The Dead House by Billy O'Callaghan

Author:Billy O'Callaghan [Billy O’Callaghan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781847179340
Publisher: The O'Brien Press
Published: 2017-07-04T16:00:00+00:00

Circumstances had changed since my previous visit. With September drawing to a close, the season’s fringes were clearly evident. Late morning and early afternoon were warm and fine, with the sky a blue so pale as to be nearly colourless, but the implication of approaching winter felt undeniable. Probably because I knew the way, the road seemed to pass more quickly than before. I’d eaten at Heathrow – coffee and two bacon sandwiches – and so decided to forgo the temptation of some Skibbereen nourishment, which allowed me to make decent time. Traffic was light, and practically non-existent once I’d crossed the Healy Pass, but as I neared the peninsula’s western end and came to within touching distance of Allihies, the light seemed to shift, and the open sky closed in with a kind of shadowy whiteness. A pale thin hide of cloud raised itself in every direction, coating the day. I eased the hired car up onto the roadside verge just as the radio’s three o’clock headlines were breaking yet more of their wearying sameness, and I listened for a moment then shut off the engine.

The silence came down hard. Without the glare of a summer sun, the land that lay spread out before me had become muted, and the ocean beyond was the flat, dry white of stone and less of a feature than I’d remembered. Even from this elevation and distance, though, the cottage remained imposing. The recent renovations had lost their buffed freshness and had begun to sport the first subtle bruises of time and weather, and the shadows seemed to fit the place better now than they had before.

Once again, I was struck by the absence of birds.

I followed the path down the hillside, thinking about how difficult it would be to hold your footing once the rains set in and the ground had turned to slush. Maggie had talked of plans to finish this path, but it was as I remembered, mud and cinders. I moved slowly, with gravity pressing like a hand against my back. Just ahead, the cottage loomed. I shuddered. All was calm, yet the overwhelming sense was that of tumbling headlong into something wrong. I knew I was being foolish but couldn’t help myself.

As the ground levelled out I slowed my approach, searching the empty windows and straining to listen for the least evidence that I was not alone. But the world was still.

Ahead, the front door stood a few inches ajar. I eased it open a little further and called Maggie’s name once and then again, the second time with more voice. There was no answer, and no sound at all apart from my own harried breathing. My urge was to turn away, to run. I had never wanted anything more. But instead, I stepped inside.

The air tasted foul. In the open doorway, cloying with a tinge of decay; worsening, once I’d advanced a few steps, to the rancid sweetness of meat gone bad and then far beyond. The

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