She watched as, slowly, her mother's eyes began to open.

“That's it,” she continued, forcing a smile as she felt a flash of hope. Her body was aching from the effort of hauling her mother along, but her heart was pounding and she told herself she just had to stick to the plan. “Not much further. See the door? I'm not gonna let anything else happen to us. We're getting out of here, Mum.”

Turning, she reached out to check another step. This time, however, she stumbled slightly, almost falling forward before steadying herself against the wall. As she did so, she felt part of the wall start to move slightly, accompanied by a clicking sound and an accelerated ticking from nearby.

“No,” she stammered, frantically looking around but seeing no sign of any holes. “Mum, we have to move, we have to -”

Suddenly her mother let out a cry and grabbed Jenna's shoulder, twisting her around and pushing her back up the stairs. Jenna tried to fight back, but a moment later two more spikes sliced out from gaps in the corner of the next step down, cutting straight through Helen's chest and emerging below her collarbone with their tips bloodied.

“No!” Jenna shouted, staring in horror at the sight of her mother skewered on the steps.

Helen froze, with her mouth and eyes open wide, and let out a faint, rasping gurgle. All the color had drained from her face. Her body shuddered for a moment, and then slowly a trickle of blood began to run from her lips.

As quickly as they'd appeared, the spikes retracted, leaving Helen to slump back and tumble down the stairs until she crashed into a crumpled heap at the bottom. She set off the next trap step along the way, but this time three spikes simply slid out into thin air and then slid back, having missed their prey.

“Mum!” Jenna yelled, ignoring the danger and stumbling down the stairs until she reached the bottom and knelt next to her mother's crumpled form. She'd dropped the baseball bat along the way, and now it rolled down after her, banging on each step until it hit the floor.

Looking down at her mother's face, Jenna saw that her eyes were still just about open.

“What did you do that for?” she asked. “Mum, please...”

“They were...” Helen paused, as if she couldn't get the words out. “They were going to get... you...”

“Mum...” Her eyes filled with tears, Jenna looked down and saw fresh torrents of blood running from her mother's new wounds. “Mum, you have to be okay...”

“Get out of here,” Helen whispered, reaching out with a bloodied hand and trying to push Jenna away. “Run! Don't wait for me, and don't... Jenna, don't risk your life to save me or your father. Just get out of here and call help... Don't...”

“Mum -”

“Go!” Helen gasped, pushing harder than ever, as if she was trying to shove Jenna toward the door.

“I'm getting us both out,” Jenna said firmly. “You'll see. I swear to God, even if it's the last thing I ever do, I am getting us both out of this house. Do you hear me?”

She waited, but her mother's eyes had slid shut again.

“Mum!” She shook her mother's shoulders, before forcing her eyes open. This time, however, she saw nothing staring back at her except a dead, glassy gaze.

She checked the side of Helen's neck, but no matter how much she pushed her fingers against the cold flesh, she found no hint of a pulse.

“Mum!” she yelled, shaking her again. “Mum, wake up!”

Chapter Twelve

The house was still ticking. Behind every wall, under every floorboard, even hidden behind the ceiling, scores of different mechanisms ran independently of one another. Every so often, there was a faint grinding sound, as if some fresh blade was sliding into a new position, ready to be triggered.

In one particular gap, between the walls that separated the hallway from the kitchen, a long metal thread was slowly running through the darkness. Sharp metal teeth covered the thread, shuddering slightly as they moved past a cleaver-sized blade that was trundling the opposite way. Just a couple of millimeters away, another thread ran at a ninety degree angle, sharing the same space but engaged in a completely different task.

Every gap, every clearance, had been judged perfectly.

Further along, at a junction near the living room wall, another blade stopped suddenly as a much larger blade slid slowly up into its new position, and then the first blade started moving again, directed by a century-old mechanism that had been designed by a master using a complex weighting system.

Bronze gear wheels.

Metal pulleys.

Guide-wheels.

Cantilevered plates.

Serrated cogs designed for timing purposes.

A symphony of engineering genius existed behind the house's walls, tucked away from sight but still working perfectly, even after so many years. Few men could ever have even dreamed that such a system would be possible. Fewer still could have believed such a thing, even if they'd seen it with their own eyes. And as for conceiving, designing and building the mechanism...

Only a handful of men in history had been capable of creating such a device. Maybe only one man.

***

Sitting at the bottom of the stairs, too scared to move and still cradling her mother's bloodied corpse, Jenna sat sobbing. Her whole body was trembling with shock and fear, but she couldn't bring herself to actually move from the spot where she'd watched her mother die. Or was it that she couldn't bear to leave the body? Her hand was resting on her dead mother's shoulder, and every few minutes she pulled the corpse a little closer. For comfort.

She knew that any step in any direction would be fraught with danger, and she felt certain that there would be some kind of trap waiting for her if she tried to make the three or four meter journey to the front door. For now, she simply held her mother and waited for a miracle.

And all around, the walls were still alive with the sound of hidden machinery. It was almost as if the house's teeth were chattering with anticipation, waiting for the next taste of blood.

“Please,” Jenna whimpered, squeezing her eyes tight shut but unable to stop more tears running down her cheeks. “Just wake up. Please, I need you.”

She gave her mother's body a gentle shake, but she could tell that there was no life left in the limp, loose limbs. After a moment, she pulled her closer.

“Please,” she continued. “Please, please...”

She waited, but her mother's body was still and silent, unlike the constant ticking and clicking of the house.

Finally, Jenna reached down and picked up the baseball bat. Her hands were trembling, but she knew she couldn't simply sit still and wait for someone to help. Miracles, she'd learned over the years, just didn't happen. Her mother had used her last words to urge her onward, to tell her to get the hell out of the house, and she knew she had to find a way. She used the bat's tip to check the floorboards, and then slowly she eased her mother's dead body down against the floor.

“I'll come back for you,” she whispered, sniffing back tears. “I'll get us out of here, I swear. I won't...”

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

“I won't let the house beat me.”

The words sounded insane, and she could barely believe they were coming from her mouth. At the same time, the house's walls were still ticking steadily, still waiting for her to make her move.

She paused, almost as if she was waiting for her mother to say something, before finally turning and forcing herself to crawl toward the front door. She felt certain that she'd feel one of the floorboards move under her weight, but slowly she managed to reach the door and then she looked up, watching the handle and wondering whether it, too, might be rigged. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her mother's corpse still crumpled on the floor, and she made a quick mental note, reminding herself that at least she knew of one safe spot, one patch on the floor where she could regroup if necessary and come up with another plan.

After a moment, she turned and saw the framed photo of Cesar Marchionne high up on the wall, and she felt a shiver of anger as she realized that he might very well have been responsible for everything that had happened. The more she looked at the picture, the more she saw arrogance and evil in the old man's face, almost as if the photo was his way of still watching over the carnage he'd created.

“What is this place?” she asked him, her voice trembling with fear. “Why are you doing this to us?”

Again, she half expected an answer from the old, faded photo.

She stared at the image for a moment longer, before looking once again at the handle. Telling herself that there was no point waiting, she reached out and grabbed hold of the handle, and then she came up with a plan. She paused, counting to ten in her head, before suddenly turning the handle and then pulling back, crashing down against the floor and waiting to see what kind of trap would be triggered.

She waited.

Nothing happened.

Apart from the ticking walls. The house sounded as alive as ever. It sounded excited, as if it was enjoying the game.

Feeling a crushing sense of fear in her chest, Jenna sat up and reached out to once again grab the handle. Cautiously, she gave it a slow turn, but the ticking sound remained constant. All the other times, there'd been a subtle change to signal one of the traps being activated, yet now it seemed as if the handle wasn't wired up to anything at all. When she tried to pull the door open, however, she found that it was locked. She pulled on it again, but still it wouldn't budge. The key was still in the lock, so she turned it, but still the door wouldn't open.

“Come on,” she stammered, trying the key several more times before realizing that it had clearly been rendered useless. Whatever was keeping the door shut, there was no longer anything a simple key could do to help.

“Damn you,” she muttered, trying the handle one more time before finally letting her frustration boil over. She tried to shake the lock open, only to end up banging her fist against the door and then slumping back as fresh tears filled her eyes.

After a moment, she looked over at her mother's dead body at the foot of the stairs.

“Please wake up,” she whimpered, crawling toward her and checking her pulse again. She knew there was little chance, but still she searched for a pulse, pressing her fingers against Helen's cold neck. “Please, Mum... Please, I need you...”

She waited, but she already knew the truth.

“Dad!” she screamed suddenly, sitting up. “Dad, where are you? Dad, please...”

Her whole body was shuddering now, as she began to sob. The idea of her father coming to the rescue was absurd. After a moment, however, she turned and looked up at the narrow window next to the door. The lights were all off, but a patch of moonlight was streaming through the glass and slowly she came up with another plan.

With the baseball bat in her right hand, she got to her feet and stepped closer to the window, while raising the bat over her shoulder. She took a moment to gather her strength, and then she let out a cry of anger as she swung the bat against the glass, only for it to rebound and jump out of her grasp. Horrified, she watched as it hit her mother's corpse and then rolled down to the ground.

“Sorry,” she stammered. “I'm...”

Muttering a couple of curses under her breath, she grabbed the bat and tried again, with the same result. She tried for a third time, adjusting her grip each time, before realizing that the glass seemed to be reinforced. She tried aiming at the bottom corner, but still she couldn't cause so much as a scratch.

“I'm trapped,” she muttered, turning and looking across the hallway and seeing open doorways leading into other dark rooms.

The ticking sound continued, as if the house was taunting her, and she felt certain that too many steps in any direction would trigger another of the traps. At the same time, standing still wasn't an option, and she knew she'd have to take a risk soon. The house was sealed, and she was starting to panic, worrying about the air supply. After a moment, she looked at the photo of Cesar Marchionne.

“Is this what you wanted?” she asked. “Is this why you built the house? So you could...”

Her voice trailed off as she realized how insane that idea sounded. She raised the bat, ready to smash the photo, but after a moment she lowered it again.

“No way,” she continued, swallowing hard. “I'm not wasting my energy. Anyway, some asshole from the eighteenth century couldn't have set this up. No goddamn way.”

Still, she was starting to feel short of breath. Stepping back, she tried to tell herself that her imagination was running wild, but when she looked at the reinforced window and then at the securely locked door, she began to worry that no air was getting into the house. She tried taking slow, deep breaths, but a sense of pure panic was rippling through her chest and she could feel the air getting thinner and thinner.

“It's okay,” she said out loud, still trying to get control of her rushing thoughts. “You've got air. You're not suffocating.”

She leaned back against the wall, just below the photo of Cesar Marchionne, and placed a hand on her chest. She could feel her heart pounding, but she'd experienced panic attacks before and she knew the sensation would pass. This time, however, she was starting to feel a crushing sensation in her chest. Getting down onto her hands and knees, she crawled back to the door and pressed her fingers against the gap at the bottom, and to her relief she realized she could feel a faint breeze.

Leaning down, she felt the flow of air on her face, and the panic began to pass. Air was getting into the house after all.

She wasn't suffocating.

“Okay,” she said, trying to get her head straight. “You can do this. You just have to come up with a plan.”

Looking around, she tried to work out which way to go, before figuring that her best bet would be to head through to the kitchen and try to get out via the back door. She knew it'd probably be locked, but she also felt that there had to be some way out. It made no sense for the house to simply trap her and kill her, so she figured there had to be a chance to escape. Slowly, after using her baseball bat to check the floorboards ahead, she began to make her way toward the door at the far end of the hallway.

In the distance, from some other part of the house, there emerged a brief bumping sound, unlike anything else she'd heard so far. It only lasted for a couple of seconds, but it seemed less regular than all the other noises, less mechanical and clockwork.

“Dad?” she called out, still clinging to the hope that he might be alive somewhere in the house. “Are you... Are you here? Can you hear me?”

She took a couple more steps forward, before pausing and listening for some hint of a reply.

Now there was just the constant ticking sound.

“Dad, please,” she continued, as her voice began to tremble more and more. “I'm sorry for the mean things I said to you, and I'm sorry for doubting you, and I'm sorry for everything, but can you please, please help me? I'm really scared and I need you.”

Still using her bat to check the boards, she started walking toward the kitchen door again.

“Mum's dead,” she said out loud, sniffing back more tears. “I couldn't save her, and now she's dead, and she saved me from two of the spikes but now...”

Her voice trailed off as she started sobbing. Almost at the kitchen door now, she had the bat held out, pressing against the floorboards. As long as she checked every step first, she figured she'd be okay.

“Dad please,” she continued. “You have to be okay. You used to tell me that there's always a way, you said no matter -”

Suddenly a blade sliced down from the top of the door-frame. Jenna cried out and fell back, landing hard on the floor as the blade cut through her baseball bat and hit the ground.

Staring wide-eyed with shock, Jenna watched as the blade shuddered slightly in the frame. After a moment, the ticking sound changed a little and the blade began to rise again, quickly disappearing into the top of the frame, ready to strike again.

“I didn't touch anything,” she whispered, looking down at the floor. “There wasn't a...”

Raising what was left of her bat, she saw that the top half had been cleanly sheared away.

“No,” she stammered, filled with a fresh wave of panic, “I didn't... I didn't touch a goddamn thing!”

Staring at the floorboards, she tried to work out what had happened. She'd been checking for some kind of switch, but the baseball bat hadn't seemed to click against anything, so she had no idea how the door had managed to sense her approach. She'd been so sure that she understood how the traps worked, but this time there'd been no trigger, no clicking sound, no warning from behind the walls. The door had clearly sensed her some other way.

“No!” she shouted angrily as she realized that maybe she didn't understand the house's rules after all. “That's not fair! You can't do that!”

She held the broken bat out, testing to see whether something else might have caused the blade to come down, but nothing happened. Her hand was trembling now, and finally she pulled back, not daring to try going through the door again, not if she didn't understand what had caused the trap to go off.

“Another way,” she whispered, remembering that there was a second route into the kitchen, via the front room. “I'll just...”

She turned and tested the next door, which led into the laundry room.

Immediately, three spikes sliced across the open space. She pulled back, and a moment later a blade crashed down. She pulled back, shocked that the door laundry room seemed even more deadly than the door to the kitchen.

“Another way, then,” she stammered, not daring to try again. “I'll find...”

Her voice trailed off for a moment, before she turned and began to crawl back the way she'd just come. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, however, she froze as she stared at the empty space on the floor.

“Mum?” she stammered, looking around but seeing no sign of her mother's body anywhere. As panic and hope and fear rushed into her chest, she got to her feet. “Mum?” she shouted. “Where are you? Mum!”

Chapter Thirteen

The blood smear was clear and fresh, running across the hallway's wooden floor and into the study. Although she hated the sight of so much blood, Jenna followed closely on her hands and knees, filled with hope that her mother was somehow alive and had managed to crawl away to safety.

“Mum?” she called out, her voice trembling more than ever. “Give me a sign, Mum! Let me know where you are. Mum, please -”

Stopping suddenly as she reached the doorway, she looked through into the study and saw that the smear ran for a few more feet and then abruptly ended. She hesitated, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, before looking up at the door-frame and trying to spot any sign of a trap. There were no holes that she could see, and no signs of a small gap that could suddenly release a blade. Still, she couldn't quite bring herself to go through.

Already, too many sudden attacks had trained her body and mind to be wary. Even when her mind told her to take the risk, her body refused.

“Mum?” she shouted again, staring at the smeared blood. “Are you in here? It's me, it's Jenna!”

She waited, before realizing that she had no choice. Holding out the broken baseball bat, she rolled it through the doorway and watched as it bumped to a halt against the side of the desk. Taking a deep breath, she tried to find a sliver of courage from somewhere, but her body seemed locked in place, refusing to follow her mind's order.

“Come on,” she muttered out loud, “you can't stop here. You have to find her.”

She waited, trying to unlock her body's frozen joints, and finally she lunged forward, rolling onto her side once she was in the room and then freezing again, waiting for any hint that danger was coming. She looked around, frantically watching for movement, but so far the room seemed completely still. Her body was shaking, though, and the tide of panic in her chest was higher than before.

The walls were still ticking, but with no greater urgency than a moment ago.

“Mum?” she said. Glancing across the room, she realized there were no spots where her mother could hide, but she was still certain that she must have somehow ended up moving through to the study. “Are you here?”

She waited.

“Dad? Did you find Mum and...”

Her voice trailed off. In truth, there had been no sign of her father since the moment after her mother had been injured, and she knew deep down that he wasn't going to suddenly ride to the rescue. Besides, she figured that if he did show up, he'd just find a way to make things worse.

“Mum?” she shouted, before turning to look over at the window. “Help!” she screamed. “If anyone out there can hear me, we need help! Please!”

Shuddering, she realized there was no way help was coming. The house was far too remote, and she hadn't seen a single car pass along the road since they'd arrived earlier in the day. There was no sign of light outside, but she figured it must be around three or four in the morning; that, in turn, meant that it was a little over fifteen hours since they'd first arrived at the house.

Fifteen hours for everything to fall apart.

Grabbing the stub of the baseball bat, she began to use it to check the floorboards ahead. Crawling forward, she had a vague plan to get to the window and find some way to open it. Figuring that the doors were probably sealed, she told herself that the windows were the best bet, and that somehow she'd be able to break the glass. Then she'd be able to wriggle out, get to the car, somehow start the engine and drive away to get help.

And then the police would come and make everything okay again.

They'd find her father alive somewhere.

Maybe even her mother too.

A sliver of hope remained in her chest, urging her on, telling her not to give up.

“I'm going to make everything okay,” she whispered, trying to give herself a little more confidence. “I'm not giving up. I'm not letting this house -”

Suddenly she felt a section of the floor shift slightly beneath her right hand. She looked down, horrified as she saw that she'd activated another trap, and then she turned around, trying to work out where the danger would appear.

She looked up, but there were no holes in the ceiling.

She looked down, at the gaps between the floorboards.

She looked over at the wall, tense in case anything moved.

A moment later, she heard a rumbling clicking sound from over her shoulder, and she turned to see that something was moving on the desk. The old phonograph machine, the one that had so fascinated her father earlier, was now whirring to life, and the pale wax cylinder was starting to turn.

Jenna looked around, still waiting for a spike or a blade, but then she realized she could hear a new sound.

Turning back to look up at the phonograph, she listened to a scratchy hissing sound that seemed to be coming from the machine's large trumpet-like appendage.

A few seconds later, another sound was added to the mix.

A gasping, wheezing noise, as if someone struggling to breathe.

Jenna froze, staring at the machine, waiting to see what it would do next.

“If you are hearing this message,” a man's voice said suddenly, sounding impossibly frail and scratched, “then evidently you are in the study of my little house, and you have activated mechanism 41B on the floor.”

Jenna looked down at the depressed section of floorboard beneath her hand.

“If you have made it this far,” the voice continued, “and if this particular part of the system has been switched on, then you must already be aware of the house's nature. Let me, then, welcome you to my home, and congratulate you on your achievement. My name is Cesar -”

Suddenly there was the sound of an old man coughing on the recording. The cough seemed deep and rasping, as if there was fluid on his lungs.

Jenna pulled back, still looking around in case another trap had been activated.

“My name,” the man on the recording said after a moment, his voice sounding more hoarse than before, “is Cesar Edward Marchionne, and I am the architect of this magnificent construction. I designed it, and I built it with my own two hands. Every screw, every nail, every weight and pulley, was put in place by me, and by me alone. The calculations alone took three years. Three years of solitude, of sleeping only a few hours a day. I could not make a mistake, you understand. One error, and the entire house might have ground to a halt.”

For a few seconds, the voice fell silent again. The only sound from the wax cylinder was a constant, dirty hiss, interrupted occasionally by more brief coughs.

“This is the third cylinder,” the voice continued finally, “and therefore if my instructions have been carried out correctly, you must be hearing this message at some point in the early twenty-first century. If mankind has not torn itself apart by that point, anyway. The date today, for me, is Saturday the eighteenth of November, in the year of our Lord 1899. Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria is on the throne, and that bastard Cecil holds the office of Prime Minister. The war with the South Africans has still not been won, though I am sure that day will come soon, and we await the dawn of the twentieth century. I am not sure, though, that I will last long enough for that. My health...”

His voice faded for a moment.

Jenna stared, wide-eyed and in shock, as she heard more coughing on the recording. After a moment, she turned and looked through to the hallway, and she saw the framed photo of Cesar Marchionne still on the wall.

“The world worships men such as Edison and Marconi,” the voice sneered, “while ignoring the likes of Tesla and myself. This is an outrage, and I will not stand for such idolatry and -”

He began coughing again, and this time it sounded as if he was bringing up some kind of fluid.

Turning, Jenna crawled to the study's window and pulled the curtain aside. She immediately saw that the glass was reinforced.

“This house,” the old man's voice continued after a moment, “is my greatest creation. It is the house that will stand the test of time. I had thought once, in my naive youth, that the world would appreciate great achievements for their pure scientific value, and for their ability to help mankind. In my old age, however, I see the truth. The world values only those advancements that promote death and warfare and killing. If a man were to invent a machine that gave eternal happiness, he would be laughed into poverty. If he were to invent a machine that delivered pain and misery, an instrument of exquisite torture, he would be given all the riches of mankind, and worshiped as a genius. And so it is, that I deliver my house. My machine will now play a recording from the first cylinder, from the very first victims who died within these walls. By my estimation, they should have been killed some time around the fourth decade of the next century.”

Jenna turned and watched in horror as suddenly the wax cylinder was lifted up by a mechanical arm, while a second arm took another cylinder from the wall and loaded it into the phonograph. As with everything else in the house, the process was quick and carefully timed,with the various mechanisms seamlessly keeping out of one another's way.

Suddenly she heard a new recording, this time filled with terrified, frantic screams.

“Mama lost her head!” a girl's voice cried out. “Papa's still in bed! Mama lost her -”

The voice was broken by another, louder scream that seemed a little further off.

Jenna waited, staring with wide-open, shocked eyes as the recording continued to play.

“Mama lost her head,” the girl's voice continued finally, sounding more horrified and panicked than before. In the background of the recording, the house's familiar ticking could be heard, and a moment later there was the sound of something heavy slamming down. “Mama lost her head. Papa got cut up, and then Mama lost her head. Help me. Please help me. Mama lost her -”

Suddenly the girl screamed.

The recording cut out as the mechanical arm lifted the cylinder, and then another cylinder was put in its place.

Once again, there was the sound of a scratched, hiss-filled track. This time, Jenna realized she could hear fainter, more distant voices. She didn't dare go anywhere near the machine, but something about the voice seemed a little familiar, as if she'd heard them before somewhere.

“Dad!” she suddenly heard her own voice shouting. “Dad, please! Dad, you have to help! Please, you can't -”

The recording ended as the cylinder was lifted out of place, and the first cylinder was slipped back into position.

“I hope that my point has been made,” Cesar Marchionne's voice continued. “I have no way of knowing, of course, what you just heard, but I trust that my machine has preserved some record of the deaths that have occurred in this house. That is what the world wants, is it not? Pain, and death, and misery and torture and suffering? That is what mankind values most highly.”

Still Jenna waited, not daring to move as she heard the old man coughing again. After a moment, she turned and started examining the window again, searching for some weak spot she could exploit.

“I want the world to know one more thing about me,” Marchionne's voice continued. “I am not a monster. For the past twenty years, I have been working on a machine that delivers perpetual movement and energy. I was mocked and told that such a thing was not possible, but eventually I achieved success. I tested the machine extensively and proved beyond doubt that it works, and that it had the potential to solve all of humanity's problems. Mr. Tesla and Mr. Edison and Mr. Marconi would kneel in awe if they saw a demonstration of the device, but the world...” He seemed to pause for a moment. “The world was not interested,” he continued, sounding increasingly bitter. “No-one would pay me a penny for the final development work that the machine needed. It could have been used to end all suffering, all hunger and famine in the world, but too many men make their fortunes instead from misery and pain, so my genius was ignored. Finally I saw that I could fight the world no longer, so I destroyed the machine, and all the plans and documents associated with it. Once I die, which will happen soon, the world will lose the possibility of that device forever.”

There was another sound from the recording now, as if the old man was trying to laugh.

Finding a screw in the window, Jenna peered closer and began to wonder if there might be some way to disassemble the entire frame.

“But I leave this house instead,” the voice explained. “A machine designed to kill and torture. After all, that is what the world wants, is it not? Killers and murderers are lauded as geniuses, while men who seek to help are swiftly forgotten. I, Cesar Edward Marchionne, refuse to be forgotten. This, then, is my contribution and my legacy. I have no doubt that it will function as intended. Enjoy my killing machine. Perhaps now, the world will at last recognize my genius.”

The recording continue to crackle and hiss for a few more seconds, before the wax cylinder was slowly raised from the machine and slotted back into one of the wall cavities.

For a moment, all Jenna could do was turn and stare in wide-eyed horror as the machine fell still and silent. She was genuinely considering the possibility that she'd lost her mind, that somehow she was experiencing some kind of psychotic break and was actually imagining it all. Reaching down, she pinched her arm, hoping against hope that a flash of pain might suddenly wake her and prove that she was simply dreaming. When that failed to work, however, she turned and look toward the hallway.

“Mum?” she called out, almost too scared to move in case another trap was triggered. “Dad? Please...”

She waited, but all she heard was the constant ticking sound that filled the house.

Turning, she looked at the window and realized that she needed to find a screwdriver. After a moment, however, she realized that even if she knew where to find such a thing, she couldn't risk a journey to another part of the house. She stared at the glass for a moment, feeling a slowly growing sense of anger, before finally she got to her feet and took a couple of steps back. If she couldn't think her way out of the house, she figured, she might at least be able to use brute force. Holding up the broken baseball bat, she paused for a moment before smashing it against the pane, only for it to bounce off harmlessly.

“I can break this thing,” she said out loud, hoping to find some more strength.

This time, she aimed the bat at the very bottom corner of the window, but still she couldn't make so much as a scratch.

“I can break it,” she said again, before hitting the same spot.

Again the bat glanced off the glass.

Leaning closer, she examined the impact site and saw that there wasn't even a mark.

“I can break this window,” she said firmly, moving back slightly so that she could get a better swing. “I can do it. I'm strong enough.”

This time, she let out a cry of anger as she swung the bat at the glass, but once again she was unable to make any progress. Filled with a growing sense of fury, she tried again and again, each time hitting the glass as hard as she could manage but each time failing to make even the slightest dent. Unable to hold back, she slammed the bat against the window over and over, determined to break through, but the glass continued to hold.

“Let me out!” she screamed, hitting the glass again. “Let me out of this house!”

She kept trying, though, over and over and over until finally after a couple of minutes she slumped back, exhausted and frustrated. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she stared at the glass, and then one final burst of anger pulsed through her chest and she launched another furious attack that yet again failed to make a mark.

“What the hell is this thing made of?” she shouted, trying one final time before tossing the bat aside and leaning closer to the window. She was starting to feel impotent, as if all her rage and fury might never be enough.

Placing her fingertips on the edge of the frame, she began to search for some sign of weakness, maybe a crack or a small gap that she could exploit.

“I'm not trapped,” she said breathlessly, hoping to find some more confidence from somewhere. “There has to be some damage. I'm going to get out of here -”

Stopping, she realized she could see a very faint line in the wood at the corner. She couldn't be sure, but she quickly told herself that it might be the first sign that her barrage of blows had worked. Keeping her left hand on the frame, she turned and reached for the bat.

“So much for -”

Suddenly she heard a clicking sound, followed by what seemed to be metal sliding down. A fraction of a second later, she realized she could feel the window-frame shuddering.

She turned, just as the blade slammed down and sliced off the fingertips of her left hand.

“No!” she screamed, pulling back as she felt a burst of pain. Staring at her hand, she saw that the top quarter-inch of each finger, excluding her thumb, had been sliced clean away. The blade had cut straight through the nails, and she could just about make out white stubs of bone poking out through the bloody, meaty stumps.

Frozen by the sight, she stared helplessly for a moment as beads of blood began to run down her fingers.

Turning to look at the window, she saw that the blade was now covering the glass pane. At the very bottom of the blade, there was a small streak of blood. A couple of seconds later, the blade began to rise and she saw her four fleshy little fingertips resting on the sill.

“No,” she stammered, as the stinging pain became unbearable. “Please, please no...”

Staggering to her feet, she looked down at her fingers and then started wrapping them in the fabric of her t-shirt. The pain was getting worse and worse, and after a moment she realized she could feel blood soaking through the shirt and reaching her bare belly beneath. Filled with panic, she tried to work out what to do next, before quickly realizing that even if there was an emergency kit in the bathroom, she couldn't risk going back up there to search.

Taking a step back, she watched as the blade disappeared into a slit at the top of the window.

“Oh God,” she whispered, trying to wrap her damaged hand tighter and tighter into the fabric of her t-shirt, before finally pulling it free and staring at the four damaged fingertips.

For a moment, her hand trembled as she watched blood dribbling down onto her palm. As her sense of shock began to fade, however, she felt anger bursting through her chest, until finally she grabbed the remains of the baseball bat and made her way over to the phonograph machine.

“You want to be remembered for something?” she asked, staring at the wax cylinders and thinking back to the ghostly voice that she'd heard just a few minutes ago. “Try this!”

She raised the bat high and then swung it down, smashing the side of the machine and sending the amplifier crashing to the floor. Whereas she'd been unable to damage the window, she had no trouble wrecking the phonograph, and each blow sent more and more pieces of machinery clattering to the floor until all that remained was the metal base that was bolted to the table. Still she didn't stop hitting the device, though, venting her frustration and anger as the wax cylinders were sent crashing across the room.

Finally, breaking into a sudden series of sobs, she took a step away. She was out of breath now and still in pain, but the sight of the wrecked machine at least made her feel as if she'd been able to strike back.

She paused for a moment, but fresh anger was already starting to bubble up through her chest as she heard the constant ticking sound behind the walls.

“You want to hurt my family?” she whispered, feeling as if she had to let her anger out. Anger, at least, was better than pain. “No way. No goddamn way, you psychopath!”

With that, she raised the broken bat and started smashing it against the nearest wall, hitting the wood again and again until cracks and splits began to run through the panel. For the next few minutes, she launched into a furious rage, smashing the wall harder and harder, finally ripping sections of plaster and wood away and sending them flying across the room. Nothing could satisfy her, but the sense of pure anger in her heart was enough to push her onward, trashing the wall and revealing more and more of the complex mechanism beneath.

With another cry, she tore away the next part of the wall, uncovering more of the gears, pulleys and other systems that had for so long been hidden away.

Stepping back, exhausted by her efforts, she took a series of deep breaths as she watched a set of blades trundling past the exposed gap in the wall, as if the house's giant mechanism was moving them to another location. A moment later she spotted a long metal spike with blood smeared on its side, and she realized with a slow sense of horror that she'd found one of the spikes that had been launched up through the stairs earlier into her mother's chest.

Edging closer, she examined the mechanism and saw a set of tightly-coiled springs at the spike's base, along with a bronze wedge that seemed to be keeping the spike in place. Several thick wires ran through to other parts of the wall, no doubt part of the system that would activate the spike if someone pressed on the right step at the right time. Making her way to the doorway, she leaned through and looked up the stairs, and sure enough she realized that the spike – if activated – would shoot out through a hole at the edge of the sixth step.

Right where her mother had pushed her aside earlier.

Where her mother had thrown her own body in the way.

For a moment, Jenna simply stared at the empty step, before looking down at the floor and seeing the blood trail. Finally she made her way back into the study and saw the spot where the trail abruptly ended.

“Where are you?” she muttered, looking around the room. “Where did you go? Did you crawl away, or...”

Her voice trailed off.

The only answer came from the ticking house. The noise from the exposed section of wall was particularly loud, and Jenna couldn't help feeling a rush of hatred as she turned and saw the spike again.

“Screw you,” she sneered, grabbing a broken section of wood and then driving it into the exposed mechanism. Immediately, one of the pulleys began to grind and stutter, but Jenna quickly pushed another piece of wood into one of the gaps. She couldn't deny a sense of satisfaction as she stepped back and watched the intricate, carefully-designed system of pulleys and gears suddenly struggling to deal with the chunks of wood she'd introduced. While the rest of the house continued to tick along as before, this particular wall was now emitting a slow, constrained grinding sound as its constituent parts struggled to function.

Turning, Jenna saw the photo of Cesar Marchionne out in the hallway.

“Hear that?” she asked, her voice trembling with anger and fear. “That's the sound of your goddamn house dying. That's the sound of me destroying what you built, and soon you'll hear the sound of me getting the hell out of here.”

She turned back and looked at the gears, which were still struggling to turn despite the wood that remained wedged in the way. After a moment, however, one of the metal wires suddenly snapped, which caused one of the gears to briefly spin furiously and then fall from its mount, disappearing into a gap further down.

“It's all coming apart now,” Jenna said with a faint smile, enjoying the sight of the house's machinery being destroyed. Feeling as if the process was running too slowly, she stepped closer and jammed the broken baseball bat into another spot, causing one of the other motors to immediately start shuddering and vibrating as it struggled to complete the task it had been set more than a century earlier.

Grabbing a longer piece of wood, Jenna was about to slip it into another part of the machinery when she realized she was wasting time. As much as she wanted to strike back against the house and its malicious creator, she felt a flash of panic rushing through her chest.

“I have to get out of here,” she stammered, forcing all thoughts of revenge out of her head.

Turning, she made her way toward the door and then stopped, terrified in case she inadvertently triggered another trap. For a moment, she considered taking a risk, but finally she realized that her best bet was to break down each and every wall, and then disable all the machinery. That way, she'd be able to neuter the entire house and find her way out.

“Go to hell,” she told the photo of Marchionne. “I'm gonna wait 'til this house is destroyed, and then I'm personally gonna smash you off that wall. Your little game is over.”

With that, she turned and began to make her way back toward the door.

Suddenly she stopped as she heard a bumping sound from one of the other rooms. She froze for a moment as she realized that she could now hear the same bumping, crackling sound that had characterized the wax cylinders.

“If you are hearing this recording,” a familiar, old voice said after a moment, drifting through the holes in the wall, “then my house has detected damage. The primary phonograph has been disabled or destroyed, and at least one part of the internal mechanism of the house's system has been compromised.”

Slowly, Jenna turned and looked out across the dark hallway. A sense of dread was creeping up her back and over her shoulder as she realized that somehow, all those years ago, Cesar Marchionne had anticipated her every move.

“I will not stand for disobedience,” the voice continued. “Every possible variable has been calculated. Every possible move that you could make has been taken into consideration. Even now, my machines are observing the weight on the floor in every room. Within seconds, the house will know exactly where you are standing.”

Looking down, Jenna realized she could hear a series of faint, heavy clunking sounds from beneath the floorboards.

“You can't run,” the voice said firmly, before breaking into a series of coughs.

Slowly, Jenna took a step back.

“Wherever you go,” the voice added, “the house will find you.”

“No,” she whispered, as more bumps could be heard beneath her feet.

“And,” the voice continued, with a hint of satisfaction, “the house will punish you.”

“No!” she shouted, turning to hurry out of the room.

Before she could take another step, however, the floor gave way beneath her feet. She fell forward, but she couldn't reach out in time and instead her chin slammed against the edge of a large hatch, before she tumbled into the darkness below.

Chapter Fourteen

She screamed as she felt a thousand small cuts tearing through her skin. Landing in the heart of a vast bouquet of razor-wire, she felt herself sinking down through the blades before finally she came to a rest, suspended in a dark pit.

The only light came from above, where the hatch remained open several feet above her face.

She tried to reach up, but the pain was unbearable and she let out a cry. She tried again, only to feel more and more blades slicing through her body.

Not daring to move now, she stared up at the ceiling. She could just about see her right arm, caught in the razor-wire and with several deep cuts running through her flesh. Blood dribbled down to her shoulder, and she could feel more blood on her face and neck. When she tried again to climb up, she felt hundreds more sharp slices all over her body and she instantly froze. Letting out a gasp, she looked down and saw nothing but darkness below, although after a moment she realized she could just about make out more razor-wire in the depths.

“My house,” the voice continued from high above, “is now in the process of repairing itself. That will take time, but rest assured, no-one will ever be able to leave this place. My design is absolute, my work is perfect, and I will not be beaten. Who are you, to think that you can overcome the plans of a genius?”

Trying once again to climb out of the wire pit, Jenna gasped as she felt more tiny blades cutting into every inch of her flesh. She paused, before telling herself that she just had to accept the pain and get the hell out. After taking a deep breath, she tried again, and this time she felt as if she was almost swimming through the masses of overlapping wire, slowly rising toward the open hatch even though her own weight was pulling her down. Holding her breath, she tried to put the pain out of her mind as she reached up with her right hand, and she felt her fingertips brushing the hatch's edge before finally the agony became too much as she had to stop.

Letting out a cry of pain, she felt herself sinking again and then bouncing slightly in the curled mass of wire. Every time she moved, more razors cut into her flesh and she quickly realized she had to stay as still as possible.

She waited, trying to think of another way out, but every thought was quickly interrupted by another slice of pain. After a moment, however, she heard a slow grinding sound above, and she looked up just as the hatch began to slide shut.

“No!” she shouted, reaching up toward the light. “Stop! Please!”

“I have calculated for every possible move that you might make,” the voice continued. “I have anticipated your every idea and -”

Suddenly the voice stopped, as if something had interrupted the wax cylinder.

The hatch finally slid into place, cutting off the last of the light and leaving her suspended in darkness.

“Please!” she sobbed. “I'll do anything, just let me out of here! Whatever you want, just tell me! Whatever you want...”

Weeping now, she knew there was no point pleading with an old recording and a mechanical house, she knew there was no-one to hear her cries, but at the same she couldn't help herself.

“Help me,” she stammered. “Please help me. I don't care what you want, you can have anything, I swear, but please let me out of here.”

She waited, but all she heard was the constant ticking sound from above. Unable to see anything at all, she tried one more time to climb up through the razor wire, before screaming as she felt a thousand fresh tiny cuts slicing through her skin. She reached up, hoping against hope that she might feel the hatch, but she quickly realized that she had no hope at all. Still sobbing, she no longer dared move. Even breathing was painful, as she felt little blades tugging on her flesh. Some were already deeply embedded, holding her up in the massive bouquet of wire.

“I can't give up,” she whispered to herself in the darkness. “I can't...”

No matter how hard she tried, however, she couldn't bring herself to fight against the wire again. Besides, she was too exhausted, and now she could feel blood dribbling down her body from all the little cuts.

“I can't give up,” she said again, hoping to maybe find some energy from somewhere. “I can't... I can't let this... I...”

She paused, suspended in darkness with the ticking sound continuing all around.

Suddenly she heard footsteps.

Looking up, she told herself that she had to be imagining things, that she must have lost her mind, but a moment later she heard a bumping sound from above.

“Jenna!” a familiar voice called out. “Jenna, are you down there?”

“Dad?” she stammered, still not quite daring to believe what she was hearing. After a moment, however, she realized she could hear him hammering on the hatch. “Dad!” she shouted, reaching up despite the pain. “Dad, I'm in here! Dad, help me! Dad!”

She heard the sound of wood bring broken, and finally she saw a crack of light appearing at one edge of the hatch. A couple of seconds later, there was another loud crack and more of the hatch was broken away. She could see someone up there now, using a crowbar to tear the hatch open, and after a few more seconds she saw her father peering down toward her.

“Jenna!” he shouted, reaching a hand through. “Hold on!”

Despite the pain, Jenna grabbed his hand and then braced herself. As soon as her father started to haul her out from the pit, she felt hundreds and hundreds of tiny blades slicing through her flesh, but she held her breath and then reached out with her spare hand to grab the edge of the hatch. Some sections of razor wire were still stuck to her, even as she managed to scramble out of the pit and onto the study floor, but she quickly reached down and started unhooking the blades one by one. Her hands were trembling as she found that some of the blades had sunk deep beneath her flesh.

“What happened to you?” Owen asked, pulling her closer and kissing the top of her head. “Where's your mother?”

“I don't know,” Jenna stammered, still getting the last of the blades out of her body. She could see scores of little cuts all over her hands, and her entire body was stinging. “I thought...”

She looked over toward the hallway, before turning to look at her father.

“Where the hell were you?” she asked, pulling him closer and hugging him tight. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so pleased to see him. “I thought you were dead!”

“I nearly was,” he replied breathlessly. “Careful. Don't touch my shoulder.”

Pulling back, Jenna saw a bloody patch covering the top of his left arm.

“It knocked me out,” he explained. “When I woke up, I'd been dragged into some kind of dark, narrow space. I was being pulled over a ledge beneath the front room, but I managed to hang on.” He held up a screwdriver in his trembling right hand. “Fortunately, I had this with me. I tried calling out to you, but I think I was in a part of the basement that had been sound-proofed. It took me a while to find my way out, there was a moment I...” He paused, with fear in his eyes. “I'm here now, and we're going to get out of this place.”

“Mum's really badly hurt,” Jenna replied. “I thought she was dead, but then suddenly her body wasn't there anymore. The last time I saw her, she was at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Jenna -”

“Look at the blood trail,” she continued, leaning past him and staring at the smeared red stain that stopped just a few feet away. “I think she must have somehow woken up, and then she dragged herself somewhere and -”

“Jenna -”

“We have to find her!” she shouted.

“Jenna, the house tidies people away,” he said firmly. “You have to understand that. It tried doing the same thing to me, it's just a miracle that I held on.”

She shook her head. “No. She survived and she's hiding somewhere.”

“Jenna, please -”

“We're not leaving her!” Jenna hissed. “We have to keep looking!”

He paused for a moment, before nodding. “We'll focus on getting out of here, but we'll do what we can for your mother too.”

“I tried the front door,” she told him, “but it wouldn't open.”

“I'm not surprised. I think the back door's a better bet, the lock seemed more recent. We have to get to the kitchen, and then maybe with this screwdriver I can find us a way out.” He looked across the room. “This house is amazing. It's hard to believe that one man could have developed something so intricate, or that it could have lasted so long.”

“He was a psychopath,” she replied. “Did you hear the recordings?”

“Some of them. I think there's more than one phonograph system in the house.”

“He explained it all. The house is his way of proving that he's a genius.”

“Well, it worked,” Owen muttered. “Whatever else you think of this place, you can't deny that Cesar Marchionne created something unique.”

“But it's not possible, is it?” Jenna asked. “A guy from the goddamn Victoria era couldn't have put this together!”

“It's highly unlikely, but it's possible.” He paused, seemingly in awe of the place as the walls continued to tick. “By the late nineteenth century, the first crude computing machines had already been invented. Some of Charles Babbage's early work was done before Cesar Marchionne was even born. Still, the idea that Marchionne was able to create such a sophisticated mechanism is... The calculations alone must have taken him years, and then the detail that must have gone into building the place... It's staggering.”

“But how could it have gone undetected?” she asked. “The police must have searched the place when the previous family vanished!”

“The Marchionne Corporation has a lot of money,” he pointed out, “and probably high-level connections. I guess they were able to keep the place away from prying eyes.”

“But how -”

“I don't know!” he added. “Jenna, I can't even begin to explain it all. Marchionne was clearly a genius. Things that seem impossible to ordinary people are just... challenges to men like that.”

“You almost sound like you admire him,” she replied skeptically.

He turned to her, before glancing over at the damaged wall. “Look,” he continued. “The house has detected damage and started repairing itself.”

Turning, Jenna saw that he was right. Already, the gears and wires she'd broken earlier were being slid out of the way, and replacement parts were effortlessly moving in to repair them.

“How is it doing that?” she asked. “Is it alive, somehow?”

“No, I think it's just a very complex series of weights, maybe magnets too... Like I said, the sheer number of calculations must have been immense. Cesar Marchionne must have been one of the greatest inventors in history of mankind. Even today, it'd take years for a team of people to come up with something like this place. To think that one man could have done it alone, and that more than a century later it's still running...”

“The man's a murderer,” Jenna pointed out.

He turned to her. “Your mother -”

“I'm not talking about Mum!” she continued. “There was at least one other family that disappeared in this house! The Cavendishes, remember? They vanished without a trace, more than seventy years ago! There were blood smears, but their bodies were never found.”

“You can't just assume that they -”

“What the hell do you think happened to them?” she shouted, momentarily losing her temper. “This house is evil! The house killed them and took their bodies!”

“Okay,” he replied, putting a hand on her shoulder, “calm down. Right now, we need to focus on getting out of here, and that means making it to the back door.”

“There are too many traps.”

“We can get past them,” he continued. “Jenna, I refuse to believe that a man like Marchionne would leave no possible way out. He probably set this house as a test, to see if anyone would be smart enough to figure out how to escape.”

“He didn't mention anything about escaping on those recordings,” she told him. “He said there was no way out.”

“We're still going to find a way.” He turned and looked toward the door that led into the hallway. “I've got an idea of how the traps operate. There's some kind of weight system that -”

“I thought the same,” she replied, interrupting him, “but then the door into the kitchen... There's a blade and it comes down, but I swear I didn't activate any kind of sensor.”

“Obviously you did, you just didn't realize it. We just have to figure out how.”

“Can't we just go out the front door?” she asked, looking at the screwdriver in his hand. “If you work on the lock, I can try to find Mum.”

“We're not splitting up.”

“Dad -”

“I'm not losing sight of you again!” he said firmly, before pausing. “Jenna, you're the most important person in the world to me, and I'm not letting you go off by yourself. Maybe I haven't always shown it, but everything I've ever done has been designed to make your life better, and your mother's too. I know I screwed up, but I'm damn well going to get us out of this place.”

“But -”

“And we can talk about the rest later,” he continued, turning and making his way cautiously toward the door. “We need to stay focused and calm.”

Reaching the door, he grabbed a broken piece of wood and used it to check the floor for pressure-sensitive boards, the same way that Jenna had used her baseball bat earlier. After a moment, once he was satisfied, he stepped through.

“It's okay,” he told her. “So far, so good.”

“I think the house resets itself sometimes,” she replied, stepping through to join him in the dark hallway. “Like, a trap might not activate one time, but then later it goes off. Is that even possible?”

“Anything's possible,” he muttered. “We're dealing with the work of a genius, a man for whom no calculation was too extreme. He might have died more than a century ago, Jenna, but don't underestimate Cesar Marchionne for one moment.”

“I don't underestimate him,” she said bitterly, spotting the photo of Marchionne on the wall. “I hate him.” Feeling a sense of pure anger, she struggled to keep from going over and smashing the damn thing. “I heard his voice on that recording, Dad. He sounded like a sick, angry, evil old bastard. He knew this house would kill people, that's why he built it. He wanted to cause as much pain and suffering as possible, all to prove that he was some kind of monster genius.”

“Trust me,” Owen continued, making his way toward the kitchen, “I can spot his traps a mile off.”

“That's what I thought, but -”

“Trust me,” he said again, holding the piece of wood out and using it to probe the area around the door. “Cesar Marchionne might have been a genius, but your old man's not exactly an idiot. Everything about this house is logical, and it's all based on old tech. Weights, balances, springs, that sort of thing. We just have to be careful.”

“How do you know it hasn't been updated?” she asked. “Maybe the people who rented the house to us are in on the whole thing too?”

“Maybe,” he replied, “but look around the place. Nothing here has been updated since it was built. That'd go against everything Marchionne set out to achieve.”

He paused, before stepping through the doorway and into the kitchen.

“No!” Jenna shouted.

“See?” he continued, turning to her. “It's safe!”

“There was a blade earlier,” she told him, looking up at the thin gap at the top of the door. “I swear to God, I saw it come down.”

“Well, it's safe now!”

She shook her head.

“Jenna, we don't have time for this. Come into the kitchen!”

“This door is dangerous!”

“I just walked through it,” he pointed out, “and I'm fine.”

She tried to take a step forward, but her entire body was trembling with fear and she couldn't stop thinking about the blade that she'd seen slicing down earlier.

“I can't,” she whispered.

“Jenna...”

She shook her head again.

“Jenna,” Owen said with a sigh, “don't you trust me?”

“It's not that I don't trust you, it's...”

For a moment, in her mind's eye, she remembered the blade slicing down.

“Just walk carefully and slowly,” Owen continued, “and I promise, you'll be fine. I'm going to get us out of this place.” He paused, before reaching out to her. “Take my hand.”

“No!” she shouted, seeing that his elbow was directly under the spot from which the blade had emerged earlier. “Dad, stop!”

“Take my hand and come through the door.”

“Dad, please, it might happen again at any moment! If it comes down, it'll take your arm off!”

“I'm telling you,” he said firmly, “that there's definitely no trigger here. Without a trigger, there's nothing to tell the blade to move, and therefore it's safe. Jenna, this house might be a mechanical marvel, but there's no magic involved. Stay rational, trust me, and come through the door.”

She shook her head.

“I'd rather go round,” she told him, taking a step back. “There's another way into the kitchen...”

“And how many traps do you think you'd have to pass?” he asked. “How many blades or spikes? Jenna, I'm telling you, this doorway is safe.” His hand was still reaching out to her. “Trust me. I would never tell you to do this if I had even the slightest doubt.”

She paused, unable to stop looking at the gap from which the blade had appeared earlier, but finally she realized that she had to take the risk.

“Trust me,” he said again. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

She counted to three in her head, before quickly grabbing her father's hand and stepping through.

When she realized she'd made it, she let out a gasp.

“There,” Owen said, patting her on the shoulder. “I was right, huh?”

She nodded, before glancing back at the doorway. “I swear there was a blade earlier. Why did it fire then, but not now?”

“I have no idea,” he replied, using the broken piece of wood to test the floorboards leading toward the back door. “We have to be logical, though. In the absence of a trigger, there can be no trap.”

“But -”

“No trigger, no trap,” he said again. “Repeat that after me. No trigger -”

“I know but -”

“Say it!”

She paused. “No trigger, no trap.”

“And now I'm going to get this door open,” he continued, turning and taking another step. Reaching the back door, he crouched down and began to examine the lock. “The key thing is to stay calm. Do you remember what I've always told you, Jenna?”

“You've always told me a lot of things.”

“No matter how bad a situation might seem, there's always a way out.”

“Getting out of this place isn't the same as slipping away from your goddamn creditors,” she told him.

“The principle is actually pretty similar.” He paused, still peering at the lock but not daring to touch it yet. “We just have to look for opportunities. It's reasonable to assume that this thing is booby-trapped. Turning it will probably set off some kind of trap.”

“We have to find Mum.”

“First we have to get out.”

“We can't leave her here!”

“Your mother's smart,” he replied, almost pressing the screwdriver's head against the edge of the lock, but not quite daring. “Jenna, we have to focus on this door right now.” He muttered something under his breath as he took a closer look at the lock. “Just give me a minute to figure it out.”

“Oh God,” Jenna stammered, turning and looking back out toward the dark hallway. Through the window next to the front door, she could see the faintest hint of morning light. “Why did we have to come here?” she asked, trying to stay calm. “We did we have to come to this house?” She turned to watch as her father examined the lock. “This is your fault!”

“Not now,” he muttered, tapping the side of the lock carefully.

She opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought, but after a moment she realized he was right. There was no point arguing, not while they were still inside the house. Looking around, she listened to the constant ticking sound, and she tried to imagine what was going on behind the walls.

“We could just take it apart,” she said finally. “That was my plan earlier. Wall by wall, floorboard by floorboard, dismantle the whole place.”

“The house repairs itself,” he pointed out. “I can't even begin to understand how Marchionne managed to hook that side of things up, but somehow it detects damage and moves to swap out the affected parts.”

“But it can't do that forever!” Jenna continued, struggling to hide her frustration. “It has to run out of parts eventually.”

“It's also defended. He anticipated that kind of attack.” He paused, cautiously pressing the screwdriver's head against the top of the lock. “Let's just do it my way,” he added.

“Your way never works out,” she sighed.

“Jenna -”

“It's true! Your way got us into this house in the first place!”

He worked in silence for a moment.

“You're being stubborn,” they both said finally, at the same time.

Owen turned to her. “I know what I'm doing. I was right about the door a moment ago, wasn't I?”

Jenna glanced back at the open doorway. “I still don't get what happened,” she said after a moment. “Why was there a blade earlier, but not now? And why are there so many extra spikes and defenses on the door that leads to the laundry room?”

“I think Cesar Marchionne tried to predict every possible move that his victims would make,” he replied. “Different eventualities, different reactions... The house is constantly shifting behind the walls, repositioning its weapons based on the calculations Marchionne made more than a century ago.” He began to carefully unscrew the side of the lock. “He tried to predict every idea we might come up with.”

“Including what you're doing right now?” she asked.

Instead of answering, Owen focused on getting the first screw out.

“Dad -”

“Just be patient,” he replied, as he started work on the next screw. “If I can see what's inside this thing, I can look for triggers, and then I can work out how to get the door open. It's a little like defusing a bomb, Jenna. One wrong move, and I could set it off. There's just -”

He stopped suddenly, before turning to her.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“When?”

“A moment ago. You said the door to the laundry room has extra defenses.”

She nodded. “I thought maybe I could get out that way, but there was no chance.”

“Why would he do that?” he muttered. “There's no external door in the laundry room, there isn't even a window, so why go to such great lengths to keep us out?”

“Because...” Jenna paused for a few seconds as she began to realize what he meant. “Because there's something in there that he doesn't want us to find.”

Chapter Fifteen

“If this house has a brain,” Owen said cautiously a few minutes later, as they stood watching the door to the laundry room, “then I think it's in there.”

“A brain?” Jenna asked. “How can it have a brain? You said it's just some old machine that was built more than a century ago.”

“It is,” he replied, “but it must still require some kind of central control point. The house seems to be constantly aware of weight changes in the rooms, and you saw how it began to repair the wall you damaged. At least to some extent, there must be a section of machinery that coordinates the various messages. If we can destroy that, maybe we can disable the entire house.”

“He wouldn't have left a weak spot open, would he?” she asked. “He was too smart.”

“That's what I'd have thought, but then...”

He paused, before holding out a broken piece of wood and using it to press the side of the door-frame. Instantly, several spikes sliced out across the empty space before suddenly retracting. A moment after that, a blade crashed down to the floor before starting to rise again.

“You were right,” Owen continued, watching as the blade disappeared into a gap at the top of the frame. “Marchionne went to special lengths to protect the laundry room, it's almost as if he was trying to scare people away. He wouldn't have done that if there unless there was some kind of vulnerability in there.”

“So how do we get inside?”

He prodded the floorboards ahead. Instantly, another set of blades sliced through the open doorway.

“With great caution,” Owen replied.

“This is too dangerous,” Jenna continued. “Dad, there has to be some other way out. Maybe the doors are too obvious, but what about the upstairs windows? Or the basement? Or the attic?”

“Every time we explore another part of the house, we're just playing Marchionne's game. He'll have planned for any of those moves. The one thing he won't have planned for is for us to go into this room.”

“You don't know that for sure.”

“I'm trying to think like him.”

“How can you even start to do that?” she asked. “The guy was clearly insane.”

“He was ambitious,” Owen replied, staring at the door-frame as if he was already trying to come up with an idea. “I can relate to that. Can't you?”

Jenna paused, shuddering as she listened to the continued ticking of the house. “Maybe,” she said finally. “Kinda.”

“The blades are sharp enough and fast enough to cut through wood,” Owen continued, “so simply blocking the door isn't going to be enough. Plus, there might be other traps too, like that hatch that opened and pulled you down earlier. Still...” He paused, clearly thinking things through, before pushing down on the floorboards again. This time, however, he kept pushing even as the blades flashed through the open space. He waited as they retracted, and then he counted out loud.

“One. Two. Three -”

Suddenly the blades appeared again, and then again they retracted.

“One. Two. Three -”

And again.

“One. Two. Three -”

The same thing happened.

“They can only repeat at a certain interval,” he continued, releasing the floorboard. “They physically can't go any faster. The mechanism obviously has to reset itself.”

“That doesn't help,” she replied. “Even if we get through, there'll be other traps right on the other side.”

He nodded.

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“We time them,” he continued. “All of them. We use longer pieces of wood to reach further into the room, and we make sure there can't be any nasty surprises waiting for us.” He paused, before turning to her. “And then I go in. Not you, it's too risky. I'm going to fix this.”

“Dad -”

“You have to trust me on this,” he told her. “Cesar Marchionne might have been a genius, but I'm no slouch either.” He continued to stare at the door-frame for a moment, with a hint of awe in his eyes. “Whatever he built here, I can beat it.”

***

Morning sunlight was starting to stream through the hall window as Jenna scribbled some more numbers on a piece of paper. She and her father had spent the past half hour testing the area on both side of the door, teasing the house and setting off every trap they could find. They'd been timing the devices, too, and jotting down the intervals of every spike, every blade and every click. Adding them up, Jenna muttered to herself under her breath as she turned the paper over and made some more notes.

She paused, before checking the numbers again, then again, and then she ran them for a fourth time, just to be absolutely sure.

“There's a gap,” she said finally. “If the traps are set off in a certain order, there's a four second gap where a person could get through. I think so, anyway...”

“Let me see.” Taking the piece of paper, Owen took a look for a moment before handing it back to her. “I think you're right.”

“You should go over it,” she told him. “I might have made a mistake.”

He shook his head. “I trust you.”

“Dad, please -”

“I trust you,” he said again, as the walls continued to tick all around them. “There's no point delaying this. I'm going to go through, and then I'll find whatever the hell's in there that Marchionne doesn't want us to reach.” He paused, before picking up the piece of wood and holding it out, ready to activate the first trap.

“Wait,” Jenna said suddenly, grabbing his arm. “It's too dangerous. There has to be another way.”

He shook his head.

“Dad, you don't even know that there's anything in there. What if... What if that's what Marchionne wants you to think? What if it's a bluff, like another layer of the trap?”

“No matter how much of a genius he was,” Owen replied, “he was working in the late nineteenth century, which means he had certain technological limits. He had to work around those, and we can use them against him. Think about it, a guy building a house like this in the modern day would have access to motion sensors, cameras, heat traps and a million other devices. Marchionne was limited to wood, metal, weights and... Well, that's about it. He had a brilliant mind, but there were limits to what he could achieve. He'd have been aware of those limits, of course, so he'd have tried to mitigate against them.” He turned and looked toward the open doorway. “Basically, all I have to do is not rush. And get the counting part right, obviously.”

He slipped his arm from Jenna's grasp.

“And then we'll find Mum, right?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Sure.”

Turning, he took a deep breath as he faced the doorway. After a moment, he held the piece of wood out and activated the first trap. A fraction of a second later, the three spikes shot out from the frame. As soon as they'd retracted, Owen took a step forward. He waited, counting to three, and then the blade sliced down, missing him by inches. As soon as the blade shot up again, he stepped through the doorway, counting out loud as he activated the next trap.

“Dad -”

“Don't distract me!” he hissed, as he continued to count.

Jenna stepped back, holding her breath as she watched the next set of spikes shoot out and miss her father. Just as she was about to tell him to be careful, however, she heard a bumping sound from upstairs.

“There,” Owen said, once the next set of blades had retracted. “I'm in. Now I...”

His voice trailed off for a moment.

“There's a louder ticking sound from the panel at the far end,” he continued. “I'm going to take it apart.”

“Be careful,” Jenna replied, while still staring at the ceiling. She'd heard a couple of fake bumps over the previous few seconds, and she was starting to think that someone was trying to get her attention. The bumps sounded different somehow, less regular and mechanical than the rest of the machinery.

“Crap!” Owen said suddenly.

Jenna turned just in time to see him ducking down, narrowly avoiding another set of spikes.

“Cesar Marchionne really didn't want anyone coming into this room,” he pointed out, watching as the spikes retracted. “There's definitely something in here.”

Before Jenna could reply, she heard another bump from upstairs.

“Dad,” she said cautiously, taking another step back as she watched the ceiling, “I think...”

She paused, listening to a faint scrabbling sound.

“I think Mum might be up there.”

“Don't worry about that now.”

“I think she's trying to get our attention.”

“It's just the mechanism, Jenna. Ignore it.”

“I never thought about the possibility that she might have gone back upstairs,” she continued, taking another step back, until she bumped against the bannister. “I don't know why she'd have done that, but maybe she thought it was safer, or maybe she thought we were up there.”

“Jenna, pay attention!”

She turned and saw that he'd almost reached the far end of the laundry room.

“If Mum's up there,” she told him, “I have to go help her!”

“Your mother's not up there.”

“Then what's that noise?”

“It's the house,” he replied, sounding a little irritated as he began to open a panel on the floor. “Jenna, stay focused. I promise you, your mother's not upstairs.”

“How do you know that?”

“Jenna, just trust me.”

She paused, watching as he worked, and then she turned toward the bottom of the stairs as the bumping sound continued.

“Jenna! Don't go up there!”

“But Mum -”

“She's not up there. Trust me on this.”

She took a step toward the stairs, filled with a sense of panic as she heard more bumping noises.

“Mum?” she called out. “It's okay, I hear you! You're going to be okay, Dad and I are going to get us all out of here! This house isn't going to keep any of us!”

“Jenna, stop!” Owen shouted.

“I can't leave her!” she said firmly, with tears in her eyes as the bumping sound continued. “She must be so scared. I'll just -”

“Jenna, I'm telling you, she's not -”

Suddenly he let out a cry of pain.

Turning, Jenna hurried back to the door and saw to her horror that a spike had emerged from the wall and shot through her father's chest, pinning him against the wall.

She immediately took a step forward.

“Dad!”

“Stop!” he shouted, reaching up and putting a hand on the spike. He grimaced as he tried to push it back.

At the last moment, Jenna felt the floor moving beneath her feet. She stopped just as more spikes shot out from the door-frame, missing her face by inches.

The other, larger spike retracted from her father's chest, leaving him to slump down against the floor as he clutched a fresh wound on his right side, just below the breastbone. With the spike gone now, blood was pouring out and starting to soak his shirt.

“Dad, get out of there!” Jenna shouted, filled with panic.

She watched as blood flowed freely from the wound. Her father's trembling hands were trying to keep the wound closed, but he slumped forward as more blood dribbled down onto the floor. Already, he was starting to look pale.

“Dad!”

“I'm okay!” he hissed, which was clearly a lie. “It's not... I'm fine. Don't come in here! Don't risk it!”

“But -”

“I made a mistake,” he continued, taking a series of deep breaths. “I should have known there'd be...” He paused, before reaching out with bloodied hands and starting to lift the panel from the floor. “I've got this,” he told her, his voice tense with pain. He let out another gaps, but he kept going. “If you come in here, it'll just distract me. For God's sake, Jenna, stay out there where it's safe.”

Hearing another bump from upstairs, Jenna looked toward the ceiling.

“It's definitely Mum,” she said after a moment, turning back to Owen. “I have to -”

Stopping suddenly, she saw that there was a mass of pulleys and gears in the exposed part of the floor.

“I was right,” Owen said, staring down at the section of machinery. “This is different to the other parts of the house. Marchionne was right to guard this area. I can...” He paused, leaning closer to the hole in the floor. “I see what I have to do. There's a kind of conduit unit down there. If I can stop this part of the mechanism, I think the house'll be temporarily disabled. It'll probably have some way of repairing itself, but there should be a short period when we're able to get out.”

“Are you sure?”

He paused. “Not really, but it's our only chance. I just have to get down there.”

Jenna watched as he swung his legs over the edge of the opening.

“Stop!” she shouted. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I'll be okay.”

“What if there are traps down there?”

“There probably will be,” he replied, staring down at the mass of wires and pulleys that criss-crossed the space. “Then again, this is a delicate part of the machinery. Too many traps would risk damaging the house itself, so I just have to be careful and out-think this asshole. Come on, you've seen the photo of Marchionne in the hallway. He was just some dusty old fart.” He turned to her and forced a smile, despite the fear in his eyes. “I can do this, Jenna. It won't be easy, but I can disable the mechanism. The most important thing is that you stay out there and don't distract me.” He paused. “I love you, Jenna. I'm going to get us out of here.”

Hearing another bumping sound from above, she looked up at the ceiling.

“That's not your mother,” he said firmly.

“You don't know that,” she replied, trying not to panic.

“Yes, I do.”

She shook her head.

“Jenna,” he continued, “your mother... Your mother is dead.”

She turned to him. “You don't know that. She might just -”

“I saw her,” he added, interrupting her. “I told you I was trapped in a space beneath the house. What I didn't tell you is...” He paused, with tears in his eyes. “I was going to wait until we got out of here, but... While I was down there, I saw your mother's body sliding down through another opening. The house tidied her away, Jenna. I don't know how, I can't even begin to explain how everything works here, it must be to do with weights but...”

His voice trailed off.

“I'm so sorry,” he added. “Jenna, there was nothing I could do.”

“No,” she replied, “you're lying. You're just trying to keep me from going to find her.”

“I wish it was that,” he continued, “but... Your mother's body slid right past me and disappeared into the depths beneath the house. I tried to grab her, but I was too late. I saw enough, though. I saw her face, and I saw...” He paused again, as if he could barely get the words out. “So just stay put. Promise me you won't take any unnecessary risks. I lost your mother to this house, but I am damn well not going to lose you as well.”

“You're lying,” she stammered, wiping her eyes. “Mum's alive, she's -”

Hearing another bump above, she looked up, but this time the bump seemed different somehow. Hearing it again, she realized it did sound more like another piece of machinery being moved into place out of sight. Deep down, she knew her father was telling the truth.

“The house killed her?” she whispered, feeling a rising sense of anger in her chest. After a moment, she turned and looked over at the photo of Cesar Marchionne. “He killed her? A guy who's been dead for over a century reached out from beyond the grave and killed Mum?”

“Stay focused, Jenna,” Owen said firmly. “There'll be time to get angry later. Right now, you have to stay exactly where you are. The more I have to worry about you, the more I'll be distracted.”

She turned and saw that he was already lowering himself into the space beneath the laundry room floor.

“Dad, stop!”

“It'll be okay,” he replied, glancing at her before lowering himself further and finally disappearing from view. “If I'm right,” he continued, “I should be able to interrupt all the mechanisms, at least for a few minutes. When that happens, you have to get the hell out of this house. Don't wait for anyone, not even for me!”

“Be careful!” she called out, as she heard him clambering through the space, just out of sight.

She waited, and she could hear him working, but she couldn't see him. She desperately wanted to go through and help him, but she forced herself to hold back.

“Dad?” she said after a moment. “What's happening?”

“I've almost got it. Just wait.”

“Watch out for traps,” she continued. “Please, Dad, you have to be careful!”

“I am. Believe me, I'm being very careful.”

She waited, but each passing second felt like an eternity and the ticking of the house continued with metronomic precision. Although she didn't want to her interrupt her father and risk distracting him, she desperately wanted to know what he was doing, and to make sure he was okay.

“Dad?” she asked finally, after several minutes had passed. “What's happening? Give me an update.”

“This is such a complex system,” he replied, his voice sounding further away, as if she'd climbed even deeper into the maze of machinery. “When this is all over, I want to take the whole place apart and find out exactly what makes it tick. Pardon the pun. Cesar Marchionne really was a genius, he created something I can't even begin to understand. Right now, I have to work out the right spot to...”

His voice trailed off.

Jenna waited, while still hearing bumps from upstairs.

“Dad?” she said cautiously. “Are you -”

Suddenly she heard a cry of pain, accompanied by a snapping sound. She stepped forward, her eyes wide with shock, but she stopped just in time as the spikes shot across the doorway again.

“Dad?” she shouted. “Dad, what -”

Before she could finish, she heard an agonized roar from the hole in the floor.

“Dad? Are you okay?”

“Don't come in here!” Owen shouted. “Jenna, stay back!”

“Dad, please,” she continued, with tears streaming down her face. “What happened? Are you okay?”

A moment later, she heard a slicing sound, as if some kind of trap was retracting.

“Damn it!” Owen hissed, his voice filled with pain. “Jenna, you have to be ready to run. Don't look back, don't hesitate, just run as soon as you get the chance, I think I -”

He let out another cry, followed by a gasp.

“I think I see a dead-weight mechanism for the front door,” he continued. “I can almost reach...”

She waited, fighting the urge to go into the room and help him.

“Dad, please,” she said after a moment, “tell me what's happening down there. Tell me -”

She gasped as she heard another crunching sound, accompanied by another gasp from her father.

“Dad!” she screamed.

“I'm okay,” he replied, even though his voice sounded much weaker now. “I've almost got it, this... This bastard was smart, but I'm smarter. I can do this...”

“Dad, get out of there!”

“Get ready to run, Jenna. Run and don't stop, not until you're clear of the house, but not until the door opens. I can take care of myself, but only if I know I don't have to take care of you as well. Do you understand?”

Turning, Jenna looked toward the front door and saw that bright morning light was now streaming through the window. For a brief moment, she felt a pang of hope in her chest at the thought that maybe, just maybe, the long night of misery was coming to an end.

“Almost...” Owen hissed. “I've nearly...”

Suddenly he let out a gasp, and Jenna turned to look back over at the exposed gap on the floor.

“Dad?”

She waited, trying to hold back the sense of panic that was now rising through her chest. After a few seconds, however, she realized the only thing she could hear was the house's regular ticking sound.

“Dad?” she screamed. “Say something!”

Still hearing nothing, she took a step back, while desperately trying to remember how her father had made it through the doorway. He'd taken the sheet of paper with him, so the notes were gone. She paused, thinking over the calculations and timings, before realizing that she knew what to do. Rushing forward, she activated the spikes and then held back, counting as they shot out from the frame. As soon as they'd retracted, she waited for the blade, counting again until it slid back up.

Stepping forward, she began to count again, before taking another step and waiting as the next set of spikes missed her by inches.

“Dad!” she shouted. “Are you okay?”

She took another step forward, away from the traps.

“Dad -”

Suddenly she remembered the third set of spikes. She began to duck out of the way, but a fraction of a second later she felt a sharp pain as one of the spikes sliced into her small of her back and burst out just above her hip on the right. Looking down, she froze as she saw the spike's bloodied tip, but a moment later it retracted and she felt another flash of pain as she stumbled forward and then dropped to her hands and knees. The pain was building fast, and she could already hear blood dribbling from her wound and spattering against the bare floorboards. A moment later, she realized she could feel a burning sensation running up the right side of her chest to her armpit.

“Dad?” she called out, trying to push through the pain. “Say something...”

Crawling forward, she almost reached the hole in the floor, before slumping down as she felt her right leg starting to seize. She let out a gasp of pain, before trying to move forward again and immediately feeling a grinding sensation in her hip. Her heart was pounding, racing faster than the ticking sound that came from the walls all around. Letting out another gasp, she hauled herself forward and then grabbed the edge of the opening, pulling herself further until finally she looked down into the gap.

“Dad?” she stammered. “Where...”

For a moment, all she could see was a vast, criss-crossing maze of wires, pipes, pulleys and other mechanical devices extending deep beneath the house. Some were spinning and turning, while others were completely still as if awaiting their next instruction, and she began to realize that the house itself was nestled atop a vast underground maze of clockwork pieces.

It took a few seconds for her to spot the figure further down, but finally she was able to make out her father's bruised, bloodied face. His body was curled up in a fetal position, as if he was trying to make himself as small as possible, and the ticking sound of the house's mechanism seemed louder than ever, echoing through the cavernous space as – far below – a huge, creaking metal rod turned slowly, keeping the entire system running.

Chapter Sixteen

“Dad!” Jenna screamed. “Say something!”

She waited, but there was no response.

“Dad!”

Reaching down, she slipped her right hand between two of the pipes. Her father was several meters deeper, however, and she could see several large wounds in his torso and neck. She tried reaching further, but immediately a set of spikes shot out from the side, with one piercing her wrist and briefly pinning her arm against the side of the pit. She cried out, but the spike quickly retracted.

Before she could pull her arm up, however, two large metal clamps suddenly shot into place from either side, partially crushing her hand. She cried out as the clamps squeezed tighter, and then she saw a metal pulley turning. One of the clamps eased a little, allowing her to finally slip her mangled hand free. Her fingers were bent and twisted, and when she tried to move them she felt a sharp pain as blood ran from a wound in her palm. Pain was building by the second, and finally she let out an agonized cry as she tried and failed to clench her fist.

“Jenna!” her father shouted suddenly.

Looking down, she saw that he'd moved slightly and was looking up at her.

“The lever on the side,” he stammered. “I got one thing wrong. You have to turn that before I can shut the mechanism off down here.”

Looking around, Jenna felt filled with panic before, after a moment, she spotted a metal lever next to one of the pulleys.

“This one?” she called out, reaching toward it with her undamaged left hand.

“Turn it!”

Her fingertips were still stinging, but she managed to grab the lever and turn it. The mechanism briefly shuddered, and when she looked down at her father she saw that he'd started working on part of the system much further down.

“What are you doing?” she shouted.

“Everything I try,” he replied breathlessly, “just gets... The machine repairs itself, and it has defenses, as if... It must notice differences in the weight distribution, something like that, but...”

He gasped as he reached toward another set of pipes.

“There's -”

Suddenly more spikes shot up from below, and Jenna screamed as she saw the tips of all three bursting out through her father's chest. He froze for a moment, impaled, and this time the spikes stayed in place.

“I can do this!” Owen gasped, reaching out with a broken piece of wood in his right hand. “When you hear the front door swing open, that means the house is disabled.” He paused, as if he was on the verge of losing consciousness. “You have to get out when that happens, Jenna. There might not be a second chance, so you have to run.”

“What about you?”

He shook his head.

“I'm not leaving you!” she shouted.

“I'll be...” He gasped. “I'll be right behind you.”

“How?” she asked. “How the hell are you gong to escape?”

“Just run!” he replied, as blood started running from his mouth. “Don't worry about me!”

“I'm not leaving you!” she shouted again.

“I can't get out of here,” he replied, still holding the piece of broken wood in his trembling hand. “I knew that from the start, when I came down here. The defenses are too strong, but you can still escape, Jenna. I think the house'll be out of action for at least half an hour, maybe a little longer, while it repairs itself. Get the hell out of here and find help.”

“You have to come with me!”

“I can't. At least...” With the bloodied spikes still poking through his chest, he reached a little further toward the main part of the mechanism. Fresh blood dribbled from his mouth, running freely down his chin. “At least you'll be... You'll... You'll get out of the house, Jenna. That's all that matters now...”

“No!” she screamed. “Dad, we can both -”

Before she could finish, Owen drove the broken piece of wood deep into the mechanism, causing an immediate, loud grinding sound.

“Dad!” Jenna shouted, reaching down toward him. “Get out!”

As the words left her mouth, she saw more spikes slicing through her father's body. She screamed, but the house's defenses burst into life as never before, and all she could do was watch as Owen's crumpled form was folded deeper and deeper into the depths beneath the house. She heard him cry out one final time, before he disappeared from view entirely and was swallowed by the darkness. A moment later, she heard a faint bumping sound from far below, and then another, as if her father's body was falling deeper into the mechanism.

The entire house was groaning now, with several of the wires and pulleys starting to break down. New pieces were already being moved into place, but the damage was too great and most of those new pieces were destroyed before they could be activated. Cesar Marchionne's carefully-constructed mechanical symphony was being torn to pieces faster than it was able to repair itself.

“Dad!” Jenna screamed, watching as the house's internal system began to shudder and break apart. The floor was shuddering now, and the walls were rattling, as if the entire structure might collapse at any moment.

And then suddenly it all stopped.

Still leaning down into the pit, still bleeding heavily from her wounds, Jenna realized she could hear nothing but silence all around. Even the ticking sound from behind the walls had stopped, although after a moment she realized there was a faint creaking sound coming from somewhere below. She could see the piece of broken wood still embedded in the house's mechanism, as the system struggled to repair itself.

“Dad?” she called out, as she started to sob. “Dad, please...”

She waited, but there was no sign of him.

“This can't be real,” she whispered, stunned by the sight of such a vast mechanical jungle beneath the house. “Please let this not be real...”

Pulling back, she sat alone on the floor of the laundry room, listening to the faint wheezing, clicking sounds that were starting to emerge from behind the walls. It was as if the house was still trying to deal with the damage, and she had no doubt that eventually its complex systems would be able to switch out the ruined sections and replace them. The genius of Cesar Marchionne wasn't ready to die yet, and she felt overawed by the thought that even from beyond the grave, he was refusing to accept the end of his monstrous creation.

A moment later, she heard a creaking sound from the hallway, followed by a gentle thud.

“When you hear the front door swing open,” she remembered her father saying just a moment earlier, “that means the house is disabled. You have to get out when that happens, Jenna. You have to run.”

“I can't leave you,” she sobbed, staring down into the hole and seeing the mechanism still trying to repair itself. She imagined her father down there somewhere, clinging to life, but slowly she began to realize that all hope was gone.

She paused for a moment, before getting to her feet. Trembling with fear, she staggered toward the doorway. She tested the first of the traps, but nothing happened, and finally she stepped out into the hall and saw the front door hanging wide open. Ahead, the sun had finally risen, casting bright morning light across the countryside. After the nightmares of the previous few hours, the way out suddenly seemed so simple and easy.

“Dad?” she called out, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper now. “Mum?”

She waited, but the only reply came from the damaged machinery behind the walls.

“This is a dream,” she continued, pinching her arm. “It has to be.”

When the pinch didn't work, she looked at her damaged right hand and then began to twist one of the broken fingers back. The pain was intense, but she desperately wanted to wake up, even as she felt damaged bones grinding against one another. Finally she could hold back no longer, and she had to let go of her finger.

All around her, the house's damaged mechanism could be heard trying to fix itself.

“It's still a dream,” Jenna whispered. “It has to be. Something like this can't really be happening.”

Taking a few steps forward, she felt as if she might collapse at any moment. Blood was soaking her clothes and running down her legs, but she knew she had to keep going. Deep down, in the back of her mind, she was still clinging to the hope that her parents might be alive. All she had to do, she told herself as tears streamed down her face, was get to a place with cellphone coverage and call for help. When the police arrived, they'd be able to take the house apart and rescue her parents. Her father could be alive somewhere in the depths of the place, and so could her mother. As she reached the front door, Jenna stopped for a moment and looked down.

Her legs were shaking so hard, her knees were rattling together.

Ahead, freedom waited. A chance to escape.

And then, slowly, she turned and saw the framed photo of Cesar Marchionne on the wall. Nothing about the photo had changed, but now his dark, stern gaze seemed almost to be gloating, as if somehow he was proud of the misery and carnage he'd caused.

“You did this,” Jenna stammered, feeling a rushing sense of fury in her chest. “You did all of this. You built this place, you designed it so it'd kill people and...” She paused. “And that's exactly what it does.”

For a moment, she thought back to the old man's voice on the wax cylinders. Even though Marchionne had been dead for more than a century, she wanted to find some way to make him pay, to prove that his legacy was coming to an end. She could burn the house down, she told herself, but not while there was still a chance to save her parents. Slowly, she turned and saw the lower half of her broken baseball bat still resting on the floor.

“You did this,” she whispered, limping over to the bat and picking it up with her left hand. Her right hand was barely functioning, thanks to the bloodied hole in her wrist, but she took hold of the broken fingers and forced them around the bat's handle as she turned and looked at the photo of Marchionne. The pain was intense, but this time she could ignore it all as she used her less-damaged left hand to grip the bat.

In the distance, the house's mechanism's could still be heard creaking, as if even now the traps were trying to repair themselves.

“You did all of this,” Jenna sneered, sniffing back tears as she limped toward the photo on the wall. “You think you can get away with it, just because you're dead? Did you really think you'd go down in history as some kind of genius?”

She paused. Although she knew she should get out of the house as quickly as possible, she wanted to wait one final moment and express her rage. She couldn't even contemplate leaving yet, not while the smug photo remained in place.

“Screw you,” she whispered, raising the broken bat.

She took a deep breath, trying to summon a little more strength.

“Screw you!” she screamed finally, smashing the bat against the photo.

When the glass failed to break, she hit it again, then again and again, each time with no better result. She figured the glass was reinforced, just like the windows, but this time she refused to let that hold her back. Striking the photo again and again, she let rip with every last ounce of pain, hatred, anger and grief, screaming as she hit the glass repeatedly, not even considering the possibility of stopping, not while Marchionne's smug face remained behind the -

Suddenly the entire framed photo clicked back a little, retracting partway into the wall.

As Jenna froze with the bat poised to strike, she realized she could hear a new ticking sound coming from the walls all around, as if the photo had suddenly triggered a fresh mechanism.

“No,” she whispered, before noticing that the front door had begun to swing shut.

Turning, she slammed against the door-frame and slipped outside, dropping the baseball bat in the process. Once she was on the front porch, she raced toward the steps.

At the last moment, a metal panel shot up through the porch's floorboards, tripping Jenna and sending her crashing down to the ground.

Before she could get up, a large blade slammed down from the porch's main arch, slicing straight through both her legs, just above the knees.

She let out a scream, as the blade shuddered for a few seconds and then began to rise again.

Too shocked to look back, Jenna grabbed the top of the porch steps and pulled herself forward, trailing blood and leaving her severed legs behind. More blood was flowing from her stumps, but sheer panic had gripped her soul and all she could manage was to haul herself down the steps and then across the patch of scrub-land at the front of the house.

“Help!” she screamed, her voice shattering the silence of the countryside. “Somebody help me!”

She dragged herself a few more meters across the ground, before suddenly feeling a vibrating sensation beneath her body.

Looking down, she realized the ground seemed to be moving and tipping backward. She turned just in time to see that the entire patch of land at the front of the house was tilting. Although she tried to hold on, she was powerless to save herself as she slithered down the sloping ground and into the darkness beneath the house. She screamed, but her cries were cut short as the patch of land raised itself again, leaving no sign of her presence other than a trail of smeared blood that ran down the steps and stopped abruptly.

On the porch, a section of the floorboards began to tilt, and Jenna's severed legs rolled down into the darkness. Her agonized screams could be heard again briefly, before the floorboards rose back up into their normal position and silence was restored.

Inside the house, far down in the laundry room's pit, Owen's ravaged, partially-crushed body was similarly moved aside by a set of long metal arms. After a moment, he fell deeper, landing on a hatch that then sprung open. As he was tipped down into the darkness beneath the house, Jenna could be heard crying out once more. Owen's corpse landed right next to his daughter, and just a few feet from Helen's body, with the bones of the house's earlier victims all around. After just a few seconds, however, the hatch closed, and once again Jenna's screams were cut off.

The house stood completely still for a few seconds.

And then, inevitably, the silence was broken by a rising chorus of clicks and ticks, as the house's repair mechanism got to work. Damaged sections were slotted out and back-up machinery took their place. Each and every trap, in each and every room of the house, was put back into position. For the next couple of hours, new pieces of equipment trundled between the walls, as weights and pulleys determined what was needed and where. The calculations of a madman, first written down more than a century earlier, were still working perfectly. Just as Cesar Marchionne had once grinned at the recognition of his own genius, now the house seemed to salute him by reordering itself.

Once the job was done, the house began to tick again, just as it had done before.

Down in the basement, beneath the main part of the building but far above the dark pit where Jenna was no doubt still screaming, a large switch shuddered on the wall. It was the same switch that Owen had flicked less than twenty-four hours earlier, to bring power to the house, and just as it had earlier set the mechanism running, now it switched everything off again, so that the house could wait for its next victims.

In the study, a fresh phonograph machine was already being pushed into place, replacing the old, damaged equipment that had been smashed.

In the bedrooms upstairs, metal panels slid across the floors, tipping the family's possessions into gaps that briefly opened in the walls.

In the bathroom, the back of the sink tipped down and Jenna's toiletry bag plummeted out of sight, disappearing into the depths.

In the hallway, the framed photo of Cesar Marchionne slowly began to grind forward, until it clicked into place and resumed its place overlooking the house, as if it had never been attacked in the first place.

A moment later, the ticking sound stopped and the house fell silent again. Waiting for its next victim.

Epilogue

Six months later

“Wow,” Tom said, making his way across the penthouse suite, “this is... This is stunning.”

“Oh my God!” Penny called out, hurrying to the window and looking out across London. “The view is incredible!” She turned to her husband. “Can we really afford this place?”

“Apparently,” he replied with a shrug.

“There must be something wrong with it,” she continued. “There's no way a place like this is in our price range. I mean, it's so much bigger and grander than anything else we've looked at, but it's less than half the price. Are you sure there wasn't a misprint in the ad? Maybe they put the decimal point in the wrong place.”

Making his way over to join her, Tom looked out at the view. “I think we just struck lucky, honey. Not every landlord is out to gouge tenants dry.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You know, I think the old guy quite likes the idea of renting the place out to a family. He's probably sick of dealing with a bunch of yuppies and bankers. Think about it for a moment. George and Tracy are gonna love living here, and there are some amazing schools in the area.”

“Just make sure there are no strings attached,” she told him, keeping her voice low as footsteps approached from the other room. “We don't want any nasty surprises.”

Turning, Tom smiled as he saw Mr. Daniels in the doorway.

“It's wonderful,” he told the old man. “To be honest, it's more than we ever dared imagine. We're just a little surprised by the low price.”

“The Marchionne Corporation's primary responsibility with this apartment,” Mr. Daniels replied, leaning on his cane as he made his way over to join them, “is not purely the pursuit of profit. There are various other factors that must be taken into account. We manage a wide portfolio of rental properties across the country, and our late benefactor left strict instructions regarding the way we conduct our business.”

“And it's been empty for a while, right?” Penny asked cautiously.

“The previous tenants moved out in 1975,” Mr. Daniels told her.

“Huh.” She paused, clearly a little concerned. “It just seems weird that a penthouse apartment in the center of London would sit empty for forty years. I mean, there are always stories about how people are desperate for apartments, and this seems like such a catch.”

“Our benefactor's instructions were most precise,” Mr. Daniels explained. “He specified certain periods during which the property should be left vacant. Our job is not to question his wishes, but to carry them out, even long after his death.”

“And the apartment below this one is empty, isn't it?” Tom asked. “What's up with that?”

“Just another of our benefactor's rules,” Mr. Daniels continued, with a faint smile. “You needn't worry about noise, though. This apartment has been completely sound-proofed in all possible directions. You won't be bothered by the sound of the city, and of course that goes both ways. You could hold a riot in here and no-one would be able to hear you.” He paused for a moment. “I understand that you have two children?”

Tom nodded. “George is six years old, and Tracy is four. I hope that isn't a problem...”

“Not at all,” Mr. Daniels replied, as his smile grew. “In fact, it's perfect. I must remind you, however, that there are certain rules about living in this apartment.”

“Everything looks to be bolted down,” Penny noted, looking at the table nearby. “What's that over there?” she added, pointing at another table in the corner. “It looks like one of those really old-fashioned record players.” She paused for a moment, before smiling. “I like it.”

“And the apartment comes furnished, right?” Tom asked, turning to Mr. Daniels. “All this stuff stays?”

“It does indeed,” the old man replied. “As I indicated earlier, however, there are certain rules that must be followed. I take it that you have had a chance to look over the tenancy agreement?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, with a hint of caution in his voice, “and... I do have a couple of questions, actually.”

As her husband headed through to the next room with Mr. Daniels, to discuss those questions, Penny was left standing at the window. After a moment, however, she felt her phone buzzing, and when she pulled it from her pocket she saw that she had an incoming video call from home.

“Hey,” she said with a grin, as she saw her two children smiling and laughing on the screen. “What are you guys up to?”

“Grandma said we can call you,” George said, with chocolate smeared on the side his face. “She says we should ask whether you've found a new place for us to live yet!”

Next to him, Tracy giggled.

“I think we have found somewhere,” Penny told them, holding the phone up so they could see the large, modern front room. “What do you think, guys?”

“Are we going to live there?” Tracy asked, with a hint of awe in her voice. “Really, Mummy?”

“We are,” Penny replied, and there was awe in her voice too as she looked across the apartment. “It almost seems too good to be true, but...” She paused, unable to stifle a faint, excited smile. “Call me crazy, but I've got a really good feeling about this place.”

Over on the far side of the room, next to the front door, a small framed photo had long ago been screwed to the wall. The photo showed the face of an old, bearded man. At the bottom of the image, in neat handwriting, someone had carefully inscribed the name Cesar Edward Marchionne.

Also by Amy Cross

PERFECT LITTLE MONSTERS

AND OTHER STORIES

A husband waits until his wife and children are in bed, before inviting a dangerous man into their home...

A girl keeps hold of her mother's necklace, as bloodied hands try to tear it from her grasp...

A gun jams, even as its intended victim begs the universe to let her die...

Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories is a collection of short stories by Amy Cross. Some of the stories take place in seemingly ordinary towns, whose inhabitants soon discover something truly shocking lurking beneath the veneer of peace and calm. Others show glimpses of vast, barbaric worlds where deadly forces gather to toy with humanity. All the stories in this collection peel back the face of a nightmare, revealing the horror that awaits. And in every one of the stories, some kind of monster lurks...

Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories contains the new stories Perfect Little Monsters, I Hate You, Meat, Fifty Fifty and Stay Up Late, as well as a revised version of the previously-released story The Scream. This book contains scenes of violence, as well as strong language.

Also by Amy Cross

ANNIE'S ROOM

1945 and 2015. Seventy years apart, two girls named Annie move into the same room of the same remote house. Their stories are very different, but tragedy is about to bring them crashing together.

Annie Riley has just broken both her legs. Unable to leave bed, she's holed up in her new room and completely reliant upon her family for company. She's also the first to notice a series of strange noises in the house, but her parents and brother think she's just letting her imagination run overtime. And then, one night, dark forces start to make their presence more keenly felt, leading to a horrific discovery...

Seventy years ago, Annie Garrett lived in the same house with her parents. This Annie, however, was very different. Bitter and vindictive and hopelessly devoted to her father, she developed a passionate hatred for her mother. History records that Annie eventually disappeared while her parents were executed for her murder, but what really happened to Annie Garrett, and is her ghost still haunting the house to this day?

Annie's Room is the story of two girls whose lives just happened to be thrown together by an unlikely set of circumstances, and of a potent evil that blossomed in one soul and then threatened to consume another.

Also by Amy Cross

THE FARM

No-one ever remembers what happens to them when they go into the barn at Bondalen farm. Some never come out again, and the rest... Something about them is different.

In 1979, the farm is home to three young girls. As winter fades to spring, Elizabeth, Kari and Sara each come to face the secrets of the barn, and they each emerge with their own injuries. But someone else is lurking nearby, a man who claims to be Death incarnate, and for these three girls the spring of 1979 is set to end in tragedy.

In the modern day, meanwhile, Bondalen farm has finally been sold to a new family. Dragged from London by her widowed father, Paula Ridley hates the idea of rural life. Soon, however, she starts to realize that her new home retains hints of its horrific past, while the darkness of the barn still awaits anyone who dares venture inside.

Set over the course of several decades, The Farm is a horror novel about people who live with no idea of the terror in their midst, and about a girl who finally has a chance to confront a source of great evil that has been feeding on the farm for generations.

Also by Amy Cross

ELI'S TOWN

“Someone really should go check on Eli...”

Every year, someone from the Denton family travels to the town of Tulepa, to check on weird old uncle Eli. This time around it's Holly's turn to make the journey, but when she arrives she discovers that not only is Eli missing, but the locals appear to be hiding something.

Meanwhile, a strange curse seems to have struck the town. Every day, at exactly noon, one resident drops dead. Is the string of sudden fatalities just a coincidence? If it's something more sinister, why does no-one seem to be trying to uncover the truth? And what do these deaths have to do with the disappearance of Eli Denton, a strange old man who has barely even left his house in more than a decade?

Eli's Town is a horror novel about an eccentric but seemingly harmless man who discovers a new way to live, and about his niece's desperate attempt to uncover the truth before she too succumbs to the town's mysteries.

OTHER BOOKS

BY AMY CROSS INCLUDE

Horror

A House in London

Annie's Room

The Farm

Eli's Town

American Coven

At the Edge of the Forest

The Ghost of Shapley Hall

Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories

The Priest Hole (Nykolas Freeman book 1)

Battlefield (Nykolas Freeman book 2)

Asylum

Meds (Asylum 2)

The Border

The Devil's Hand

The Cabin

After the Cabin

The Lighthouse

3AM

Tenderling

The Girl Clay

The Prison

The Night Girl

Devil's Briar

Ward Z

The Devil's Photographer

Fantasy / Horror

Dark Season series 1, 2 & 3

Ascension (Demon's Grail book 1)

Evolution (Demon's Grail book 2)

The 13th Demon (Demon's Grail book 3)

Dead Souls Volumes 1 to 4

Lupine Howl series 1 to 4

Grave Girl

Graver Girl (Grave Girl 2)

Ghosts

The Library

Journey to the Library (The Library Saga 2)

Thriller

The Girl Who Never Came Back

Other People's Bodies

Dystopia / Science Fiction

The Island (The Island book 1)
Persona (The Island book 2)

The Shades

Mass Extinction Event series 1 to 4